‘The reader’s is the last word for me, he is the lord of my life’: Bengali writer Sankar (1933-2026)

I was born on December 7, 1933. Bongram in Jessore district was my birthplace. India had not yet been partitioned. We were getting by as a middle-class family, but then one day in my adolescence I saw grown-ups cutting my country into pieces. For a few hours, my birthplace became a part of Pakistan – they even raised its flag. Then some people found serious mistakes in Radcliffe’s map, and we were turned back into Indians from Pakistanis.

The new district in which Bongram was placed was named 24 Parganas. I do not know why we couldn’t stay on there, but the entire family had to move to Howrah, on the west bank of the river Hooghly. I enrolled in a school. On my very first day, the other students surrounded me and asked where I was from. Bongram, I said. That was it, they began a clamour, “We have a Bangaal in the school, we have a Bangaal.” A Bangaal is someone from East Bengal (present-day Bangladesh). I tried to explain it was only 48 miles away, but who was listening? Their reasoning was that since I’d got off the train at Sealdah Station with my luggage I had to be a Bangaal.

I was ostracised at that early age. Taking advantage of the well-known Bangla expression “Bangaal ke High Court dekhano” – showing a Bangaal where the High Court is – my classmates would try to make me lose my temper by pointing at every dilapidated building and saying, “There, look at the High Court.”

It was painful to listen to their constant taunts. I had vowed that if I were indeed a Bangaal, I would show them the High Court instead one day.

In school, I was terrible at mathematics, but I still managed to pass my matriculation examination in 1948. The credit goes entirely to Mahatma Gandhi and Muhammad Ali Jinnah, for those who took their examinations in the year after the Partition were given an endless supply of grace marks so that large numbers of them could pass. Thank heavens I was among the candidates in that first year after Independence, for that was how I escaped the spectre of mathematics. Who knows what might have happened otherwise!

My father died in 1947. My mother took up the responsibility for our family of eight children. We lived in a rented house. The little money that came from Baba’s insurance was deposited into a bank in Bengal, which collapsed in due course. It was a dreadful situation; penniless, with so many mouths to feed. Still a teenager, I was forced to wander Calcutta’s streets in search of work. Some people said learning shorthand and typing would help me get a job, so I did. But no one would hire me because I was not yet 18. From vending wares on the road to other adventures and misadventures, I have lost count of all the things I did to earn money. I had enrolled at Surendranath College near Sealdah at this time. The teachers here loved their students. I worked, I studied, and when I found the time, I read novels and books of short stories.

I even wrote a little, whatever I wanted to. One day, I read out a satirical story I had written at the college literary meet.

PK Guha, the vice principal, heard me – I became one of his favourite students. When he learnt of the situation at my home, he made arrangements to waive my tuition fees. For the first time, I realised that even something as useless as writing could bear fruit in some way. But free tuition did not mean no household expenses. And so I had no choice but to leave college.

I simply had to earn more, but I had no idea how. That was when a friend’s brother took me to Mr Noel Barwell, the barrister. A new chapter in my life began that day. I was hired as a stenographer-typist in the Englishman’s office – and as a schoolteacher. This meant toiling day and night, but I had no option, given the size of the family. It was Mr Barwell who changed my life, teaching me to live afresh in an old world.

Only Mr Barwell knew what qualities he saw in me, but he used to say I was a genius, that I would go a long way in the race that was life, that I was extraordinarily gifted. This made me laugh. Imagine being extraordinary yet being unable to get two square meals a day. While Mr Barwell was at the High Court, I would read the numerous books from India and abroad stuffed into his shelves. Hours would go by, and I would lose all sense of time. My employer’s affection for me and his books brought me news of a different world.

Then, one day, Mr Barwell went to Madras for a case and never came back. He died there, leaving me fatherless once again. I felt lost; it was as if the ground beneath my feet had been taken away. Who would give me so much love and affection ever again, who would teach me the philosophy of life the way he had?

I did find another job to make ends meet, but I was growing restless every day. Was there nothing I could do for the man to whom I owed so much? I hadn’t been able to do anything for him while he was alive – now that he was gone I wished to do something as a mark of respect. But what? I told one of my friends, “I would like very much to put up a statue of Mr Barwell’s.” He chuckled. “How much have you saved for the statue?” My total savings at the time amounted to Rs 57. When I told him he burst out laughing. Forget a statue, this money wouldn’t even pay for a watermark of one. I would need at least a lakh. Then I thought of commissioning a portrait in oil, but I discovered that too involved great expenditure.

Was there nothing I could do?

I was having tea at a roadside shop. In the course of the conversation, I asked an acquaintance, “How can one show one’s respect for someone in this city at very low cost?”

After much thought, he said, “There’s something you can do. Many roads in Calcutta are named after famous people. I believe it doesn’t cost any money. You could consider having a road named after Mr Barwell.”

I was astonished. I had assumed that the descendants of the people after whom these roads were named had to pay a fat rent every month. Galvanised, I went to meet a councillor at his house to present my request.

But luck was not in my favour. He flew into a rage when I mentioned Mr Barwell. Scolding me roundly, he said, “So many years have passed since we gained independence, and yet you want to petition for a road to be named after an Englishman? Shame on you for not discarding your slavish mentality yet.”

Not knowing how to respond to this, I stared at him in consternation.

He said, “What was so special about this Britisher?”

I said, “Sir, he was someone who told an average person like me that I am exceptionally talented and will go far in life. To me, he was next only to god.”

I don’t know what the councillor concluded from this, but he practically threw me out of his house.

Out on the street, I asked myself: Is there really nothing I can do for Mr Barwell? All my memories of him would fade slowly – how could I hold on to them? Then it struck me. Why don’t I write about him? That would be my homage. I started writing as soon as the idea occurred to me, making quick progress.

One day, I was introduced to the journalist and writer Gour Kishore Ghosh. As we chatted, I humbly told him of my writing project. With great enthusiasm, he suggested I meet Sagarmoy Ghosh, the editor of Desh magazine, with what I had written thus far. The Anandabazar office was in Chitpore at the time. With great trepidation, I submitted my manuscript, which was about half its eventual length then. Sagar Babu said grimly, “Leave your piece with me, but don’t bother telephoning over the next two or three months to find out its fate.” I nodded mutely and left, my eyes fixed on the floor.

When three months had passed, I thought it might be worth enquiring. Just as I arrived at the Desh office, everyone there burst out, “Ah, the missing person is here at last! Go, meet Sagar Da, he’s been looking for you for days.”

Looking for me? Surprised, I entered his cabin. He reproached me, “What a strange fellow you are! How can you submit a manuscript without an address? I had no idea how to reach you. Anyway, I like what you have written. I will publish it. Finish it quickly.”

I was overcome with joy. I said, “Will you give the manuscript back, Sagar Da? I want to repair it a little.” He shot back immediately, “Never, I’m not letting this out of my sight. Finish it, then we’ll see.” So I did. It was serialised in Desh magazine as Kato Ajanare. The year was 1954. I had begun to earn from writing.

After this, I began writing regularly for all the Bengali dailies – Basumati, Jugantar, Anandabazar. My earnings from literature began to grow slowly. One day, Jugantar asked me to interview a famous person of my choice. But was anyone famous likely to grant me an interview? No one knew me; they wouldn’t even give me the time of day. One morning, I found several bulls wandering about happily in Burrabazar. Why not interview them, I asked myself. No one knows anything about them after all.

I returned to Harrison Road early the next day. Picking one from the herd of bulls, I followed him about all day, swiftly taking notes. A most gentlemanly creature, he walked along the side of the road, never crossing it until the signal turned red, and ate at the same shop every day. I titled the piece “Bull Culture”. It was published in Jugantar. Parimal Goswami was in charge of the section at the time. He was full of praise. “How did you get this idea?” he asked. “None of the hotshots of the city has time for me, so …” I explained.

And so life continued with all its unpredictability. I had never imagined being a writer or anything remotely like one; I didn’t have the leisure for such fancies. I could barely do enough to survive.

I began writing very young, but no more than one or two people encouraged me and said, “Here’s a new writer, he should be given a chance.”

In fact, it was just the opposite. I was worn down by the tyranny of those in charge. But then I have always been impossibly obstinate, with more than my fair share of the reckless impudence of the lower middle class. I may have been forced to compromise, but I made no promises of subservience. The sycophants who controlled the share market of Bengali literature had declared that I would never amount to anything, least of all a writer. Apparently, I was a “one-book author” – my book was a fluke, there wouldn’t be another. (My books were never reviewed anywhere. This would break my heart, but I never spoke up.) I had neither the time nor the inclination to get into a confrontation. Once, the power supply to our rented home was cut off because I couldn’t pay the bill on time. I had earned Rs 400 in all for my serialised story in Desh and wanted very much to buy my mother a Benarasi silk sari with the money, but when I told her, she said, “No need, get the power reconnected instead, darkness is awful.” I obeyed her.

There was a great regret I carried in my heart – that was being labelled a one-book author. My mother would tell me not to be upset. “If what you have written is truly worthy, one book is enough. How many works did Valmiki or Krittibash produce? Yet everyone knows their names even after all these centuries.” What she said comforted me, but it didn’t ease the pain. I would often go to a Kali temple nearby and pray: “Whatever else you may do with me, Ma, don’t make me a one-book author.”

Some time passed this way. One day, I was sheltering from torrential rain in front of KC Das’s famous sweetshop in Dharmatala. A shop nearby was selling second-hand books. You could deposit one rupee and bring home any book of your choice; you’d get 75 paise back on returning it. I got myself a book to read.

When I opened it, I found an English poem on the first page, which said all of us are sitting in a plush hotel on a winter day, some of us will leave after breakfast, some will linger till lunch, and others will stay on till dinner. So don’t be upset, everyone has to leave eventually. And the longer you stay, the higher your bill.

The rain had let up a bit, and I could see the Grand Hotel clearly. Suddenly, it struck me that I could write about a hotel. Mr Barwell used to stay in one, and I’d been inside several times with him. I knew a lot of things that went on in hotels, why not write about them?

I went to Sagar Babu again and expressed my desire. “Go on, write,” he said encouragingly.

That was all I needed to get down to it. After a few years, my novel Chowringhee began to be serialised in Desh.

This time too I was the object of many people’s ire. Some said I had no right to write about a hotel when I didn’t even know how to pronounce the word “restaurant” correctly; I should immediately stop publishing my weekly instalments. A well-known writer of the time expressed her resentment in a letter to Sagar Da: How could someone who didn’t know the difference between bed-and-breakfast and bread-and-breakfast dare set his book in a hotel? Not that the mistake was mine, it was a printing error. But I had to bear the brunt of it. Still, Sagar Da said, “No need to pay attention to what people are saying. Keep writing.”

And so it went on apace. Meanwhile, I ran into Amiya Chakraborty, someone Mr Barwell had been extremely fond of. He was the collector of excise for the state government at the time. He took me to his office, where, in the course of the conversation, I told him about Chowringhee and that I had never got the chance to see the bars and hotels of Calcutta for myself. At this, he sent for an inspector and told him to quietly arrange for me to spend as much time as I wanted at any hotel or bar in the city.

A new vista seemed to open up for me. Till midnight, I would sit in various bars, observing and taking notes. When I went back home in the early hours of the morning, I would write. Calcutta had a colourful nightlife. I saw many bar girls. The pimps and their clients negotiated in code. The rule was that if a girl had to be picked up from the bar, she would first have to be given dinner. The bottom line was that the men had to spend some money; if they just disappeared with the girls quickly, the hotels and bars had nothing to gain. Hence these arrangements.

I saw a great deal, without which I might never have been able to write Chowringhee. Now that the book has been translated into so many languages around the world, many foreigners tell me that reading it makes them want to see Calcutta for themselves, and I am reminded of those days.

In any event, I have received a great deal from life, especially the love of people, both known to me and strangers. Life’s currents have swept away all the agony and the filth that had gathered. Many say I am a corporate storyteller. I am amused to hear this. I am the same clerk that I was at 20, there’s been no change. I would dress in a dhuti then, I wear shirts and trousers now – that’s the only difference. There’s no distinction between the writer Sankar and a corporate Sankar. A decent human can only be a single person. I am neither corporate nor a writer. Somerset Maugham used to say you are either a full-time writer or you are not a writer. I believe this too. But because it is not possible to make a living writing in Bangla, I couldn’t become just a writer. When I am exhausted by work, I come back home and enter the life of a writer, and when I get tired of writing, I go back to my job. This is how it has been, but there is a fundamental difference between other professions and writing. The job of a manager in an organisation is to engage the right people for the right tasks and get them to do everything. But as a writer, there is no question of getting anyone to do things for you. Here, everything is your responsibility, and getting someone else to do your work amounts to plagiarism.

The reader’s is the last word for me, the reader is the lord of my life. I don’t care to get into squabbles over what I’ve received and what I’ve been denied. I have said already that I’m not a writer, so everything that has come my way in the field of literature has been an unexpected gain. Rabindranath Tagore once said on the artist Nandalal Bose’s birthday, “Nandalal may have been cheated by the marketplace, but he never cheated himself.” It’s the same with me. I may have been cheated in the marketplace, but I have never deceived myself. Nor have I persecuted myself.

A thought has occurred to me often during this long journey: Everyone has an extinguished lamp within themselves waiting to be lit. It is the job of literature to light it. The greater the writer, the more lamps they can light to dispel the darkness within readers. I don’t know how many I have succeeded in lighting, but it is what I have tried to do all my life – and wish to keep doing for the rest of my years as well.

Excerpted with permission from Dear Reader: A Writer’s Memoir, Sankar, translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha, HarperCollins India.

Disclosure: Arunava Sinha is the editor of the Books and Ideas section of Scroll.