Here’s how 202, Rash Behari Avenue became a landmark of post-modern Bengali literature

Basu moved out of 202 with his family in 1965, but my grandfather had stayed on. He passed away when I was two. I grew up listening to stories of the intellectual and cultural movements of the times from my father. Those sounded no less than fairytales. Among the visitors in 202 were writers Dilip Kumar Ray, Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay, Promotho Chowdhury, Achintya Kumar Sengupta, artist Jamini Ray, music composer Sachin Deb Burman and others. The younger generation included economist Amartya Sen, writer Nabanita Deb Sen and poets Shakti Chattopadhyay and Sunil Gangopadhyay. Some of them were my father’s contemporaries and friends who met regularly at Coffee House in College Street. Music sessions were common — two legendary singers of different generations, SD Burman and Hemanta Mukhopadhyay, were neighbours and visited often.

Upendrakishore Raychaudhuri’s son and Sukumar Ray’s brother, Subimal Ray, also came to 202 regularly. He was a favourite with the children as he had an unending stock of hair-raising supernatural stories. He would sit on the floor and the children would gather around him, and the lights would be switched off to create a suitable ambience. My first introduction to his work was through a story called Shoytaner Motorgari (The Devil’s Car) which my father used to read out to me from his only published book.

My grandmother had a great memory and was a fantastic narrator. The cultural richness of the period as well as the fear, helplessness and anxiety of World War II came alive through her stories. There were also quite a few doctoral students who visited 202 for their research on my grandfather. All they ever did was sit around the dining table and listen to my grandmother’s stories!

There was nothing mundane about this house even while I was growing up. There used to be the Saturday evening and Sunday morning addas — people from different walks of life would drop by every weekend and stay over the entire day. The sessions would start with chaa and taa (accompaniments), followed by more of it, and then lunch, afternoon siesta, and evening tea. At the slightest cajoling, some would even stay back for the night. At some of these sessions, my father would read from manuscripts the stories he was planning to publish. I remember listening to them and enjoying not only the readings but the conversations around them. These included his own life experiences and stories of the Kolkata he grew up in. Many of these were later incorporated into his publications, primarily in Desh, a leading Bengali literary magazine, and in others as well.

Although the floor we lived in was small — with only three rooms, a balcony, and a terrace — space had never been an issue. Multiple adda sessions would go on at the same time at every available space in the house. As children, we did not have any separate area to ourselves. We were a part of these sessions and were never patronised by the elders of the house or those who came to visit us. Nothing hindered the free flow of laughter, hilarity and fun that this house was known for, making it a noisy, but boundlessly happy place. In today’s fast, purposeful and often selfish life, I realise how much of that richness I have internalised and how I miss it everyday in the world I live in.

From my father, I also imbibed a love for literature, painting and music. The senior Rays were a regular part of our cerebral life. My father would often read out their stories and poems to me and I would lie on the floor and listen for hours. During these sessions, we would laugh together, stop and reread portions we liked and laugh again. The intellectual pleasure we shared strengthened our bond even more.

He took me to art and photography exhibitions and introduced me to several artists through their work. I remember once, during my first year of college, as I was preparing to go out, my father told me that it would be worthwhile to visit an ongoing exhibition by a very famous cartoonist. He was referring to Reboti Bhusan Ghosh, the youngest pupil of Abanindranath Tagore, whose first solo exhibition was being held at the Academy of Fine Arts in Kolkata in 1997. His work was completely different from the cartoonists I was used to — Chandi Lahiri, RK Laxman, Debabrata Chakraborty, Mario Miranda, etc. One distinctive feature (shared with Laxman) was the use of brush rather than pen, a rarity among cartoonists, I was glad that I got to meet him personally, because my father had insisted that I visit his only solo exhibition.

My father is the reason I became a painter. He taught me proportions and was my greatest critic. I painted almost all the time, even well into the night, and the moment I finished something, I had to ask him how it was. Even at 2 am, he would wake up and patiently critique my freshly-finished handiwork without complaint. A creative soul, he understood the unspoken urgency. He had a small tunnel-shaped cupboard which was like a treasure trove to me. All sorts of interesting things came out of it. Seeing my inclination towards sketching, one day, he took out a box of Grumbacher charcoal for me. I can never forget that first bold stroke on the paper with that charcoal. I never stopped using charcoal after that, and it is still one of my favourite mediums.

During my school days, in the early 1990s, playing the mouth organ was quite the rage. Seeing my interest, one day, he took out a German-made harmonica from his cupboard, which he had carefully preserved for many years. A few months ago, I came to know that my father was writing an autobiography titled Hridoyer Purono Punthite (In the Old Manuscripts of the Heart). I started reading his unfinished draft and I found the story of how he had been inspired by the legendary harmonica player Milon Gupta (a close friend of my uncle, he lived across the street from 202), and had requested his neighbour who travelled far and wide with a job on a ship, to get him one. It was one of his most cherished possessions. And even though it doesn’t play anymore with long years of disuse, that story makes it invaluable to me.

We moved out of 202 RB Avenue in 1997, and with it, the magic of our day-to-day living was gone. I think we all lost a part of ourselves with that house. As I grew older and became busy with my own life, those moments of camaraderie with my father became fewer, and gradually, the relationship became more formal. My father died in April this year, and as I read through his autobiography, I feel there was so much more we could have savoured together had we not drifted apart after moving out of 202.

It is unfortunate that Kabita Bhavan, despite its historical value, could not be protected. It is now a dilapidated building and will soon be taken down by promoters. Its life and people, most of whom are not alive, remain fresh in the minds of those who were touched by its humour, conviviality and creativity. It was a “Golpo Bari” (House of Stories) and remains imprinted in our minds as an evergreen space of joy and friendship.

Madhura Dutta is a development sector specialist by profession and an artist by passion.