Madhupur

Those who have been listening to the stories on my YouTube channel (just write Suvro Chatterjee or Goppoguchchho) will have noticed that I read out excerpts from a new book titled Memories of Madhupur not long ago. Now I have driven before through Madhupur, now in Jharkhand, about a four-hour drive from Durgapur, but never stayed. I have heard lots of stories from family elders about the days when the moneyed Calcutta elite invariably had little palaces or large bungalows there, and went over frequently for a health cure: the doctors highly recommended the 'change' from city life, because the weather was cool and balmy for most part of the year, there were vast open spaces and greenery all around, so virtually no pollution, the mineral charged water was supposed to be very good for health, and local labour was cheap, obedient, dutiful and generally harmless. With the great socio-economic and political changes post independence, most of this old Bengali elite lost their stranglehold and many even their properties, though some held on doggedly. Lately some have renovated their old villas and turned them into resorts - weekend getaways - for the newly moneyed middle class tourists from the cities. One of those caught my attention.

On the way I stopped at Karmatanr, where one of my most revered heroes of yesteryear, Pandit Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar, spent many of his last years, still teaching, still treating with cheap homeopathy the poorest of the poor, the local Santhals, the sort of people for whom he had cared most and done most all his life (gnyaner sagar, doyar sagar, birchuramoni Bidyasagar). The railway station has been renamed after him, and his walled compound with some trees he planted with his own hands still remain: one or two rooms, including his bedroom, have been lovingly restored, but most of the houses are going to seed and the site is located beside an obscure, dingy, narrow alley with open drains, and sandwiched between ugly, jerry-built, newly constructed houses and shops of insignificant and uncaring locals simply making do. A very sad contrast with the ways the houses, memorials and museums dedicated to Tagore and Vivekananda have been restored or preserved. Shameful and pitiable. I got a book about the great man's life there, and learnt that a small trust is still protecting the place from dissolution and decay, but there was no way I could connect with the trust, the writer or the publisher, no phone number, email, postal address, nothing, to ask if I could help, in whatever little way I can afford. I wish the two state governments involved would get into the act with gusto and do something before it is too late.

Arriving at the resort (Sett Heritage Guest House) at just after 12 immediately lifted my spirits. The property was not too big,  but beautifully preserved, everything from rooms to the Victorian era babuder boithokkhana, complete with old paintings tastefully placed on the walls, old books inviting the connoisseur on the shelves, period furniture of cane and wood, ceiling fans of century old design, even switches from a bygone era and canopied four-poster bedsteads, low doors and curtained French windows, albeit grilled, because sneak thieves have been a problem for ages. I like this kind of holiday stay far more than any chrome and steel and wood-laminated five star hotel tower frequented by the crass newly rich any day. We got the lawnside room, which was the best, because it was isolated from the main building and so very quiet, with a little private garden in front and the kitchen right across, so that you didn't even have to holler for tea, coffee and snacks, and you could lunch and dine right there in the mellow sunshine or under a canopy at night. The staff was  promptness, courtesy and helpfulness personified. In India you cannot get closer to heaven, just sun bathe, listen to soft music, read, chat (my mother and driver/friend had gone along), eat (very nice, homely, filling food) and sleep.

But there was a bonus waiting still for me. The proprietor, Mr. Anjan Sett, 75, from Kolkata (Theatre Road) and his wife came over and struck up a warm and friendly conversation right away. Within minutes we had discovered common acquaintances from the days of yore. He begged me to browse through his collection of books and take away whatever, as many as I pleased - 'I can't cope with the dreary task of preserving them any more, and finding true bookworms to share with is such a rare pleasure!' So courteous,  so humble, so self-effacing: talk about the civilizing effects of old money! My mother shared many of her childhood experiences, and he drank it all up, because they were, after all, contemporaries who have lived through a nearly forgotten, far more cultured age. We were earnestly invited to visit their much bigger property a furlong away.

So next morning we went, and saw a palace. They occupy the much smaller wing, which they have transformed into another guest house ('You can come over right now if you wish!'). I suggested they hand over the palace itself to some giant corporate chain like the Taj or ITC, which they will transform into a haven for the dirty rich in no time at all. But of course, the olde-worlde charm will be lost forever, because their clients will come only to make raucous noise, lech after each other's wives, and drink themselves silly... Then we did a little bit of local sightseeing, taking in the tiny Bakulia Falls (must be a spectacle at the height of the monsoons), the bahanno bigha neighbourhood of humbler Bengalis who settled down generations ago, the Kapil Math (I thought the ancient sage's den was on Sagar Island, but okay, maybe he spent some time here), and enjoyed the aarati and vandana at the Vivekananda Math. Next morning, we set off after a leisurely breakfast and were back in good time for a regular lunch. A most satisfactory getaway, and a very good use of the Monday and Tuesday break I have now assigned to myself every week. If you have enjoyed reading this, let me know.

For photos, click here.