Prologue
If you count the days it works out to less than a month-and-a-half. But those were red letter days in West Bengal’s political calendar, heralding the end of a historic movement that has earned its players a place in the history books.
10 April 2011. Mamata Banerjee flew out from Kolkata’s Race Course helipad towards Habibpur in Malda, officially kicking off her election campaign. That was the beginning. The end came on 20 May, the day she took oath as the chief minister of West Bengal in Raj Bhavan and was virtually carried by a tidal wave of supporters all the way to the State Legislative Assembly.
Elections, victory, and defeat are all a natural part of the democratic process. But under the Left Front regime, West Bengal had come to forget this natural process. While governments changed regularly in other states across the country, West Bengal remained an unfortunate exception. Till now. After thirty-four years, the Left-Front’s supremacy in the state came crashing down. And the person who has made it possible is Mamata Banerjee.
Mamata Banerjee was catapulted to the national limelight when she debuted in parliamentary politics by defeating CPM strongman Somenath Chatterjee in the Jadavpur constituency. That was 1984. Jadavpur was considered a red bastion. The young Banerjee immediately attracted attention for her integrity, simple lifestyle, and the fire in her belly to fight the excesses of the ruling regime. Her spirited presence in the Lok Sabha, uncompromising protests against the CPM’s misdeeds, and above all relentless lobbying in the interest of her state was praiseworthy. In that respect, she was a sterling exception in the state Congress leadership of the day. These qualities also earned her the respect of the then Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi. Not surprisingly she quickly became the CPM’s enemy number one. The ruling regime realized, early on, that unless they clipped
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her wings, she would soon become a real political danger to them in West Bengal.
So they tried their best to cow her down. Again and again. In 1990, she was brutally attacked near Hazra crossing as the CPM armada rained blows on her head. She fought death and returned from the hospital but the injury continues to bother her to this day. But that attack also made something else crystal clear – that the red brigade’s real enemy is the fiery girl from the narrow bylanes of Kalighat. When Mamata was discharged from the hospital, Rajiv Gandhi, the then Congress president, immediately made her the head of the West Bengal Youth Congress, giving her fight a stamp of approval.
Thus began the next chapter in Mamata Banerjee’s political career as she started a two-pronged fight taking on not just the CPM but also those Congressmen who, at heart, were ‘soft’ on the Left. It is doubtful whether any other politician in India has had to wage a simultaneous battle against both the enemy on the outside as well as their sympathizers on the inside for so long and with such undiminished aggression.
1991 Lok Sabha elections: Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated at the fag end of his campaign. But the Congress returned to power after the polls. The new prime minister, PV Narasimha Rao selected Mamata to head the Ministry of Sports and Youth Affairs. Alongside her duties as a member of the Central Government, Mamata continued to focus attention on organizing the anti-CPM movement in West Bengal. In 1992, she stood for and lost the elections to head the Pradesh Congress – a victim of intra-party conspiracy. Yet she refused to give up her anti-CPM agitations, refused to compromise on what she felt was right. That November she organized a massive meeting at the Brigade Parade Grounds in the name of the Youth Congress. The meeting was an unprecedented success. A tidal wave of supporters thronged the ground. Sensing the popular mood, even those within the party who were known to be opposed to her, felt compelled to take the stage. Mamata used that overwhelming public response and the platform it provided to literally sound the death knell for the Left Front. She announced her resignation as a central minister to return to the state.
For the next two decades, Mamata waged a fight to the finish to make that prophecy of the death-knell come true. Those years of struggle also earned her both public respect and recognition. People saw in her sometimes the
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fire of protest, sometimes the gentle touch of affection. They saw her sometimes standing up for and beside the dispossessed and the needy, sometimes as a relentless and implacable adversary of tyranny, full of stubborn spirit, never giving up, never losing hope.
One of most significant event of this phase of her life was the way she was evicted from Writers’ Building, dragged by her hair. That was 7 January 1993. Mamata was a Union government minister then. That day she had taken a poor deaf and dumb girl from Nadia, who had been brutally raped, to Chief Minister Jyoti Basu seeking justice. Not only did Jyoti Basu not meet her and her contingent, police officials stationed at Writers’ Building were asked to evict the lot. What happened afterwards is perhaps one of the blackest and most shameful episodes in the state’s democratic history. The way Mamata Banerjee was dragged out of the Writers’ Building, taken to Lal Bazar police headquarters, refused bail and later, forcibly evicted in the dead of the night with some help from a lathiwielding force make up for a sordid and ugly story. And that was not the end of the matter. The press, which reported the manner in which a Central Government minister was manhandled inside Writers’ Building, also had to pay a price for being outspoken. The press corner in Writers’ Building was summarily demolished so that entry and access to the chief minister’s office would become difficult, nay impossible, for journalists. That press corner has still not returned to the Writers’ but perhaps the current scenario is completely different.
Among all the mayhem that followed her visit to the Writers’, Mamata made an announcement. ‘If I ever enter “Mahakaran” [the Bengali name for Writers’ Building] again I shall do so with my head held high.’ It is perhaps providential that that is exactly how things finally turned out. Mamata Banerjee was still a Union government minister in January 1993. For the next eighteen years, she never stepped inside ‘Mahakaran’ keeping her promise until she returned to those haloed precincts triumphant on 20 May 2011 as the new chief minister!
While in Congress, Mamata’s struggles against her own party men came to a head on 9 August 1997, another milestone in her amazing career. An AICC convention was on at Netaji Indoor Stadium in Calcutta. Everyone from the then Congress Parliamentary Party president Sitaram Kesri, Sonia Gandhi to the then Pradesh Congress chief Somen Mitra were present.
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Along with grassroots (Trinamool) Congress workers, Mamata announced an ‘outdoor’ convention. It turned into an immense gathering at the foot of the statue of Mahatma Gandhi. At that forum, Mamata formed the West Bengal Pradesh Trinamool Congress workers’ committee. That is how ‘trinamool’ first emerged in Mamata Banerjee’s political career.
After this the political backdrop changed rapidly. Mamata quit Congress to form Trinamool Congress in 1998. Their first meeting at Kolkata’s busy Shyam Bazar crossing attracted a tidal wave of supporters. In the 1999 Lok Sabha elections, Trinamool emerged as the main Opposition party in the state, leaving the Congress far behind. Since then the party and the leader have been on a relentless march ahead, politically. Mamata Banerjee became the sole refuge for all those who wanted to protest against or were brutalized by the CPM’s tyranny and misrule. She never needed to look back, ever again.
The ruling regime’s forcible acquisition of land from unwilling farmers in Singur to build a car factory for the Tatas and the planned mass murder in Nandigram using the police as a façade to wrest control over the area all helped build Mamata’s case. Her 26-day fast protesting against the forcible acquisition of land in Singur not only created history but also attracted the right-thinking civil society to her side. A majority of intellectuals unanimously supported her stand on the issue. The then CM Buddhadev Bhattacharya’s ‘us and them’ politics aimed at explaining and condoning the violence in Nandigram further strengthened Mamata’s popular foundation. There was literally no stopping her.
The 2008 Panchayat elections, 2009 Lok Sabha elections, and 2010 municipal elections all carried enough indications that the Mamata wave would sweep West Bengal in the next Vidhan Sabha elections. That is exactly how things worked out. The state assembly elections in 2011 created history. Trinamool had the Congress as their electoral ally. The people of West Bengal voted unequivocally in favour of Mamata and her ‘Ma, Mati, Manush’ (Mother, Land, People) philosophy, wiping the Left Front off the face of the state.
Earlier, when Mamata was appointed the railway minister for the second time in 2009 (the first was in the NDA government led by Atal Behari Vajpayee), she started a huge developmental programme across the country through her ministry. Under her leadership, the Indian Railways started
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programmes criss-crossing the country, from the north to south, from the east to west. New trains, new lines, development projects under the railways, a Vision 2020 roadmap – her stint in the railway ministry showed just how much the right political will and direction can achieve. In a way examples like this had vanished from the collective memory for a very long time. West Bengal’s electorate desperately seeking development had no doubt that Ms Banerjee would bring that same tenacity and political will to bear upon running the state if her party came to power. So they held on to the hope that she stood for. That was the backdrop of the 2011 Vidhan Sabha elections.
For an entire month, Mamata toured the length and breadth of Bengal. Every meeting, every procession organized by Trinamool Congress attracted huge crowds across the state. So in a way the results were a foregone conclusion. The Left Front’s 34-year-old stronghold collapsed like a pack of cards. After years of blood, sweat, and tears finally there was light at the end of the tunnel.
Mamata Banerjee is now chief minister. But not an ivory tower one, she is still the leader of the unheard, unseen masses, the dust-covered and sweatand-tear stained Ma, Mati, Manush. They are the focus of her work, the catalyst behind her political journey. That is why even now, it is easy to reach out to her and she has not divorced herself from her raison d’être. Her Common-man touch is still very much a part of who she is, only now it is a touch that promises assurance and trust to the people showing them just what ‘paribartan’(change, her winning slogan) is all about.
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‘After Baba’s death, one evening I was in the kitchen cooking. Suddenly I saw a pair of feet near the toilet... I picked up the lamp to check... but there was no one in the doorway. Later when I thought about it I realized those feet belonged to my father, I recognized them because I used to massage them every day when he was ill.’
It was dusk and I had been staring at the twilight sky for a while. It looked as if the setting sun was showing me the way. Akbar’s daughter Rose was sitting next to me in the car. She asked me, ‘Is the sun travelling with us too?’ To make the child happy, I replied, ‘Yes… see how the sun is keeping our car company.’ The child believed what I said and asked after a while, ‘But where did the sun go?’ By then, the sun had set beyond the horizon so I told her, ‘It’s nightfall and the sun has gone to sleep in the lap of its mother, the sky.’ Akbar came with us part of the way and then left with his little girl. Leaving me to think about that strange celestial rhythm which makes the sun, the moon, the stars, the planets, night and day, the sights and sounds and smells of the world around us, its beauty and wonder, follow a predetermined pattern. The only thing that does not conform to that routine of sameness is the mind. The mind follows its own pace which is faster than time itself. It leaves no trace on the outside but builds its own little nest in the heart. I call it the temple of the mind. And like all temples, it has a ritual of devotion built from simple, everyday acts of life. Like a computer it stores data. The temple of the mind also logs the comings and goings of day-to-day living. Like the phoenix, who knows it would one day be destroyed, life knows it is finite. Maybe, that is why the mind wanders far, far away.
My life has neither light nor shine/Words are all I can call just mine… A lot has been written about the tumult and polarities of my political life. But what I write here is an attempt to look at myself in a different light, to come face to face with another me, to rediscover my other self.
I came to Calcutta when I was very small. My parents brought me to the house where we still live. It took me some time to realize that I actually had two birthdays. Although my mother would celebrate my birthday every
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Ashtami (the eighth day of Durga Puja) with her special rice pudding and loads of blessings, my school certificate reads 5 January as my birthday. So one day I asked her, ‘Why do I have two different birthdays?’ She explained that I was not even fifteen when I wrote my school final examinations and would have been disqualified for being underage. So, my father gave a fictitious age and birthday to get around the problem. The result: a new birthday and five years added to my real age.
I never got around to asking my father the reason why he chose 5 January as my birthday. By the time I was old enough to ask questions, he was beyond answering any of them. He died when he was only forty-two. My mother, on the other hand, is at heart a simpleton. I remember I once asking her about my horoscope. When she gave it to me, I saw that my date of birth on it was 5 October. So I asked her, ‘How could you make such a big mistake? Although those close to me know the truth, there are enough people who will believe the school certificate.’ My mother replied, ‘Darling, we are not city-bred people. Neither you nor your elder brother was born in a hospital. Where would I get a birth certificate detailing your birthday and year? When we came to Calcutta, your father admitted you to school… later he handled the formalities for your school leaving examination… so what could I have done?’ I realized it was not my mother’s fault. So in front of her and a couple of my family members, I burnt the horoscope. My logic was that there was no point in keeping a document that had no validity. To the world at large, my school certificate with its erroneous date of birth is the legally-valid document. The confusion over my date of birth is not something unique. Thousands of children born in Indian villages face the same problem. I have seen people work way beyond their retirement age thanks to their fake birth certificates. In my case though it went against me, adding five years to my real age! Ever since I have become a Member of Parliament, I routinely get birthday wishes on 5 January. However, as my real birthday is nowhere close to it, I simply do not feel like accepting the wishes. The confusion over my birthday has always been a bit of an issue with me, privately of course. But who can I blame for the mess? Who is responsible for creating this confusion? Parents should for the sake of their children’s future be careful about documenting their date of birth correctly. No one else should suffer the way I did. Although I hope by disclosing the truth I will not attract fresh criticism. I
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never celebrate my birthday… it is not part of my DNA. So why am I explaining this? To simply establish the truth. I remember once, my elder brother told me, ‘Mamata, do you know according to your school certificate, you are only six months younger to me.’ I replied, ‘Dada, our father must have thought it’s not important and any old date will do… so how is that our fault?’
According to my mother, it had been raining relentlessly for three days before I was born. However, it stopped raining the moment I was born. That is perhaps why rain plays such an important role in anything significant that I undertake. It has become such a pattern that every time we schedule a programme, we know for sure that it will rain, even if it is just a few drops. Rain-drenched programmes are now part of my life and my colleagues know it and expect nothing less. The rain factor holds true not just for political meetings. I remember when I was Union Railway Minister, the head of the Delhi chapter of Ramakrishna Mission requested me to help set up a bookstall for the society’s publications at the New Delhi railway station. I was happy to oblige Swamiji and on the day of the inauguration, a small programme was organized. Outside, it was bright and sunny but once the programme started, it began to drizzle. Swamiji was really surprised and told me, ‘It seems what I had heard about you is true after all. Any enterprise you undertake is always blessed with rain.’ I remember, the inauguration went off really well and after it was all over, the drizzle made way for bright sunshine once again. As far as I am concerned, I can do nothing successfully unless it rains. So we always take these sudden showers as blessing from above – it is almost like a dear friend making his presence felt.
As mentioned, my father passed away when I was very young. After his death, things were very difficult for me and my family and me. But when he was around, except for the last year of his life, he never let us want for anything. In fact, my early childhood was spent in secure comfort and my father was known for being someone people could turn to for help. Baba was very fond of me and used to call me by a special nickname
Monababa. When I look back to those early years, I remember all the naughty things that I used to be up to. I had a bunch of neighbourhood friends with whom I would spend all day playing gillidanda, marbles, or swimming in River Hoogly nearby. But what we enjoyed most were the
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weekly feasts of luchi (deep fried flat bread) and aloo dum (spicy potato curry) for the doll weddings. I used to be responsible for getting the daily groceries for our family from a nearby grocery shop. The arrangement was that my father would settle the bill at the end of the month. My friends had noticed that Baba seldom looked into the details of what was being bought for the household kitchen. So they asked me to buy extra flour, cooking oil, and potatoes, which we then used for our lavish doll wedding feasts. Things were tickety-boo for a couple of months till my father realized that the grocery bills were sharply inflating. Once he asked the shopkeeper for a detailed bill and discovered that the extra amount was because of significant rise in the quantity of flour and cooking oil bought. Our household was not used to consuming luchis or parathas on a regular basis so Baba was naturally curious. He first checked with my mother, who obviously knew nothing about the missing flour and cooking oil and then he asked me (separately, so that I did not get a scolding from Mom), ‘Monababa, who has asked for this extra things from the grocer?’ I told him it was me and we did it for our doll wedding feasts. He said, ‘Don’t tell your mother, she will scold you for this. If you need anything in future, just ask me.’ I had no option but to tell my friends that I had been found out and there could be no more secret feasts. That was the end of our doll weddings.
Next came my street food craze phase. After school I would go out with a group of friends to have phuchkas (Calcutta-style pani puri) and ghugni (spicy chickpea curry). Baba would give Dada and me some pocket money which was enough for these little expenses. I remember I was in Standard V then when my friends and I decided we would organize a trip to the zoo. I could not ask Baba for extra money. My father had an iron safe in which he kept his money. I still remember wishing and hoping I would find a five rupee note lying around somewhere which would cover my zoo trip adequately. I was young enough then to believe that if I prayed hard I would get the fiver I was so hoping for. But I had no luck right through the day. In the evening, when I had almost given up hope I found a crisp five-rupee note lying just in front of the safe. Since then, my faith in prayer has turned into an inherent belief.
In the beginning, I was home schooled till Standard III. I had a private tutor who would come home to give me lessons. But once I joined school, I
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never needed any extra tuition. But my elder brother did. My parents used to be very worried about his studies because he was a very naughty boy. Looking at him now, no one can believe that he actually had a private tutor to look after him and monitor his studies. The tutor would come early morning, wake up Dada, and get him to sit down for study. Dada used to love swimming in the river. He would spend hours doing one lap after another. He used to jump into the river from the Kalighat Bridge and I was his favourite companion. Although I would never stay in the water longer than half an hour, for Dada a two- or three-hour swim was no big deal. Trouble started when our mother asked the tutor to monitor Dada’s swimming. For the first couple of days, the tutor managed to get Dada to finish his swimming on time and get down studying. But he was missing his daily laps across the river and thought of a plan to get even with his tutor.
Dada told me all I had to do was just stand next to the tutor. ‘I will teach him a lesson he will never forget,’ Dada said. What followed then was quite hilarious. Dada quietly swam underwater and came up behind the hapless tutor just when he was calling out for him to finish his swimming session. After smearing mud and clay all over himself, Dada suddenly came from behind and gave his tutor a tight hug. The tutor was furious as his spotless clothes became muddy and dirty. He complained to our mother and told her, ‘How dare he do something like this… I cannot take responsibility for such a naughty boy.’ My mother was equally angry. I knew Dada would get spanked for his prank unless I stepped in with some excuse. So that is what I did. Since then, Dada and I became even closer.
Thanks to my political career, I am now in close touch with the administration but that connection began when I was very young. And it was a curious connection indeed. I remember I was quite young then. Baba was taking Dada to school for admission. Neither of them realized I was following them and after some time I got lost. When Baba returned, the family realized what had happened and started looking for me. But I was nowhere to be seen. Finally, Baba went to the local Bhawanipore police station with a couple of others to lodge a complaint. By then it was dusk and they had spent the entire day looking for me. When Baba reached there, he found that someone had picked me up while I was loitering around on the streets and brought me to the police station. But the cops had no way of
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knowing where I lived. I remember being carried back home by my father. Later every time someone recounted that story it would amuse me no end.
There used to be a small Durga Puja pandal just outside our house. As children, Dada I and some of our friends in the neighbourhood used to love collecting flowers for the puja. We would get up early in the morning, cross the river, and pick flowers from the police bungalow on the other side. Sometimes we would get up as early as three in the morning when the sentries were all fast asleep. If we got up late, they would sometimes chase us away. I did not know then that the bungalow belonged to the district magistrate. Much later when I was elected as MP from Jadavpur, I visited the bungalow of the DM to discuss something with him. And suddenly it all came back to me; I realized this was the same bungalow which we frequented as children. In a way, from childhood to adolescence and then to my early youth, there were these signals which kept repeating themselves. In my life, things always come back by serendipity.
When I was young, I never knew that there would be so many twists and turns in my life, which would make me stumble, and sometimes even fall. But right from a very early age, I have come up against a lot of unpleasantness and problems which have only sharpened my instinct and voice to protest against what is wrong. Baba used to tell me that there was no need to put up with wrongdoing but for the sake of peace, sometimes it is better not to speak the truth. An unpleasant truth can ignite a conflagration, so when you are facing a situation like that, try to hide the ugly truth. And always think before you speak, even if you are speaking nothing but the truth. For me, my plain speaking and inability to hide even unpleasant truths has had an impact on my life and my career. But it is something I still have not managed to control. That is why I am so frequently in the dock which sometimes makes me wonder if it is worth all the trouble.
I remember another incident from my childhood. I had gone to the grocery store where I bumped into a neighbour who was standing nearby and smoking. I was waiting for the grocer to give me my stuff when I saw the gentleman take a long drag and chuck his beedi carelessly. A neighbourhood boy called Babla was walking down the road just at that time. The beedi fell on his back, burnt his vest, and part of his back as well.
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A crowd gathered immediately and Babla was taken to the hospital. Everybody asked the grocer who threw the beedi. But as the gentleman responsible was also a neighbour, the shopkeeper refused to open his mouth. There were others around who also saw what happened, as clearly as I did, but nobody wanted to speak up.
I was very angry and I confronted the crowd and told them who had thrown the beedi. When I returned home, my father called me to his office. I was not expecting anything and I thought maybe he wanted some tea and snacks. When I entered his office, I saw some of the senior members of our neighbourhood sitting there. Baba said, ‘We’ve called a residents’ meeting tomorrow where we will tick off the gentleman responsible for this incident and you have to speak at that forum and give evidence.’ Next day, I did as I was told. Baba never said a word. Later he called me and said, ‘That man has already realized his mistake. If everyone else remained mum, why did you have to speak up? It is good to stand up for truth but you must also think before you speak. You don’t have to go to the grocery store any more.’ My plain speaking had resulted in a nasty situation which Baba, using his excellent relationship with neighbours, helped bring under control. That is why he asked me not to do the groceries anymore.
Dada and I went to schools which were adjacent to each other. I was studying in Bhowanipore Girls and Dada in South Suburban Main. Around the time when I was in the Standard III and Dada in Standard V, there used to be frequent strikes and protest marches in the area. I was too young to understand what it all meant and I genuinely believed a strike was like a festival because it meant holiday for us. I would plead with my brother, ‘If there’s a strike in your school, will you please also come to ours; otherwise we won’t get the day off.’ I always wanted to know what kind of a puja the strike was so I asked my brother once, ‘Why do people pelt stones when there’s a strike?’ Dada said, ‘That’s how you celebrate strike puja.’
In school I was very innocent and naïve. My world was restricted to home, school, and play – I had no time for anything else. There used to be a teacher called Bharati didi who would escort us girls to and from school. One day, she fell seriously ill in school so we were on our own. My friends said, ‘This is a good opportunity for us to meet our friends on our way back home.’ I did not want to return on my own so I stuck with them. After a while we came to a park where a couple of boys were sitting on the fence.
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My friends started chatting with them. Soon, I felt leftout so I asked them when they would meet their friends and go home. They laughed and replied, ‘You are such an idiot. These boys are our friends… they are our boyfriends.’ I was so scared I ran back home. Since then, I would bunk school if Bharati didi did not turn up. I did not even know what the word ‘boyfriend’ meant and could not ask anyone. What if people misunderstood? What would they think of me?
I have often been let down by people I trusted implicitly, even now. I remember I was writing a math exam and there was only 15 minutes left for the exam to end and I had finished my paper. A trusted classmate had been pestering me to show her my paper. She was crying and said she would flunk if I did not help her out. So once I was done, she took my answer sheet from me and gave me her own. I wrote furiously for the next 15 minutes to make sure she would at least get pass marks. When the bell rang, I submitted her paper and she submitted mine. However, when the results came out, I passed with flying colours in every subject except maths. I asked for a review and found that while I was trying to get her to pass, she had cut out all the answers in my answer sheet – a nice way to repay a friend! From my very early years, I have been no stranger to constant struggle and frequent stumbles. But I have always managed to pick up and start afresh.
Taking a break from my childhood years, let me move on to something new. Often, you come across experiences for which there is no logical explanation. Some people believe in the supernatural, some do not. For those who believe, no proof is needed, for those who do not, no proof is enough. As for me, I believe because I have faced enough situations in my life to convince me that some things cannot be explained by science or logic. Let me describe a couple of such incidents.
Just before he died, my father was in a hospital for nine days. I went to see him only once. My father was very fond of me and I loved him more than anyone else in the world. I could not bear to see him so unwell and in hospital; I could not bear to even think about his illness. But Baba would often ask for me. When I visited him he asked me, ‘Why don’t you come to see me Monababa?’ I answered, ‘Ma is here and if I come too who will look after the younger brothers and sisters at home?’ Next day, the doctors
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operated Baba’s gastric ulcer. He was to be kept under observation for 48 hours after which he would be out of danger. For the next two days, the entire household came to a standstill.
Once the 48 hours were over, we heaved a sigh of relief. Dada shopped for vegetables. Ma took a shower and wore a nice sari. I do not know why, but that day my reaction was quite peculiar. I asked her, ‘Don’t you have any nice colourful sari, why are you wearing a white one?’ Ma replied, ‘This isn’t white, it’s light pink… just a little faded that’s all.’ After lunch, Ma and I were resting in the afternoon. We were exhausted and I had nodded off. Suddenly Ma woke up and started combing her hair. I asked, ‘What happened? It’s only 2:30 and we will go to the hospital at 4.’ She replied, ‘Listen, just now I saw your father and spoke to him. He said I am going, look after the children.’ I tried to tell her she must have had a dream, but she refused to listen. While we were talking, someone from Baba’s office came over to tell us that Dada was calling from the hospital. When I took the call, Dada gave me the news that Baba was no more. He passed away on 9 February, at 2:30 in the afternoon. I was dumbstruck. Did Baba actually come to Ma to tell her he was going away? How did she know before the call from the hospital came through?
There are more supernatural incidents related to my father. My maternal grandmother was very fond of him. When he fell ill, she too was not well and bedridden. So we did not inform our maternal uncles about Baba’s death immediately. Baba was cremated at 2 in the night. Precisely at that time, my grandmother heard a loud knock on the front door of her house. She picked up a kerosene and woke up my cousin to find out what the din was all about. When they opened the door, my father was standing there. He told my grandmother, ‘Ma, I am going.’ And then, nothing. He seemed to have vanished without a trace. After this incident, she lived only for another three months. She never got over my father’s death.
After Baba’s death, one evening, I was in the kitchen cooking and also reading a book. Suddenly I saw a pair of feet near the toilet. I thought it was an intruder so I picked up the lamp to check. But there was no one in the doorway, outside, or in the toilet. Later, when I thought about it, I realized those feet belonged to my father. I recognized them because I used to massage them every day when he was ill.
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For many years, close to Baba’s death anniversary, I would get a recurrent dream. In my dream, he would tell me, ‘Monababa, I have been killed by negligence.’ It is true when Baba was admitted in the PG Hospital, his treatment left much to be desired. Ma and Dada told me that the doctors had suggested that a narrow pipe be used to drain the fluid from Baba’s stomach. It used to be drained regularly into a bottle which would routinely overflow but no one bothered to change it. Dada tried his best to talk to the hospital staff and change the bottle a couple of times but it made my father very uncomfortable. Personally, I believe his treatment left a lot to be desired as well.
Since 1979, we have been celebrating Kali Puja in our house. But there is a history behind this tradition. My brother got married in 1978. Back then, my mother had her own room and I had the smaller room which was Dada’s when he was a boy. So there was simply no space to have a puja at home. One of my brothers was born on a new moon night on Kali Puja so he was named Kali. By temperament, he was quite different from the rest of us – he would mostly keep to himself. Our neighbourhood was flanked by a colony of potters and idol makers who would use our local club (Kalighat Milan Sangha) grounds to make statues of gods and goddesses during the puja season. The clay that went into the idols would come from Bagnan, Uluberia, and other far-flung places. The neighbourhood kids would often play around with that clay, trying to fashion them into pots, pans, or images of gods and goddesses. That year, Kali made some small idols of the warrior goddess Kali and sold all of them except one.
He then asked our mother if we could have a Kali Puja at home with his idol. Ma tried to reason with him that organizing a puja like that at home was not easy as there was space constraint and one had to be very careful about the rituals. And she said, ‘So why don’t you sell your idol this year and once Dada gets married we will expand the house a little bit, and we will have space for the pujo next year.’ Kali agreed and sold his last idol for Rs 16.
A couple of months later when Kali was visiting our maternal uncle, one night, an awful din woke everyone up in the middle of the night. Our cousins saw Kali, standing stark naked, sticking his tongue out like the goddess, and shouting, ‘Look at me… look at the silver bells round my waist and on my ankles… how could you sell me off for only Rs 16 instead
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of worshipping me… was the money more important than devotion?’ This continued for the next couple of days. Kali refused to eat or drink, and soon he climbed a betel leaf barouj (a makeshift platform and fence made from bamboo sticks and coconut leaves to grow the betel creeper) and would let no one near him. My mother rushed to the village to be with him but Kali could not recognize even her. The trance continued for a couple of days and finally, the village priest was consulted and Ma offered a puja at the local Kali temple. She got holy water from the temple and sprinkled some on my brother and only then he calmed down and finally fell asleep. Ma returned after a couple of weeks when Kali recovered completely and from the following year we started celebrating Kali Puja at home. We always use a small idol that Kali makes himself or at least puts some finishing touches on.
This is how we started celebrating Kali Puja at home. But there are many more small incidents centred on the puja that still baffle me. I remember my niece Mou (Dada’s daughter) was around one and a half years old back then. That year, Dada and I had an argument over the puja. Dada asked me how many guests I was expecting and I picked up a random number off the top of my head and replied ‘500’. ‘I can’t make arrangements for so many people,’ he snapped. And I immediately shot back, ‘So you do your thing and I will do something on my own.’
Jharna and Ashoka were our neighbours and my friends from the time we were very young. Jharna was a really sweet person somebody on whom I could totally depend on. I called Jharna and said, ‘I will worship the photograph of the goddess that’s hanging in my room so why don’t you organize the food. Make enough luchis, aloo dum, and khichdi [rice and lentil dish] for prasad.’
Jharna went away to make preparations and I decided to go for a shower before the puja began. Just then Dada walked into my room and said, ‘Listen, I am leaving Mou with you… I’ll go buy the stuff for the puja. You don’t have to do anything separately… we will do it together as always.’ So we made up and I told Jharna not to make any separate arrangements. My room has a dressing table and a sofa-cum bed facing it. Right next to the dressing table and on the left wall of the room hung the picture of the goddess. I remember standing in front of the dresser and combing my hair. Little Mou was holding on to my sari. Suddenly, the picture almost flew out
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of the wall and landed on the sofa. I rushed to the sofa and found that it was intact – there were no cracks in the glass or the frame. I was dumb-struck. Even if I assume that the photograph fell because I somehow banged into it while brushing my hair, which is unlikely, as it stood clear of the dresser, it should have landed on the floor or on the dressing table. Why should it fly across the room to the sofa on the other side?
I rushed to my mother for some explanation. She explained, ‘You did say you were going to worship the photograph on your own, so why don’t you now place it in the puja room, next to the idol, and we can worship both.’ Since then, every year I always place the picture next to the idol. The photograph is an old one and had started to look bedraggled, thanks to the termites and white ants. Even her sari in the photograph had holes in them. So one day I had asked Manik, my trusted lieutenant, to take it to the local photo framing shop and get it redone. He returned and said the shopkeeper refused to repair it and offered to sell a new picture instead. I said, ‘When our parents grow old, do we throw them away and get new ones? Get me some fine red and white fabric and sequins.’
Once the arrangements for the puja were done, I sat down with Kajori, Lata, Jhani, Reena, Kalpana, and Mou. We removed the old frame, took the photograph out, replaced the sari, stuck some spangles on it, changed the hair, and suddenly the picture was as good as new. I told Manik to take it to the framer and get it reframed. The shopkeeper was astounded. ‘How did you manage to do this?’ he asked. It is simple, really. If you do something from your heart, if you truly believe in something and put your soul into the job, you will do it well. Manik replied, ‘She who worships the goddess has brought her back to life. Now please give her a new frame.’
I remember after His Holiness Bharat Maharaj left for his heavenly abode, the Swamiji who took over the reigns of Belur Math in 1998 sent word that I should visit the math. Of course, I had no idea why. A lady whom I knew and who had spent her entire life working for the Ramakrishna Mission and the temple complex in Dakshineshwar would often tell me to go pay a visit. I have always been a devotee of Sri Ramakrishna, the Holy Mother Sharada, and Swami Vivekananda. But I believe that you visit a religious place only when you get a call from above. The pilgrim’s progress depends
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not on himself but on the object of his devotion. That way I am a bit of a lazybone when it comes to matters of faith but when the call comes from within how can one stay away. So when Swamiji called for me, I went.
One day, I took Pranesh with me and went to Belur, the holy complex that re-defined faith and worship at the turn of the century. I touched Swamiji’s feet and asked for his blessings. He gave me some flowers and said, ‘Go to the holy room and put these flowers on Thakur (Sri Ramakrishna) and Swamiji’s (Swami Vivekananda) bed.’ That simple offering gave me immense peace. Later, I heard people say that sometimes, you get a call from above, and when you do, the prophecy fulfils itself in many ways. In my case, this was one such call. It was an interesting incident because I am not a regular visitor to places of worship. But when the call comes, you have to go.
There was another similar incident that I remember vividly. This one was about Tarapith, another holy temple site dedicated to Goddess Kali. I was in Delhi then and it had been a while since I had been there. I started getting this recurrent dream where I saw myself offering puja at Tarapith. Finally, I told my mother about the dream and she said: ‘I think you should go there. The other day an old lady came to our house and told me, “Ask your daughter to go to Tarapith.” And then just as suddenly she went away. I think it’s time for you to pay heed to that call from above.’ I agreed and followed up that conversation with the promised trip to the holy site. The other Kali temple that I visit regularly is Kalighat in south Kolkata. Every year, on the midnight of Poila Boishak, I visit the famous temple. The year 2001 was an exception as it turned out to be annus horribilis for me. The following year, I stuck to my routine and now people know and expect me to go to Kalighat every Poila Boishak. During my visit there a lot of people gather around and wait for me to distribute prasad on my way home and that is exactly what I do.
My devotion to the goddess is not about religious bigotry, though. Sometimes, the call from above directs me to a mosque and I go there to offer namaz. In 1987, the then Prime Minister Rajivji organized a training camp for MPs in Nainital. Back then, as the general secretary of the Youth Congress, I used to get a jeep for official travel. We were supposed to go to Nainital but on the spur of the moment, Paresh Pal, Krishna, and I decided to head to Ajmer instead. We left Delhi at 10 in the morning and reached
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Ajmer at 8 in the evening. We headed straight for the dargah of Hazrat Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti and made our offerings of flowers and a ceremonial chaddar We started back that same evening and by midnight we were all dozing off in the speeding jeep. Suddenly, I felt Krishna poking me and woke up with a start. She said, ‘Look Didi, the driver is asleep behind the wheel.’ I woke him up, we took a break, and hit the road again. That day, we managed to avert a major accident on the National Highway. Next morning by 6 we were in Delhi. That was my first visit to Ajmer Sharif. We were simply destined to go there, even though our original plan was to go to Nainital. I believe the heart leads you where it wants you to go and that is where you will find your patch of peace on earth and your born-again dawn. That is my biggest inspiration for both work and worship as it helps you to look at everything in a new light.
My life is littered with these small nameless acts of devotion, many of them miracles in themselves. Just a couple of days ago, when Ratanda was driving me to the Parliament in his small car he told me, ‘Someone called from your house in Kolkata and asked you to call back… it is urgent.’ I was surprised. Not too many people call me in Delhi. I called Lata from my mobile phone immediately to find out the reason. ‘Didi, Ranty [my sister] had called from Orissa. She’s very unwell… running high fever for many days and it’s just not getting better. She’s been getting recurring dreams that Adya Ma is calling out for you. Ranty wants you to go pay the temple a visit… she thinks that’s how she will get better.’ I promised to go but once I returned to Kolkata, I completely forgot about it. Some days later, Ranty called again. ‘Have you been to Adyapeath or not,’ she asked me. ‘Are you feeling better?’ I asked. ‘No, I am not and I won’t get better till you visit Adya Ma.’ I realized this was turning into a sentimental tiff, so I decided to go after all. When I returned from Adyapeath, I called my sister and asked, ‘Are you feeling better now?’ ‘Much better, though very weak,’ she replied. ‘Did you go?’ I told her I did, and she took a sigh of relief and said, ‘Thank god… I have done what I was asked to do.’
There was another incident about Adyapeath that I still remember. During the Lok Sabha elections I wanted to visit the shrine but could not, partly because I did not have time during the hectic campaigning days and also because I did not want people to turn my faith into an election issue, either for or against me. I cannot imagine my very private worship being captured
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on camera and broadcast to the world. So once the elections were over, I asked my mother to buy a sari for the deity and take Ranty and Lata to the shrine for a puja on my behalf.
After they returned from the temple. Ma told me, ‘We asked the temple priests to drape the sari on the idol and offer a puja. But the priests said the deity gets really expensive saris as offerings from devotees so we cannot drape this cheap sari on her. When we drape a better sari on the deity and start the puja you can give your sari and we can put it in front of the idol.’ Strangely, after this conversation the priests kept waiting… but no expensive saris were offered to the deity that day. Finally, the priests decided to drape our sari on the idol and the puja was done. During the puja, the priests asked Ma for the name, gotra [caste name], and other details of the person on whose behalf the puja offering was being made. When she gave all the details, they asked her, ‘Are you related to politician Mamata Banerjee?’ Ma replied, ‘Yes, I am her mother.’ To this they said, ‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’ Ma answered, ‘Our family never tries to gain anything from our association with my daughter. We rarely tell people we are related. But, of course, some people may be using my daughter’s name to get ahead… but they have nothing to do with our family. I have come here for a puja so why do I need to give details of who I am related to?’
I have never been able to forget this particular incident. Some people may dismiss it as pure happenstance. But I like to believe that there is a bigger, stronger power at work in the universe; a force that is at the core of our spiritual legacy. Of course, faith is a tricky sum – for believers it all adds up, for others it just does not. Faith too has its pitfalls – just because you ask for something from the Divine and your wish gets fulfilled it does not mean that you will demand wish-fulfillment in perpetuity. In the same vein if you pray for something and your prayers are unanswered, do not blame god. The Divine force is an eternal and omnipresent truth. Belief in that power is at the heart of all religions and there is nothing small, narrowminded, or bigoted about it. For the believers, stray incidents that cannot be explained either logically or scientifically are proof of that supernatural force is working in the universe. If you believe the clay idol you are praying to is Divine and has supernatural powers, if you truly believe that and keep looking at it then you will see its expressions change. You can call it the
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power of concentration. I call it faith. We all love our own religious beliefs. But the biggest faith is the faith of humankind.
Coming back, there is another incident that has just popped up in my mind. My personal secretary in Delhi, Ratan da, his wife Malaya and their daughter Pablo, had once gone to Bangalore. It had something to do with Pablo’s education. From Bangalore they brought back a small sandalwood image of the Buddha as a gift for me. Both in Delhi and in Kolkata, my rooms are very sparsely decorated. There are no knick knacks except my books, music, pictures of the deities that I revere, and the chaddar that I brought back from Ajmer Sharif. I placed the statue on a pile of music cassettes. One day one of my colleagues walked into my room and asked for one of my holy pictures. I told him to take the sandalwood Buddha instead. He tried but the small statue seemed to be glued to the cassettes. I told him, ‘It’s such a tiny thing… why can’t you pick it up?’ He replied, ‘Didi, maybe his Divine Grace does not want to come to me.’ I said, ‘Then I can’t give him to you.’ To understand faith you have to believe in the power of belief… Faith gives man strength and that strength turns into devotion. It is this strength that manifests itself through service for humankind. Just like we stay in touch with our parents, look after them, pray for them… we need to stay in touch and offer our devotion to the Divine. How can I neglect something that is such an integral part of me?
One of the most tumultuous periods in my life was when a few CPI(M) goons assaulted me on 16 August 1990. I was brutally attacked with iron rods in broad daylight near the Hazra crossing. I still remember two thick rods hitting my skull, and then blood everywhere. Yet, even in that moment of madness, I did not lose my nerve. Almost in slow motion, I saw the third rod descending towards me and, in a split-second reflex motion, covered my head with my arms. The rod hit my arms and shattered the ulna, but if it had hit the skull, I would have died on the spot. I can still recall quite vividly that at that precise moment I did not feel any pain. Did someone cushion the blow for me? Or did I simply will myself not to feel the pain so it would not weaken my resolve. Most people do not know that I had to go through extensive plastic surgery for my head injury. Besides, the area where the skull was operated on still swells up and there is often a nagging pain there. It was such a serious injury and obviously there must have been
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some clinical damage. After that incident in 1990, I still cannot sleep well at night.
It has been so many years, so many painful days and sleepless nights, that sometimes I wonder what is the point of living like this? The Hazra attack, however, was not the only one. The 1996 assault near Garden Reach was equally brutal. And like Hazra it was a miraculous escape for me. I was on my way to Sheikh Azad’s house. He had been tortured and killed in the police lock-up. Bimanda used to have a blue Maruti back then and he was driving it himself. I was sitting next to him, Sonali and Rontideb Sengupta were sitting at the back while Ashok and Rohit were following us in another car. The attack came midway to our destination. Goons climbed on top of the bonnet, pelted us with stones and boulders, indiscriminately kicked us in the chest, abdomen, and face, sprayed poisonous gas, and finally opened fire. Bimanda was trying desperately to reverse the car but it had stalled. The boulders had damaged the clutch plate and we were stuck. I could see Rontida’s blood-stained face from the corner of my eye. Sonali was praying desperately to Loknath baba. Bimanda was still trying to start the car. Meanwhile the madness was on in full flow with more boulders and stones hitting our car, and I kept telling him, ‘Let them do what they can, don’t reverse the car.’ Suddenly the firing started and someone aimed at my forehead but my Muslim brother, Akhtar, came in between and took the bullet on his arm. The goons by then were on the rampage but miraculously the car came back to life. Bimanda quickly reversed and pulled into a nearby police station. The way they had planned the attack, none of us should have been alive. But we escaped, though not unhurt.
I was covered with glass splinters from the shattered windshield, some of which also got into my eyes, and later doctors had to work really hard to take them out. As a result of that injury, I have lost 20 per cent vision in my right eye. That is also the reason I avoid flowers, bouquets, or garlands at meetings and campaigns even though I love flowers and appreciate the beautiful and very Indian tradition of welcoming guests by garlanding them. Unfortunately, my doctors have absolutely forbidden me to be near flowers. Obviously not too many people know about my condition. As for me, I know the Garden Reach assault will trouble me for years to come. My body has taken so much battering that I am still alive is itself a miracle. But staying alive also means living with the physical pain of my injuries.
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There is another incident in which I was once again saved miraculously, but someone else lost his life in the bargain. Someone, who had nothing to do with politics, someone who did not deserve the end he got. Earlier, I used to borrow vehicle from my colleagues to attend meetings or programmes. The second-hand Maruti that I now use in Kolkata came later, thanks to the joint efforts of Balu and Aloke. Aloke, who has taken VRS, said one day, ‘Didi, it’s not right that you travel in borrowed vehicles for official work. Besides, it’s difficult to use borrowed or hired transport at night or if you suddenly need to go somewhere… so let this car be for your use… just get a driver for yourself.’ Since then we have been using the car and it has been three years already. But I do not take the Maruti when I go for my district tours or my trips to rural Bengal. For these trips, I ask Bobby for his Sumo.
My injuries are not just the handiwork of the goons that masquerade as ruling party cadres in West Bengal. My colleagues and I have also been at the receiving end of state brutality. I still remember the barbaric police attack against our youth movement on 21 July 1993. Thirteen people were killed, at least a thousand injured, and all of us were bashed up black and blue. I took most of the blows on my abdomen and around the waist. It was so bad that I had to go in for surgery and all through 1994–95 I used to ride in Bappan’s Ambassador because I had to wear an orthopaedic belt. Bappan very sweetly got his car customized so that the Ambassador’s bench seats in the front were replaced with two single bucket seats for him and me. He would also check out my programme schedule in advance and come over with the car accordingly.
One evening, I was supposed to attend a meeting in Behala in south Kolkata. I called Bappan and asked him to come over with the car. Meanwhile I received a phone call asking me to attend an important meeting with a senior party colleague. I told Bappan, ‘Send the car to your father, I will take a taxi and go for my meeting.’ Subroto Bakshi, whom I call Bakshida, and I took a cab and headed towards Southern Avenue for my meeting and Bappan went to Behala to pick up his father from their shop. When we reached Southern Avenue, I got a call from Manik, who is in charge of my office: ‘Didi, have you heard anything?’ I asked him what happened. He replied, ‘That change in your programme schedule is a real
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stroke of luck, otherwise no one could have saved you today?’ I was flabbergasted by the news. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Manik said, ‘Bappan just called. They were returning home after picking up his father from Behala. His father was seated behind and a shop assistant called Patwari was sitting in the front next to Bappan. Near Majherhat Bridge, the car was stopped by a group of armed men, their faces covered in black bandanas. They were shouting obscenities and taking Patwari to be you so attacked him with knives and machetes. He has been very badly wounded and they have rushed him to the PG Hospital. The doctors are operating on him but he has lost a lot of blood and his chances of survival are pretty slim.’
I dropped everything and hurried to the hospital. I told Bappan, ‘I will pay for his treatment but make sure he gets the best.’ Bappan and Bakshida went away to collect blood for Patwari and we stayed back in the hospital. For the next two hours, the doctors tried their best but in the end, in a cruel twist of fate, Patwari passed away. The attack was targeted at me, but he ended up paying for it with his life. Oh God! If it had been the other way round, I would not have felt so miserable. Poor Patwari did not know anything. He was not even involved in politics. It was unfortunate that he was sitting in the car with Bappan and in the semi-darkness the attackers mistook him for me.
After this incident, I told Bappan, ‘I won’t use your car anymore because I don’t want you or your family to be targeted because of me. I will manage my transport somehow.’ I will never forgive those who killed the poor, defenceless man… in my heart I will always curse them… may they pay for their sins. That day I was saved because of the sudden, and almost miraculous change in my plans. It was a close shave if ever there was one.
Another incident I cannot forget is the one in 1983. The Congress Party National Convention had just come to a close in Kolkata. One night, at around 11, I got a call from one of my party colleagues. I was asked to organize an airport agitation at 5 in the morning. Dr Farooq Abdullah, the then chief minister of Jammu and Kashmir was supposed to catch a flight from the airport and we wanted to use that opportunity to protest against the violence in J&K. I took my brother Amit and told Bakshida to get in touch with as many party colleagues as possible during the night so that we had a sizeable group the next morning. Bakshida said, ‘In that case, we will need
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someone who can drive a cab. We woke up a guy called Debu and started on our midnight adventure. Our first stop was Garia, from where we picked up a colleague, then on to central Kolkata from where we picked up Ashok Deb. I was sitting in the front with Amit and the driver Debu, while Bakshida, and Ashok were at the back.
It was very cold and foggy. We could barely see the road ahead. Suddenly with a mighty jerk the car stopped and we found ourselves covered with glass splinters. The entire bonnet of the taxi was crushed and the windshield was blown to smithereens. We somehow crawled out to see what had happened. It was one of those overloaded trucks that ply the city at night. It was laden with timber and logs. In the mist, the driver did not see our car and so when they crossed us, the logs protruding from the truck’s carrier, rammed into the bonnet and shattered the windows and windshield of our car. Bakshi da said, ‘How did you manage to escape that, sitting in the front? We did not think you guys would make it.’ It was yet another one of those miraculous escapes. Those huge logs could have inflicted fatal injuries. But we all escaped unhurt. Meanwhile, the car, although badly battered was still running so we made our way to the airport, picked up the others, and reached on time for our planned protest.
Even in a life as eventful as mine, there are some incidents which have left an indelible impression on my mind. It was 1991 and I was contesting the Lok Sabha elections from a South Kolkata constituency for the first time. Earlier, I had contested from Jadavpur in 1984 and 1989. But after the Hazra attack in 1990, I was not sure whether I wanted to contest at all. My mother said, ‘You should contest from south Kolkata; then I can cast my vote too in your favour because that’s our constituency.’ Rajivji also wanted me to stand from south Kolkata. I remember, that year the elections were held in two or three different phases. The entire process was completed on 20 May and on 21 May. Rajivji was assassinated by a suicide bomber. Rajivji used to be very fond of me. He would always enquire after me and personally ask me if I needed anything. So I was shattered when I heard the news. I just could not bring myself to focus on the counting of the votes which was still on. Kartikda, who is in charge of the counting from our party, ticked me off, by saying, ‘Then there’s no point counting the votes, is there… you don’t seem interested?’ ‘I can’t bring myself to be interested,’ I said.
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Then, once again and totally inexplicably, something magical happened to shake me out of my grief. A middle-aged lady, a total stranger, walked into my office one day and gave me a little packet. She said, ‘Don’t feel so bad, here’s something for you.’ I opened the packet and saw a gold lettering in it. It was eerie because this was the magical lettering that I had been dreaming about for a couple of days. It was my own private mantra and I had not shared it with anyone. But the trinket was gold and I was still wondering whether I should accept it, when the lady spoke again, ‘You recognize it then? That ends my responsibility.’ She went away, leaving me in her eternal debt; I have never met her again. It is a small incident, but for me it was a crucial turning point. The mantra I got helped me get over my grief, I regained my strength, and rediscovered my purpose to go ahead. The next day, I returned to the counting booth with my colleagues.
Most people I know love travelling abroad but for me it is an ordeal. I avoid it if I can and try to come back as quickly as possible. I believe that any travel abroad is for the sake of my work and no matter where I go, India is the best. My love for my country has taken all the wanderlust out of me but I do not mind that one bit.
My first trip abroad was in 1983. Subrotoda (ex-Congress leader and currently a senior TMC leader Subrata Mukherjee) sent me to an ICFTU (International Confederation of Free Trade Unions) conference in Kuala Lumpur as the INTUC (Indian National Trade Union Congress) representative. I remember it was a fruitful trip during which I also went in for the ILO training session and therefore got a chance to take part in a number of ICFTU seminars.
The trip happened quite suddenly. Just before the conference, there was an ICFTU and INTUC workshop in Delhi that I had attended. During that conference, the then INTUC president, G. Ramanujam, conducted a question-answer session and I managed to get all my answers right. Subrotoda was the INTUC vice president at that time, so he recommended my name for the conference and because of my performance at the workshop, I was selected for the trip. That was also the first time I was travelling by air, so naturally, I was a bit overwhelmed and scared. But before I could figure out what was happening, the two-hour Thai Airways flight landed in Bangkok. Though Subrotoda had briefed me that we would
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be ‘in transit’ at the Bangkok airport, I had no idea what transit meant. When the disembarkation began, I followed the rest of the passengers out of the plane. At the airport I saw a few airline officials standing with a placard for KL-bound passengers. I quietly went and stood next to them and they escorted us first to a VIP lounge and then, some two hours later, to the flight bound for KL. A couple of hours later we reached Kuala Lumpur. I had the detailed itinerary and accommodation chart with me but Subrotoda had told me the organizers would have me picked up from the airport. So I was not expecting any surprises in KL. But that is not how things turned out.
I landed in KL at 11 p.m. only to realize there was no one at the airport to receive me. For a while I was at my wits end and then I remembered the accommodation details, which I was carrying. We were supposed to stay at the South East Asia Hotel during the conference. I encashed a travellers’ cheque worth $100 and booked a pre-paid cab to the hotel. Fortunately, I had the details of the hotel with me, otherwise I would have been truly stranded in a foreign country. Besides, I am not used to speaking English so communication was a bit of a challenge too.
Anyway, I explained my destination to the cabbie and drove off. I must admit I was a bit nervous as it was dead of night, I was in a foreign country, I did not speak their language, there was not a soul to be seen just endless subways and deserted roads, and all I could think of was, ‘If I get mugged and killed and someone throws away my passport no one will even know that I am from India.’ As it turned out I need not have worried. I reached the hotel, thanked the cab driver, and entered the reception, only to be accosted by a group of around four or five women from the organizers’ reception committee. They apologized profusely for not picking me up from the airport and said there was some confusion over flight timings, which was the reason for the mix up. I assured them I was safe and sound and there was nothing to worry. They helped me check in and then once again I was alone in my room. It was a bit eerie finding myself all alone in a distant land but before I could worry too much it was morning and time for the seminar.
During the conference, I became friends with a Thai girl. We grew quite close and I asked her if she would like to share my room with me. I was just not comfortable staying all by myself in an impersonal hotel room. She
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agreed and we stayed together for a week. Although we got along just fine, I simply could not get used to the smell of palm oil that was used in their food. As a result, I had a lot of problems finding something to eat. As it is the food there is nothing like what we eat back home, and on top of that, the smell of palm oil made it even more difficult. So I pretty much survived on bread all through. The night before we returned to the hotel, I managed to locate an Indian restaurant and finally had a full meal. My Thai friend though had no problems on account of the food.
As part of the conference, ICFTU had indicated it would pay for the airfare to Singapore for those who wanted a detour. A lot of people were interested as the chance to visit one more new destination was tempting. But I booked a ticket to Kolkata, because for me, 7 days abroad was akin to 700. The only trouble was that there were no direct flights on that day and I needed to spend a day in Bangkok before catching the connecting flight back home. The organizers had not made any arrangements in Bangkok, so I was left to find my way when my Thai friend offered to host me for a day. Back then, I was far more trusting and the world was a far easier place to trust. Thai girls are so sweet and so friendly that it never occurred to me to decline her offer. There were no boundaries in our friendship, so after getting to know each other for just a week, I followed my friend to her country. Her parents had come to the airport to pick us up. They took me home and treated me with so much love and kindness that I never felt like a stranger. The next day they dropped me to the airport. That wonderful stay was the high point of my first trip abroad. Even now, whenever I think of foreign travel, I remember my Thai friend and her parents. I tried to get in touch with them afterwards, but somehow never managed to do so. I do not know where they are now and how they are doing, but I believe some day we will meet again. And this time round, I will get the opportunity to host her and her family in my home, with the same warmth that they received me.
Since my first trip to KL, I have represented my country, my party, and various youth fora in different international events. I shall not include details of all those trips, but one or two incidents still elicit a chuckle when I think back. In 1987, I went to Vietnam as the All India Youth Congress representative. I was the general secretary and travelled with my colleague Ganesh Shankar Pandey, who was the secretary. I was really curious about
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Vietnam because I had heard so much about their struggle – armed and otherwise – since the time I was a school girl. Back then, there were very few hotels and restaurants in Vietnam. That was the period when the country was reconstructing itself from scratch, so it was not fair to expect too much. The hotel we were staying in was a brand new wooden structure on the banks of the famed Red River. The hotel had made arrangements for not just the conference but also all the meals for the delegates. The first day we went down to the dining room, Pandey asked me, ‘Mamataji, I am a pure vegetarian and you are a non-vegetarian, but in this country what’s the difference?’ I agreed that even as a non-vegetarian, I was not used to eating snakes and other exotic animals that were part of the menu in Vietnam so I replied, ‘At least, I will get to eat eggs which I love.’
From then on, most days I would stick to bread and eggs and Ganesh would make do with bread and butter. But we were both getting tired of our limited menu, so one day Ganesh asked me, ‘Can’t we ask them for some potatoes at least?’ I had noticed the way the local chef used to make chicken and lamb. The curry in itself was fine and all they needed to do was substitute chicken or lamb with potatoes. I decided to use the local interpreter and have a chat with the kitchen staff. By then we had also routed a request through the Indian Embassy for some vegetarian food for the delegation. I was also carrying my stock of puffed rice because I fast on Tuesdays right through May and June. But I thought, ‘Thanks to Ganesh, I will get to eat some potatoes today.’
That evening when we came down for our dinner, we were told that a special menu had been prepared for us. Ganesh is a Brahmin from UP and a strict vegetarian. I convinced him that the food would be vegetarian, so he sat down to eat, though his expression still looked doubtful. Finally, the much-awaited potato curry arrived. I decided to check it out and found that along with potatoes, the chef had very ingeniously mixed small pieces of chicken! The chicken pieces were so finely diced they looked like chopped vegetables.
I did not want to tell Ganesh anything because he had been looking forward to this meal and telling him now would mean he would have to go hungry again. So I ticked off the interpreter and told him that vegetarian in India means NO CHICKEN OR MUTTON OR FISH OR EGGS. But by then, the dish was on the table and Ganesh was helping himself to it.
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I sat down and watched him heap the stuff on his plate. When he came across a piece of chicken bone, he asked me, ‘Mamataji, what is this?’ I replied, ‘Vegetables.’ He was really hungry so he wolfed down the food and I held my tongue so that he could have a full meal. But the chicken wings and legs kept popping up and finally, there was a piece big enough for him to realize what it was. Ganesh was furious. He picked up the piece of chicken and asked me, ‘Yeh bhi veg hai [is this vegetarian as well]?’ I told him that I had explained to the chef that the food had to be strictly vegetarian but they got it wrong. Ganesh said, ‘If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘Then you would have gone hungry again. This is not home that I can organize an alternative for you. If you don’t want to depend on others, next time you should carry some dry food like puffed rice or pressed rice,’ I reasoned. Ganesh saw the point. ‘Yeh sujhao theek hai [this suggestion is fine]… next time hum aisa hi karenge [I will do what you have suggested],’ he said.
Finally, let me talk about my trip to New York as part of the UN delegation. The year was 1998 and Atalji was the prime minister. That was the only overseas trip I was really looking forward to because I had always read and heard about the UN General Assembly in school and college, and to represent India at a forum like that was a dream come true. That was also my last foreign trip. The hotel in New York was within walking distance from the Indian High Commission. I met many people during my stay in New York. Like always, I was carrying pressed rice and puffed rice with me. I am a frugal eater so it was enough. One day, I bumped into the Bangladeshi delegation. They asked me, ‘What are doing for lunch and dinner?’
‘Muri [puffed rice] and chura [pressed rice],’ I replied.
‘We are having hilsa fish and rice three times a day,’ one of them chuckled.
‘How come?’ I asked them, surprised.
‘We know people who send us food every morning at seven. You are staying in the same hotel… we will send some across for you.’ The next day, a tiffin carrier full of authentic Bengali food arrived for me. I kept it in the fridge and heated a little bit every day in the microwave. It lasted the next four days. This simple act of kindness filled my heart. I bow my head in gratitude towards my friends from across the border. Food is not a
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problem in America as a lot of their food is compatible with our tastes. Also, you get all kinds of cuisines but a meal is expensive and you have to eat alone. Neither of the option was to my liking. Although I used to get $100 a day for my personal expenses, I did not feel like spending it on trivial things like meals. I saved up my money and donated $300 out of $700 to the International Red Cross. I have never been careless with my expenses. I cannot bring myself to be a spendthrift. Also, something funny happened during my stay at the hotel. One day, I returned early from the conference. I had left a saucepan in the bathroom because in American hotels, it is difficult to get buckets or mugs. When I entered my room, I bumped into the cleaning lady and she was quite bewildered about the saucepan in the bathroom. She kept asking me, ‘What’s this doing here?’ I tried to explain to her that I use it to take my bath but she just could not understand. Finally, I decided diversion is the better part of valour. ‘Show me how to use the microwave,’ I asked her. She did, and I thanked her and gave her one of the gifts I was carrying from home. After that, we became good friends and would always catch a chat every time we bumped into each other. I also tried my hand at shopping during this trip but with no success. When it comes to things like this, I am not very smart; in fact, kids today are far smarter than me. In New York, I decided I would spend $100 buying some small gifts for my friends and family back home. I picked whatever I could, and for the girls in my family I bought chapsticks believing they were lipsticks. When I gave it to them, I said, ‘See, aren’t the colours pretty.’ They said, ‘Sure, but they are all the same colour… these are chapsticks.’ I tried to explain that I did not have time to check things out and I thought I was buying lipsticks. Chandana, Jharna, Jhani, Kajari, and my niece Mou, started laughing at me. It made me very cross and I told them, ‘Next time, one of you should come along to make sure that I am buying the right stuff.’ They replied, ‘Didi, you got something for us, that’s what matters.’ I have never been fond of dressing up and wearing makeup. At home, I sometimes amuse myself styling or cutting hair and my victims are the ladies of our household. But otherwise, it is my family that takes care of my needs – everything, from toothpaste, to saris, and bedsheets. I do not keep track of all this and my mother and I pretty much live like guests in our own house.
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Excerpts from Akante, published in 2003.
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My US trip was so packed with work and meeting new people that I did not even realize when it was over and it was time to come back home. I also met many non-resident Indians during the trip and they were really kind and generous to me.
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