Editor,
Babulal Sau was a 60-something person, originally from Bihar. During our times in the college hostel, we used to frequent the small eateries nearby for breakfast and snacks. A group, including myself, used to frequent Babulal Sau’s tiny shop. We lovingly called him Babuda. It was rather an apology of a shop. It was merely a small shanty.
Babuda was a very simple, jovial, innocent man. We, the regular hostel boarders, used to pay our monthly bill in the first week of the new month. So a ledger used to be maintained. After having our breakfast or snacks, we used to jot down the payable amount in the respective columns against our names. Never did Babuda verify the ledger as to whether we were writing our due amount every day or if the amount being written was correct/reduced. Obviously, bad apples exist everywhere, so one or two boys used to adopt corrupt means. Perhaps highly intelligent, Babuda knew about it, but did not challenge them. Perhaps it was beyond his dignity.
Babuda’s wife was also a smiling, simple hardworking woman, making tea or bread toast in front of a hot earthen oven. Stark poor they were, just maintaining sustenance somehow within that tiny shanty. Yet, such financial adversities and poor living conditions could not rob the smiles and the joy from the faces of the whole family.
It was our first Holi after admission in the college. In the evening, as usual, we went to his shop. Before we placed our order, the couple forwarded plates of bread and chicken to all of us. Humbly, they declared that this was Holi special. Since we didn’t know the rate, we asked for it, so that the payable amount could be written in the ledger. The poor couple laughed at our question and declared that it was their personal offering to us on the holy occasion of Holi. We couldn’t utter anything, witnessing their generosity and warmth.
However, more surprises were in store. As our other hostel companions (who were rare visitors to the shop or never stepped in it) knew about it. From the next year, many of them were seen to be shamelessly frequenting the shop on Holi evening in the greed of eating free chicken. But our Babuda was Babuda. With utmost sincerity, he used to offer special Holi delicacies for free to these rare visitors also with a big smile, despite knowing very well the intention of their visit. If they were uneducated, I pray to the almighty to make us all as uneducated as this Sau couple. At least this society and world would survive.
I don’t know whether Babuda is still among us or has left for his heavenly abode. But I definitely know that, till the last Holi of my life, the divine face of Babulal Sau (and his wife) will automatically crop up in my consciousness as soon as the festival of colours dawn. We just can’t forget our very own Babuda.
Kajal Chatterjee,
D-2 /403,
Peerless Nagar, Kolkata