By Ananya S Guha
Walking across to the State Central Library was a favourite past time those days. I say “walking across” because one had just literally to run down ‘Jacobs Ladder’ and then saunter across to IGP point. No pandemonium of traffic, let alone the now ubiquitous ‘jams’. And this was especially on Sunday mornings, when the Library was opened from 10 a.m. to 1.30p.m. if I got the timings right and as fas as my now slightly severed memory goes . . . . We needed to whet our appetite to read and made a bee line for the Children Section tucked away in the corner of the Library.
And then there was a fantastic collection of authors: Enid Blyton, Richmal Crompton, Frank Richards et al with cover pictures of their immortal heroes: William, Billy Bunter, The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, Beer Rabbit, and what have you. It was a veritable feast . . . and then scampering up Jacobs Ladder to reach home and to devour those stories, or fantasize with the dream scapes of the protagonists. Fiction was reality and the adventurous climbs of the Famous Five or the Secret Seven were things not only to believe in, but to empathize with. Reality took a new turn out of a leaf of these pages . . . humour was an intrinsic quality of life. This happened mainly during the long, and at times boring winter holidays when the huddle of the fire – place gave some cheer and added a mystique to the aura of winter. Then we graduated to the Adult Section of the Library where fact and fiction intersected: Fiction, and books of more academic interest. But walking to the State Central Library during school days or, in college had its ineffable charm.
A particular day is etched in my mind. I had just graduated from school; not particularly with flying colours; but resolved to continue with this habit of reading, to sustain my tryst with this charming Library ensconsced in a strategic manner behind Keating Road and overlooking the main road on the way to Police Bazar. Safeguarded with clean and unpolluted roads it looked majestic, inviting . . .
Hardly had I stepped out of the side – gate, whan an avuncular man politely asked me my name; with a smiling, good natured look. “What books do you read?” he asked. I mumbled something and also I mentioned poetry. “Who is your favourite poet?” was the next question “Wilfred Owen” was my tearse reply. “Ah, Owen” he said, “the war poets. Do you know ‘Bobby’ Das?” “No” I replied. “Well, meet him; he is doing his research on the War Poets”.
Research and Phd. were things still inchoate in my infantile mind. Having said this he walked away briskly attired in his impeccable suit and bowler hat, carrying a walking stick.
The man gave me my first knowledge and insight in to the world of literature. War Poets, the expression hummed in my mind, and I carried it with me to my college, university and teaching days. Later on, I encountered that man once again when he chaired an Inter – College debate; spoke beautifully and, laced with humour. That man was none other than Nari K. Rustomjee, philanthropist who made North East India his home, and loved it with his heart and soul.