My father and my teacher, Malay "Mehthor" Chaudhuri.

Mehthor is the Bangla word for a scavenger/mehatar. My father had become quite restless during the week before he breathed last, to officially change his name from Malay Chaudhuri to Malay "Mehthor" Chaudhuri. He felt unless we make an effort to change the system of casteist discrimination by embracing the discriminated as a very part of our existence we will not be able to see a new world. He had said that if anyone opposes his plan, that person doesn't love him enough.

This was a dream he nurtured for more than a decade. Unfortunately it remained unfulfilled. Today as I try to write a few lines on him, I feel in his death I am doing justice to his thoughts.

Yes, that was him. Unconventionally humane till the last day of his life. To me he was surely my father who loved me infinitely -like most fathers, but far more than that he was my purpose of existence for the last 30 years of my life ever since I entered IIPM as a student. The father-son relationship of love and rebel ended at the age of 18, because after that for the last 30 years - as a student and teacher at IIPM - the relationship was only of sheer appreciation and fan-dom.

That's right. 1989-2019. Every day I got up in the morning with one singular priority (as a student initially and later as teacher). To hear his praise for my efforts.

If he wanted me to live upto his image in front of IIPM faculty and colleagues, I studied hard. If he wanted me to become a good teacher. I prepared hard. If he wanted me to use the knowledge I acquired to make IIPM a big brand. I worked hard, with my lovely team. If he told me to stay away from AICTE. That was the last word. If he said, we need an alternate budget from IIPM Think Tank to be taken to the masses. That was my next mission. Books, Magazines, Articles, TV shows, Human Development Awards. He kept thinking and with his help me and my teams job was to keep implementing.

And going back to get a smile of approval and satisfaction. That was it.

Not because of any blind love. But because of absolute respect and belief in his vision for an equal and better world.

When he was unhappy, I would be upset. Even fight. But most of the times, soon enough, change and re-do. Maybe at times he was wrong and maybe at times I saw wrong. But it was his vision and he needed to be happy. That's all I understood.

No, I wasn't his carbon copy. I was far from it. He wanted to live like Hi Chi Minh, I lived more opulently. I was a typical ambitious product of a below average school called DPS that taught us absolutely nothing worthwhile in life - a reason why I never found any interest in studies. To find meaning in life, I would have wanted to go abroad to study. But dad wanted me to first taste what he had created. And I joined IIPM... and suddenly I realised the greatness of the man I was living with... and found my purpose of living.

It became so easy for me. All these 30 years. He would think. And I would just go and try to convert his thoughts into reality. He would teach. I would go and speak. He would read (and cut hundreds of thousands of articles from Newspapers) and underline them in detail, I would just read the underlined parts and teach.

And after doing it well. Get all the appreciation from him additionally.

He didn't like many things I did. But thankfully my next editorial, next lecture, next book made up for everything. And I would be relieved to see him proud of me again.

There was another thing. I don't think he found anyone else in his whole life who would understand him so precisely at an intellectual level. Of course neither did I.

This intellectual companionship despite quite opposite lifestyles and hundreds of disagreements was the corner stone of our relationship. My complete averseness towards religion and the meaningless word called God and his soft corner for the strength he derived from God -despite realising I was right- was one of our key disagreement. And yet when he wanted to get his name changed, it showed that he might have had respect for godly human beings and 'Ma' Sarawsati's imagery but he knew where to draw the line.

My key purpose of coming back home was to share with him the days happenings. That's what made my day complete.

Sounds strange. Sounds of lack of love for the rest of my family. Sounds cruelly work oriented. Yes and No.

Since 2000, I had my son Che. Playing with him, and trying to give him the right upbringing was always a huge priority. I had my sister and friends for my weekends and their children were my life.

But guess my real life has been my work. And my work was my dad's vision.

I had seen in films people coming back home and rushing in to talk to someone only to realise that that person is no more... Turning around to share something to nobody.. dreaming every night of conversing with their lost love. I never thought exactly that's what can happen. Every day for the last 12 days I am talking to him about so many things in my dreams... And at home I turn around to share something with him only to realise he isn't there anymore. I can't believe that my entire support system is no more.

He was love. He was humour. He was intellect. He was compassion. He was the world of my dreams.

Today with him gone. I will have to finally ideate myself. And work towards it. I am not used to it. And I wish I didn't have to. I wish I could remain a student forever. But guess, finally I will need to be on my own.

Poorest of poor, equality, sustainable development, limits to growth, global humanism, demon-o-cracy (called India), time to wait and a time to act, read between the lines, conspiracy of silence (against everything good that IIPM did), disinformation system (of the capitalist media), human development.... Were some of his favourite words and phrases... The list is endless... I will keep remembering them and using them purposefully for the rest of my life.

>>>>My heartfelt thanks and gratitude for the beautiful words, poems, thoughts, calls, messages, letters, hugs, and support that has poured in from all over - over the last 12 days. Every message has made it that much more easier to look forward to life without him.<<<<<<

Being an anti-theist I couldn't follow any meaningless rituals after his death. My father loved the colour blue and was always sharp on time for any meeting. On Sunday the 19th of August, some of us who knew him, sat down in 50 shades of blue sharp at 5pm - over his favourite dishes in a favourite restaurant of his and remembered his life and times. Hearing beautifully written poems and anecdotes from his life, watching small snippets of his life and scenes from his favourite movies Sound of Music, My Fair Lady and Asrani's memorable scene as 'Angrezon Ke Zaaane ke Jailor' from Sholay, we ended the evening with smiles and beautiful memories.

Taking lessons from his life, I wish we all

Do a lot for others | Have a higher purpose of living | Say sorry and thank you as often as you can | Fearlessly chase your passions | Love your family | Laugh heartily | Savour and share tasty food

The journey continues........

My words might have been repetetive but the following lines aren't.

I sign off with this beautiful poem written by my professor and my father's colleague that sums up my father's whole life

Oh! My Southern Wind*

By Dr. Jay Mitra

There are some forms of breeze

That caress you so surreptitiously

You would never feel it at all!

Suddenly you discover

Like a startled Columbus

Your heart has turned into a burning red ball

Or is it deep blue or glittering gold?

Stupified you are! You pause! You wonder

What magic has made this happen?

Kafka's metamorphosis continues on

Your dreams in sleep and imaginations galore awake

The golden pair of sticks make delightful dandiya dance

Everything comes alive - all ideas, all dreams throb into life

Bokul trees of Bolpur and stuffy skies of Gurgaon

Blend exquisitely in amorphous delight

The air continues to blow

Sometimes steady and slow

Sometimes a Nor’wester storm

Sometimes it uproots

Sometimes it freezes you in biting winter blue

Putrid corruption reaches a pindrop decibel

Stifles you, strangulates you all through you suffer!

The conspiracy of silence and silent conspiracy

Inside you simply implode

Solo-all alone, Hercules

You wished to usher in a typhoon

That blows away centuries of garbage mounting

Petty bourgeois may all be damned and dead

Marx and Tagore may blend seamlessly

May the fragrance of service to people

All kinds of mankind, keep all enchanted

Let the proletariat clap and dance in the torrential rain

In all your gushes, round after round

We hear a pair of bangles tinkle

Almost inaudible, imperceptibly

Flooded with love and emotion

The colours in your palate do turn dry

But your love makes those moist again

Joie de Vivre- we feel like living again

None knows whether you could make a new world

That's a debate worthless

The point remains quite firm and sound

You altered all the formulae alone

The wind dreams of an alternative form

Go and keep changing the other world

O my southern wind of Falgun

You created so many waves

The hearts are bloody red, sometimes blue

But the saffron is changing its hue

The white and green is much faded now

At this trying time

Where have you signed off?

Oh! My Southern Wind!

17th August 2019; 12.30am

A tribute to Dr. Malay Chaudhuri

*Translated into English, Malay means Southern wind

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