TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY SUGANDHA DAS
Almora, Uttarakhand, India
My grandfather, the Late Mr Chittranjan Das, came from a family of timber merchants in Muzaffarnagar, Uttar Pradesh. Although he was born into a family of Agarwals, my great-grandfather the Late Mr Mitthan Lal Vaish was deeply influenced by the fight for India’s Independence and a country free from caste bias. So he named his son after the freedom fighter, Chittranjan Das. This practice has continued in our family ever since, with none of the descendants using their caste surnames, rather, choosing their last names (with the condition that it be caste neutral). Which is why I picked Das as my last name, in memory of my grandfather.
Since my grandfather died in his early 50s, I never met him. But I have grown up with the idealism of a socialist society and a very left-oriented bookstore run by my single father and my unmarried uncle—it was called Dastavez Prakashan and it was the hub of leftist intellectuals in the 90s and 2000s, in Lucknow.
I have grown up around books and the odd family heirloom- from my grandfather’s time. He aspired to be an actor and a director but failed in these enterprises. He did, however, act in and direct a lot of street plays and was an important member of IPTA (Indian People’s Theatre Association) in the 1950s. My grandmother, the Late Mrs Kamlesh Kumari, was his anchor and looked after their 3 children and household, whilst my grandfather pursued the Marxist ideology, did nukkad nataks (street theatre) and introduced his family to leftist ideals and a voracious love for reading. He was deeply involved in the freedom struggle, from his hometown of Muzaffarnagar – attending and organising rallies and was an active participant of the Swadeshi movement– boycotting British goods. Unfortunately, neither of my grandparents are alive today and my father does not remember stories of this time (he was born much later in 1955).
They married young, presumably sometime in 1945-46. My grandmother was 19 years old and he was perhaps 20 or 21 years old. My grandmother was, at the time, also a connoisseur of English literature. I am not sure why they were not together on the eve of India’s Independence but they would always write letters to each other, whenever apart.
I found this particular letter tucked away in a copy of “An Actor Prepares” by Konstantin Stanislavski—a second hand copy that my grandfather bought in Mumbai in 1947. It still bears his name and signature (after the original owner) and also has my father’s signature, as it was handed down. He wrote the letter to his wife on the eve of India’s Independence in 1947 while she was at her maternal home recovering from having given birth to their first child in February 1947. The letter was posted from Muzaffarnagar to Deoband. The paper is brittle but firm and smells of old books. I have dabbled with spoken word poetry and comedy myself and something in me, craves to be on stage, which is why I picked up the book, for inspiration to strike. I have the common yet odd habit of flipping the pages of a book and smelling it. If it smells good, I will certainly read it. As I picked up “An Actor Prepares”, I dusted the spine, opened the first page to find my grandfather and father’s signatures and was transported to a time when things moved slowly but with a dignified composure. As I began flipping through the pages, the letter fell out. I had no idea what it was but when I opened the envelope and read the contents, I was overcome with a wave of pride, nostalgia and a dull, melancholy ache that one often feels with memorabilia. The letter is still kept inside the book.
The letter, written in Hindi, is difficult to decipher as my grandfather’s handwriting seems to drawl! It is written on his own letter-head with an address for Muzaffarnagar. He says to my grandmother that he loves being busy; so busy that he does not have a moment to rest. The preparations for India’s Independence have kept him that busy and it delights him. My best guess is that he was organising Independence Day celebrations. He goes on to say that he, like most others, is overjoyed by India becoming independent but he cannot fathom the pains of partition. This is followed by a typical couple conversation— “My itch is getting better”. My best guess is that he had bouts of eczema! He goes on to ask about my aunt, who was born in 1946-47 and was an infant at the time of this letter. My father and uncle were born post 1955.
He ends the letter congratulating his wife on India’s Independence and the bright future this holds for their child and their lives. The letter, posted a day prior, bears the stamp of George VI (it says one and a half annas, India Postage) which is what I found most interesting and typical of the sarcasm that runs in our family—I will wish you a Happy Independence Day and that letter will be delivered by the colonizers and their postal system! There are 2 more stamps on the envelope– one of Gandhi, “Lets March On” with the dates 1857-1947 and another stamp at the back of the envelope which says “Jai Hind”.
I know that my grandfather was born into privilege—and he let go of most of it—as donations, as business losses (imagine a dreamer, idealist, actor running a timber business). My father was born into poverty and my grandfather worked as a life insurance agent to make ends meet. However, letters, books and artefacts—mostly from their time of wealth, have been preserved by my family. A lot has been given away to organisations or gifted to friends—since it is difficult to reconcile material wealth with our ideologies of the Left. But we have held on to our letters and our books.