Shortly after we moved into the National Media Centre in Gurgaon in the mid-1990s, we got a dog. He was a third the size of the Doberman of our neighbour but still never failed to howl and charge at the huge adversary every time he got a chance. As our neighbour and I laughed at this absurdity and introduced ourselves, I realised I was in for a bonus. He was none other than the eminent historian Bipan Chandra.
When we got to know each other a little, I discovered how lightly he wore his learning. There was none of the solemn, self-consciously grave academic in him. He was essentially an open, down-to-earth person who was always ready to come forward on any public matter. He once led a group of agitated residents who forced one that had just brought in a couple of huge dogs, one of them a Rottweiler, to take them away as they frightened the children who had the run of the place. I felt he would happily be at the barricades, provided he could carry a couple of books in his backpack.
Both his learning and the human being in him came out when our conversation came round to books. I remarked that he seemed to be running an open house - happy to have all those shelves loaded with books even in the drawing room, unsecured. What if someone came in to see him and, if he should not be there, walk out with a book or two?
He got a little pensive and recalled what happened when he was away on a longish trip and an academic colleague stayed at his place. It was only some time after he had returned that he realised his colleague had left with a few of the more valuable books. He still did not dream, of course, of locking up his books.
Soon it became my regular routine to consult him when I was working on something that needed a little delving into the country's modern history. His insights and references were invaluable. I would often show him the new books I had acquired, and can now smile at how he once sharply pulled me up for buying an inappropriate title on the history of Partition.
My biggest professional takeaway from him was an insight into the state of mind of India's latter-day Leftist leaders. "Why isn't Surjeet retiring? Does he love his position so much?" I asked one day. I was taken aback by his forthright reply: "It is the others who don't want him to go, as they see little merit in his likely successor." In a way he had foreseen the fall of the Left.
Over time, as we became familiar with our two families' pattern of living, he did not fail to notice how my family and I were perennially bitten by the travel bug. Come a long weekend or more and we would pile into our Maruti 800 and head for the hills. Then one day he surprised me by saying, "Do you realise you have inherited this love of travel? You are part of a tradition." The scholar in him saw historical context in the most humdrum of activities.
For all his stature, he took an interest in what I wrote - particularly this column. One day he told me, "You have written on our mutual neighbour (an eccentric, very Indian, lady who wore a soft hat like a colonial woman when she worked in her garden in the sun) and even on your dog. What will you write about next?" I said the local Haryanvis would never let me down. My next piece would be entitled "What's in a name?" My electricity bill had distorted my name to "Sadiq Lai"; I could understand "Roy" becoming "Rai", but this really took the cake.
When we decided to move on to Bangalore, many friends were surprised. Why should anyone want to leave Delhi even after he had acquired a good property? When I explained to him that I had seen today's Delhi durbar and felt the future of the country and reporting lay in information technology, he was the one person who emphatically advised: "Don't get bogged down in life by a house."
One of the nicest moments I can recall is when he told me one day, "Stop this Prof Chandra, call me Bipan," though I was a good 20 years his junior. As a true Leftist he did not believe in any kind of social status and extended the rule to himself too.
In a way I don't regret not being around during his last years when he lost his eyesight. What I do regret is not getting to write that primer on computers for schoolchildren which he asked me to when he headed the National Book Trust.
subirkroy@gmail.com
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