Of omelettes, marmalade and sociology: Memories of André Béteille (1934-2026)

I met Professor Andre Béteille almost 47 years ago in rather an unusual setting. It was a cold, foggy, winter morning. I was enrolled as a M Phil student at the department of sociology at the Delhi School of Economics. I had just escaped from my one-and-a-half-year-old child and landed at the D School gate at 8 am to find it locked.

As I wondered what to do, a youngish, handsome man appeared from nowhere and asked me what I was doing at the department so early in the morning. I told him that I was a student and that the reason I was so early was that if my son saw me leave, he would scream his head off. The only solution was to creep out of the house at the crack of dawn.

He asked me if I had tea and breakfast, which of course, I hadn’t. I asked him who he was. He said his name was André Béteille and that he was a professor in the department. I almost dropped dead with shock. This was the famous André Béteille whose books were compulsory reading during my MA in Pune University. I couldn’t believe that I was standing in front of this famous man and telling him my Ram Katha.

Professor Béteille promptly helped me climb over the gate in my saree, and took me to the dhaba near the department of economics. There he treated me to masala chai, masala omelette and toast – a pattern which continued almost every morning that term.

When he asked me what I was up to, I told him about my husband, Sundar, an IAS officer who was posted in Jalgaon in Maharashtra and how my son Arudra and I would commute every four weeks from Delhi to Jalgaon by third-class train.

One day, I must have been looking a bit worried so he asked me what the matter was. I told him that I would not be able to come to the department for a few days because there was no one at home to look after Arudra, and I was worried that I would not make the 75% attendance that was necessary for me to continue my studies. He then suggested that I bring Arudra to the department and leave him in his room.

I took him up on the offer without thinking twice. Every morning for about ten days, I would bring Arudra in an autorickshaw with his bag of Lego and leave him in Béteille’s room. After classes, I would dash down to collect him. It was a beautiful sight. Arudra would be sitting at the feet of the guru, quietly playing with his Lego and Béteille would be reading or writing. There was absolute silence in the room.

André Béteille cared for his students in ways that were very unusual. Apart from being an amazing teacher who could explain the most complex issues in a simple manner, he was interested in the well-being of his students. Once classes finished, he called me to his room and said, I am going to be your M Phil supervisor. I know how difficult it is for you to manage in this manner, with Sundar posted in Jalgaon. I suggest that you analyse the Reports of the Commissioner for Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes. These are government reports and Sundar will be able to get them in Maharashtra.

I want you to take your books and go home and write your thesis. I don’t want you to announce this around because technically you are supposed to be in Delhi. But if I don’t get your thesis on June 5, I will throw it in the dustbin.

He was, at that time, the head of the department.

I finished my thesis on time and got my degree and then enrolled for a PhD at D School. By that time Sundar had been transferred to Beed district, which was completely unconnected to the rest of the state. Coming to Delhi was impossible. Luckily for me, Sundar helped and during my infrequent visits to Delhi, I would meet Professor Béteille and ask his advice on how to proceed with fieldwork.

As it happened, my own supervisor, Professor MSA Rao was critically ill and in no position to guide me. So, I was back to asking Béteille for help, and he became what he called my “shadow supervisor”

Fortunately, two years in Beed were over and Sundar got posted to Mussoorie as a Deputy Director on the faculty of the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration. To my great delight, I found that Béteille was a regular guest lecturer at the academy.

After his guest lectures were over, he would walk across to our house and Arudra and Béteille and I would walk to Company Gardens and discuss my PhD thesis. I don’t know how many versions of my thesis he read during these visits to the academy.

Finally, he said, “Neera, don’t make the best the enemy of the good. Just submit your thesis.” He told Professor BS Baviskar, who was then the head of the department, that my thesis was ready for submission.

But for Professor Béteille, I would never have finished my education. The kind of support he provided was unusual and we established a life-long bond. I would drop in to see him often in his Jor Bagh house, sometimes just to say hello and touch base.

I didn’t become an academic but I was interested in writing and he was a terrific sounding board. It didn’t matter if the subject of my research was child labour or the memoirs of my great grandfather – he always took the trouble to read what I had written and give his honest opinion.

In the meantime, Arudra took a year off from the Yale Law School to write a paper on the Indian Civil Service, and asked Professor Béteille to be his supervisor. He readily agreed, writing to Arudra, “You seem to be an unusual research scholar. No ordinary scholar would like to be supervised by someone who was also his mother’s supervisor.” (He told me later, “This is the only time I have been supervisor to both mother and son!” Amita Baviskar just noted, though, that he taught both her as well her father.)

Very often I would drop in around noon. He would be sitting in his verandah reading and watching over his grandson who would be playing in the garden. He would ask after Sundar and Arudra. I would get quite irritated and say to him, “How come you never ask about me? It’s always about Sundar or Arudra. I am the one who was your student!”

Much of our conversation was about food. He asked me once if I knew how to make marmalade. He missed eating good bread and marmalade. He remembered the bread he ate in his childhood from the bakery near his house. He described it in great detail, so I decided to try my hand at it. He loved it and so even if I couldn’t go myself, a loaf of homemade bread and marmalade would be sent regularly to “Professor Sahab’s” house!

Last April, I suddenly felt I needed to see him. I had just lost Sundar, and I wanted to talk to Professor Béteille because I panicked – he was already 90 years old and frail. I rushed there one evening. He was sitting in his chair in the bedroom, and smiled when he saw me. I told him about Sundar and then burst into tears. I told him that I had come to give him a big hug because he had been such an important person in my life.

I reminded him of the masala chai and breakfast on cold winter mornings, baby-sitting Arudra, walking to Company Gardens and discussing my PhD thesis. He smiled at me and said, “It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” Then he kissed my hand and told me to come and see him again.

Neera Burra got her PhD from the Delhi School of Economics in 1986 and worked for many years with various United Nations agencies in India. After an early retirement, she turned to a second career as an amateur historian, publishing A Memoir of Pre-Partition Punjab: Ruchi Ram Sahni 1863-1948 in 2017. Her email address is neeraburra@gmail.com. Her blog can be read here.