There are a few mails in my inbox which I neither delete nor shift to archives, so that I can quickly scroll down and take a relook any time I want. Among them is one from Rahul’s father, Mr Jacob. (I called him Sir, his contemporaries called him Jake.) It is a collection of prominent landmarks of Calcutta (for this piece I will use the old name) beautifully lit up at night. Of course that’s not the way they are but good photo editing by someone who has a feel for those landmarks have made them so. That’s where we really met — in our love for a city that was or may have remained but didn’t.
I met Mr Jacob fairly late in life, about half a dozen years ago when we moved to Bangalore. He and Rahul’s mother had moved there from Calcutta a few years earlier. We were all émigrés in a way, being forced by life’s imperatives to move from a declining city. And one of our pleasures was celebrating little bits of what was good in Calcutta and had also like us immigrated to Bangalore.
Celebrating bits of Calcutta was of course importantly realised in relishing its hallmark food. That meant K C Das, mishti, mishti doi, and luchi alur dom, never forgetting to approvingly note that they still used aromatic ghee to fry the luchi. It’s not as if we actually went there together regularly. But we invariably talked about the landmark shop and discussed if it was losing out over time.
A much-needed refurbishing came with a price rise, and the ways of its unionised staff (they behaved so even if they were not) was sheer entertainment and utterly reminiscent of Calcutta, and why did they not stock a little more of genuine honest to goodness sandesh instead of some of the fried stuff. The important thing, as in Calcutta, was not so much to actually do things but to talk.
And Mr Jacob spoke well. His English was superior, his conversation laced with the fruits of a wide and catholic reading. And he had a fine sense of humour which spread a balm over life’s highs and lows, making him a somewhat bemused observer who grappled with all the emotions but was able to look on with a bit of detachment. That, plus what really set him apart from the rest was his passion for singing and remaining an active member of the church choir wherever he was.
Mr and Mrs Jacob settled down in Calcutta in the mid-50s. He joined an executive position in a leading managing agency and she remained a moving spirit behind YWCA till the end of their stay in the city, boasting a circle of friends and acquaintances which would be the envy of anybody.
The blight that afflicted Calcutta in the seventies did not spare Mr Jacob. He could not bear the management change, most importantly the culture change in the way firms were run, that was taking place and in the late 70s quit to set up his own desktop publishing business. That’s what kept him preoccupied till they moved to Bangalore two decades later. Along the way they brought up three fine sons.
I met Rahul when he walked into the The Telegraph while still in college and submitted an article. The hallmark of the new paper then was not being intimidated by youth. Thus began the journey which has taken him round the world in the service of some of the greatest mastheads. We remained friends and in touch until I was in Bangalore and he introduced me to his parents. And thus began my journey of good talking and eating and consulting Mr Jacob before Christmas to find out which were the good carol services in town.
The last good meal with Mr Jacob was a lunch the three of us had at the recently opened O’Calcutta where easily the finest item was the last, the bhape sandesh that was neither too sweet nor too bland. Then suddenly I learnt that he had been diagnosed for cancer in the fourth stage, with around a couple of months to go. And I could clearly recall the great family lunch that my wife and I got invited to when he had turned seventy-five barely a year ago.
There is something peaceful and reassuring about St Mark’s cathedral in the heart of Bangalore. Its solid columns anchor it to the ground while the impeccable white of its interior helps release the encumbered spirit. The choir paid homage to its friend and colleague, the pastor said something. As we walked out the choir sang “Nearer my God, to Thee”. A squall quickly brought down the temperature and it rained a little, which in India is an auspicious thing, particularly when you are setting out on a journey.
When Rahul and I met at K C Das before he left town to get back to work we laughed at the alacrity with which the staff downed shutters for their lunch break and got down to their lunch near us, not caring to throw us out. All that Mr Jacob did would never fetch him a headline but his civility, good graces and carefully put together values had made him an exceptional citizen and parent. The headlines get things wrong somewhere.
