Apu's Homecoming
IT WAS NOT A BIG match, but I was edgy. In my more than forty years of soccer craziness, I had had countless nail-biting, fist-clinching moments during Mohun Bagan-East Bengal clashes. But this game was going to be far more nerve wracking for me. It was my son’s first state-level match. He was the only high school student to make it to the state team; all the other players were college level or older. Like every milestone in his life, this was as much my test as his. While joining the fervent crowd milling into the stadium, I wondered if Apu would be more nervous than me. Knowing my boy, that was unlikely.
I took my seat and opened the packet of roasted peanuts I bought from the vendor outside. Until the match began, the nuts would be my welcome distraction from the mind wrestling I was undergoing. As I plopped the first few into my mouth, a familiar voice greeted me. It was Mr. Saha, our neighbor.
“So, Mr. Bannerjee, how does it feel to see your son in action?” He asked.
“Well, I should be asking you the same. Rana is also in the team, isn’t he?”
“He is. But just as a reserve player. Not like your Apu who carries the load of the entire team on his young shoulders.”
His sarcasm wasn’t lost on me. Yet, I couldn’t agree more with him. As the goalkeeper, Apu did have a big responsibility. I passed some nuts to Mr. Saha and said, “Let’s hope our boys do well.”
“Of course, of course, I hope so. With Apu in the team, how could they not?”
God bless Mr. Saha; his words proved correct.
Bengal, the team Apu played for, scored two goals against opponents Punjab in the first half. But in the first few minutes of the second half, the Punjab boys came back with a terrific goal, and it seemed they had done some serious regrouping during the interval. They looked focused to equalize. My sight constantly shuffled between the scene of the match and the dial of my watch. Every opportunity Punjab missed became a golden moment for me. Barely four minutes were left for the match to end when Kulwant, the star player of the Punjab team, looked ominous. As he scampered with the ball towards the goalpost to score the equalizer, the spectators were pushed into silence. However, I could clearly hear Mr. Saha’s voice, “Ahh, poor Apu, God save him the disgrace of Kulwant’s goal.”
As Kulwant’s left foot lifted the ball, my vision was a blur, my mind numb. I could just see an image of Apu flinging his body across...his small, eight-year old frame diving in a desperate bid to save the ball, his coach cheering him on, and Apu securing the ball to his chest...
“Hurray, Mr. Banerjee. Our Apu has done it!”
Mr. Saha's frenzied call shook me out of my daze. I couldn’t ignore his “our Apu”. Evidently, Apu had managed to save the goal through a “heroic effort” as Mr. Saha put it. My days of bringing eight-year-old Apu to the sprawling Calcutta Maidans for football practice seemed so meaningful now.
At dinner, Apu relived the final moments of the match with me. I didn’t tell him I had missed his goal-saving magic. Even as he spoke, gulping down his favorite fish curry and rice, I could see the spark in his eyes. I was glad that for once, we were in the same team—Bengal. I had always been a Mohun Bagan supporter, and that was reason enough for Apu to be a fanatic follower of arch-rivals, East Bengal. Every time the two teams clashed, a mini cold war ensued at our home. If East Bengal won the game, I would be subjected to a torrent of scathing comments on my favorite team.
"Let's face it, Baba; Mohun Bagan can never match East Bengal."
"Don't forget son, East Bengal was born out of Mohun Bengal only."
"Please, Baba! Don't give me those lame historical references. That actually proves you can't accept how pathetic a team they are now."
"I have seen more soccer than you, Apu. East Bengal is having a good phase no doubt, but Mohun Bagan is still the best. Just wait until the next match."
"You make me laugh, Baba."
So, Apu did have the proverbial last laugh after all. With his momentous save, he established that he knew better football than me. Did that hurt? Well, I could actually feel my ego swelling with paternal pride. Funny, how losing the final argument can be so satisfying sometimes.
After dinner, I asked him about yet another test he was to face in three weeks’ time.
“So, Apu, are we all set for the engineering entrance?”
“Hmm, more or less, Baba. Just have to buy a couple of books from College Street. Dilip has picked up some good ones from there.”
Apu was barely five or six when I first took him to the book bazaar at College Street. I would force my most unwilling boy to wake up early on Sundays, give him a bath, make him finish his breakfast--toasted bread, a boiled egg, and a glass of milk (back then, he swore not to touch milk the day he finished his schooling--he has since lived up to his promise). Then, we would head for book hunting. In time, Apu started loving these Sunday sojourns. He would rummage for hours through the piles of yellowed, ancient-smelling books, and compile his own collection for the library that he was building up at home. Russian folk tales and the poetry of Pushkin that he collected in middle school, “Animal Farm”, which he picked up at fourteen, some autographed books he was lucky to find on a few occasions, and the MAD comics he remained loyal to all through the years--our library became a feast of books ranging from the rare, to the odd, the hilarious and the bizarre (yes, Apu insists he’s mature enough to “handle those”).
Thinking of the impending exam, I asked Apu, “Aren’t you a bit late for buying these books?”
“Ah, guess I am, Baba, but what to do? This soccer business had to get in the way. But why worry; we’ll see how it goes, won’t we?” His blithe smile reassured me he was up for the challenge. Yet again.
In the days that followed, Apu hardly came out of his room. Determined to grab a seat at the prestigious Jadavpur Engineering College, he suspended every bit of pleasure—watching TV, adda with friends at Coffee House, even his soccer practice—in favour of exam preparations.
As I entered his room one evening, I saw on his table—scraps of paper, with a million unintelligible things written on them (I was an accounts officer; what would I understand of physics derivations?), and five or six page tomes lying open. Apu immersed himself into a seventh one; his glasses centered on the middle of his nose.
“Don’t overdo it Apu,” I said.
He looked up and smiled, only to return to his tome again. Walking up to his table I took the book away and closed it.
“Enough of that. Now get up and relax.” I said.
“But Baba...”
“Just take a half-hour break, Apu. Your brain needs charging up.”
After a few minutes’ pause, he relented.
“Okay, you go to the terrace, Baba. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Done, son.”
Apu made it an evening to remember. As he strummed the notes of “Purono shei diner kotha”, a song by Tagore on friendship and nostalgia, on his guitar, the motion picture of Apu’s life unfolded before me. My wife’s death--leaving me with three-year-old Apu; myself--a young man struggling with fatherhood and motherhood combined; images of Apu, the prankster; Apu, the friend; Apu, the rebel; Apu, the mock detractor.
“Good recharging session, Baba?”
“Um, most definitely. My idea, after all.”
“Ah, you have to win, no?” Apu quipped and added, “So what were you contemplating so deeply?”
“I was trying to decide if you’re a better guitarist or football player.”
“Guess I should just be a good engineer. And if I don’t get back to studying now, I would be strumming mournful notes for the rest of my life.”
“Or give football lessons to eight-year-olds at the Maidan,” I shouted as he sprinted down the stairs.
JUST A WEEK BEFORE the exams, Apu did start going out of the house. For “group studies”, he told me. I had never seen my son engaging in collective preparations, so this was new to me. However, he came back on time for dinner and seemed happy with his progress. That was more than I could ask for.
A couple of days before his exam, Apu had me worried with his lateness. Usually, he was back by eight or eight thirty, but that day, there was no sign of him even at quarter past nine.
Impatient with pacing in the balcony for over an hour, I came down with my torch light to aid me through the unlit street. I am a paranoid father; I can't help that. Apu knew that—he always made sure I wasn't kept waiting for him. Except once. But back then he had no way of informing me.
HE WAS IN THE NINTH standard and his final exams were in progress. So he used to return home early, after writing the tests. I would take half-day breaks from work to be at home so I could cook Apu some hot rice. He loved steamed rice with butter and boiled eggs.
On the last day of the exam, he was late. Since he traveled by public bus with his friends, I wasn't worried initially. But after an hour's wait, I grew restless. On calling up the home of Samir, the only boy in Apu's group who had a telephone back then, I gathered he hadn't returned either. Sweating with anxiety, I left the house keys with Mrs. Saha and left for Apu's school. When the school guard told me the boys had left at the usual time, I nearly sank.
I got back into the car and checked at each of Apu's batch mate’s house. The entire gang was missing. Frantic calls from the parents to the school authorities helped little. Finally, at five in the evening, the group surfaced. The carefree glee in the boys' faces put a stop to the rush of disorganized premonitions I was having. A tired, rumpled-shirted Apu explained the situation. He beamed like an adventurer just back from his Amazon conquest.
"The police stopped our bus and all the traffic at Tolleygunj. And guess what the reason was?" He said, as the other boys started grinning.
"A rally?" I asked.
Stoppage of traffic—even at rush hour, for rallies and processions—is nothing unusual in Calcutta.
"You got it Baba. But it wasn't your usual political rally. All the people were carrying swords and daggers."
"What?"
Impishly delighted to spot a streak of fear in my eyes, Apu continued, "It was a procession of Sikhs—tomorrow is the birthday of their main guru. You should have seen them Baba—bright saffron robes, and sparkling swords. Wish I were a sardar," He said, brandishing an imaginary sword.
"So what took you so long?"
"We decided to walk back."
"Don't tell me you walked the entire distance from Tolleygunj to Lake Gardens, Apu."
"Oh yes, we did. And such fun we had. In fact, we recommend walking to all you seniors. The buses are no good; they only sandwich you with other frustrated passengers."
I didn't have to ask whose idea it was to trek back home. The ringleader was not only smug about his own team's achievement; he also had some health advice for us parents.
THAT WAS THE ONE stray incident. Seeing my level of anxiety on that occasion, Apu took care not to get too adventurous at the cost of getting late.
But this time it was different. All Apu's friends now had phones, and there was no reason why he couldn't inform me about any delay. I called up Dilip to find out what was taking their study group so long.
“Study group? You must be mistaken, Kakababu. I haven’t heard of any such group.”
“Are you sure, Apu isn’t studying with some other boys?” I asked.
“Not possible. Apu and I discuss concepts over the phone every day. Besides, do you think he’s a group-study type fellow, Kakababu?”
“Hmm, okay. Thanks for letting me know, Dilip,” I said and hung up.
My heart ached--more with hurt than tension. Where did I go wrong? All through the years, I had been Apu’s friend and confidant, not his parent. We disagreed and fought more than siblings would do, but made up in classic father and son style. All said and done, he never hid anything from me. And after all these years of raising the boy, he lies to me! As I walked a few more paces, the flicker of the torch-light annoying my inner darkness, I saw Apu at a distance. He was waving at someone.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
“Not tomorrow. After your exams,” came the reply.
“Oh yes,” Apu laughed, “You made me forget.”
“Bye, stupid boy,” she said.
I smiled and turned fast to get back to the apartment before Apu spotted me.
My son now had a girl in his life. Who knows if there were a few love notes amidst the scraps I saw on his table the day we had our terrace session? But I didn't bother. For once, Apu was allowed to cheat me.
Bhaswati Ghosh is an Indian writer whose work has appeared in leading Indian dailies such as The Times of India, The Statesman and The Pioneer, as well as in U.S. magazines such as Cause and Effect, ByLine and Teenage Buzz. An anthology of true stories, Letters to My Mother, published by Adams Media, carries her story, “On Angels’ Wings”. Another story of hers, “A Sparrow’s Flight”, has been published in the anthology My Teacher is My Hero, also published by Adams Media. In 2009, she won the Charles Wallace (India) Trust Fellowship for translation. Her English translation of “Shilpi Ramkinkar Alaapchari”, a Bengali book based on the renowned sculptor-painter, Ramkinkar Baij, is due to be published by Delhi-based Niyogi Books. She currently lives in California and blogs at At Home, Writing.
IT WAS NOT A BIG match, but I was edgy. In my more than forty years of soccer craziness, I had had countless nail-biting, fist-clinching moments during Mohun Bagan-East Bengal clashes. But this game was going to be far more nerve wracking for me. It was my son’s first state-level match. He was the only high school student to make it to the state team; all the other players were college level or older. Like every milestone in his life, this was as much my test as his. While joining the fervent crowd milling into the stadium, I wondered if Apu would be more nervous than me. Knowing my boy, that was unlikely.
I took my seat and opened the packet of roasted peanuts I bought from the vendor outside. Until the match began, the nuts would be my welcome distraction from the mind wrestling I was undergoing. As I plopped the first few into my mouth, a familiar voice greeted me. It was Mr. Saha, our neighbor.
“So, Mr. Bannerjee, how does it feel to see your son in action?” He asked.
“Well, I should be asking you the same. Rana is also in the team, isn’t he?”
“He is. But just as a reserve player. Not like your Apu who carries the load of the entire team on his young shoulders.”
His sarcasm wasn’t lost on me. Yet, I couldn’t agree more with him. As the goalkeeper, Apu did have a big responsibility. I passed some nuts to Mr. Saha and said, “Let’s hope our boys do well.”
“Of course, of course, I hope so. With Apu in the team, how could they not?”
God bless Mr. Saha; his words proved correct.
Bengal, the team Apu played for, scored two goals against opponents Punjab in the first half. But in the first few minutes of the second half, the Punjab boys came back with a terrific goal, and it seemed they had done some serious regrouping during the interval. They looked focused to equalize. My sight constantly shuffled between the scene of the match and the dial of my watch. Every opportunity Punjab missed became a golden moment for me. Barely four minutes were left for the match to end when Kulwant, the star player of the Punjab team, looked ominous. As he scampered with the ball towards the goalpost to score the equalizer, the spectators were pushed into silence. However, I could clearly hear Mr. Saha’s voice, “Ahh, poor Apu, God save him the disgrace of Kulwant’s goal.”
As Kulwant’s left foot lifted the ball, my vision was a blur, my mind numb. I could just see an image of Apu flinging his body across...his small, eight-year old frame diving in a desperate bid to save the ball, his coach cheering him on, and Apu securing the ball to his chest...
“Hurray, Mr. Banerjee. Our Apu has done it!”
Mr. Saha's frenzied call shook me out of my daze. I couldn’t ignore his “our Apu”. Evidently, Apu had managed to save the goal through a “heroic effort” as Mr. Saha put it. My days of bringing eight-year-old Apu to the sprawling Calcutta Maidans for football practice seemed so meaningful now.
At dinner, Apu relived the final moments of the match with me. I didn’t tell him I had missed his goal-saving magic. Even as he spoke, gulping down his favorite fish curry and rice, I could see the spark in his eyes. I was glad that for once, we were in the same team—Bengal. I had always been a Mohun Bagan supporter, and that was reason enough for Apu to be a fanatic follower of arch-rivals, East Bengal. Every time the two teams clashed, a mini cold war ensued at our home. If East Bengal won the game, I would be subjected to a torrent of scathing comments on my favorite team.
"Let's face it, Baba; Mohun Bagan can never match East Bengal."
"Don't forget son, East Bengal was born out of Mohun Bengal only."
"Please, Baba! Don't give me those lame historical references. That actually proves you can't accept how pathetic a team they are now."
"I have seen more soccer than you, Apu. East Bengal is having a good phase no doubt, but Mohun Bagan is still the best. Just wait until the next match."
"You make me laugh, Baba."
So, Apu did have the proverbial last laugh after all. With his momentous save, he established that he knew better football than me. Did that hurt? Well, I could actually feel my ego swelling with paternal pride. Funny, how losing the final argument can be so satisfying sometimes.
After dinner, I asked him about yet another test he was to face in three weeks’ time.
“So, Apu, are we all set for the engineering entrance?”
“Hmm, more or less, Baba. Just have to buy a couple of books from College Street. Dilip has picked up some good ones from there.”
Apu was barely five or six when I first took him to the book bazaar at College Street. I would force my most unwilling boy to wake up early on Sundays, give him a bath, make him finish his breakfast--toasted bread, a boiled egg, and a glass of milk (back then, he swore not to touch milk the day he finished his schooling--he has since lived up to his promise). Then, we would head for book hunting. In time, Apu started loving these Sunday sojourns. He would rummage for hours through the piles of yellowed, ancient-smelling books, and compile his own collection for the library that he was building up at home. Russian folk tales and the poetry of Pushkin that he collected in middle school, “Animal Farm”, which he picked up at fourteen, some autographed books he was lucky to find on a few occasions, and the MAD comics he remained loyal to all through the years--our library became a feast of books ranging from the rare, to the odd, the hilarious and the bizarre (yes, Apu insists he’s mature enough to “handle those”).
Thinking of the impending exam, I asked Apu, “Aren’t you a bit late for buying these books?”
“Ah, guess I am, Baba, but what to do? This soccer business had to get in the way. But why worry; we’ll see how it goes, won’t we?” His blithe smile reassured me he was up for the challenge. Yet again.
In the days that followed, Apu hardly came out of his room. Determined to grab a seat at the prestigious Jadavpur Engineering College, he suspended every bit of pleasure—watching TV, adda with friends at Coffee House, even his soccer practice—in favour of exam preparations.
As I entered his room one evening, I saw on his table—scraps of paper, with a million unintelligible things written on them (I was an accounts officer; what would I understand of physics derivations?), and five or six page tomes lying open. Apu immersed himself into a seventh one; his glasses centered on the middle of his nose.
“Don’t overdo it Apu,” I said.
He looked up and smiled, only to return to his tome again. Walking up to his table I took the book away and closed it.
“Enough of that. Now get up and relax.” I said.
“But Baba...”
“Just take a half-hour break, Apu. Your brain needs charging up.”
After a few minutes’ pause, he relented.
“Okay, you go to the terrace, Baba. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Done, son.”
Apu made it an evening to remember. As he strummed the notes of “Purono shei diner kotha”, a song by Tagore on friendship and nostalgia, on his guitar, the motion picture of Apu’s life unfolded before me. My wife’s death--leaving me with three-year-old Apu; myself--a young man struggling with fatherhood and motherhood combined; images of Apu, the prankster; Apu, the friend; Apu, the rebel; Apu, the mock detractor.
“Good recharging session, Baba?”
“Um, most definitely. My idea, after all.”
“Ah, you have to win, no?” Apu quipped and added, “So what were you contemplating so deeply?”
“I was trying to decide if you’re a better guitarist or football player.”
“Guess I should just be a good engineer. And if I don’t get back to studying now, I would be strumming mournful notes for the rest of my life.”
“Or give football lessons to eight-year-olds at the Maidan,” I shouted as he sprinted down the stairs.
JUST A WEEK BEFORE the exams, Apu did start going out of the house. For “group studies”, he told me. I had never seen my son engaging in collective preparations, so this was new to me. However, he came back on time for dinner and seemed happy with his progress. That was more than I could ask for.
A couple of days before his exam, Apu had me worried with his lateness. Usually, he was back by eight or eight thirty, but that day, there was no sign of him even at quarter past nine.
Impatient with pacing in the balcony for over an hour, I came down with my torch light to aid me through the unlit street. I am a paranoid father; I can't help that. Apu knew that—he always made sure I wasn't kept waiting for him. Except once. But back then he had no way of informing me.
HE WAS IN THE NINTH standard and his final exams were in progress. So he used to return home early, after writing the tests. I would take half-day breaks from work to be at home so I could cook Apu some hot rice. He loved steamed rice with butter and boiled eggs.
On the last day of the exam, he was late. Since he traveled by public bus with his friends, I wasn't worried initially. But after an hour's wait, I grew restless. On calling up the home of Samir, the only boy in Apu's group who had a telephone back then, I gathered he hadn't returned either. Sweating with anxiety, I left the house keys with Mrs. Saha and left for Apu's school. When the school guard told me the boys had left at the usual time, I nearly sank.
I got back into the car and checked at each of Apu's batch mate’s house. The entire gang was missing. Frantic calls from the parents to the school authorities helped little. Finally, at five in the evening, the group surfaced. The carefree glee in the boys' faces put a stop to the rush of disorganized premonitions I was having. A tired, rumpled-shirted Apu explained the situation. He beamed like an adventurer just back from his Amazon conquest.
"The police stopped our bus and all the traffic at Tolleygunj. And guess what the reason was?" He said, as the other boys started grinning.
"A rally?" I asked.
Stoppage of traffic—even at rush hour, for rallies and processions—is nothing unusual in Calcutta.
"You got it Baba. But it wasn't your usual political rally. All the people were carrying swords and daggers."
"What?"
Impishly delighted to spot a streak of fear in my eyes, Apu continued, "It was a procession of Sikhs—tomorrow is the birthday of their main guru. You should have seen them Baba—bright saffron robes, and sparkling swords. Wish I were a sardar," He said, brandishing an imaginary sword.
"So what took you so long?"
"We decided to walk back."
"Don't tell me you walked the entire distance from Tolleygunj to Lake Gardens, Apu."
"Oh yes, we did. And such fun we had. In fact, we recommend walking to all you seniors. The buses are no good; they only sandwich you with other frustrated passengers."
I didn't have to ask whose idea it was to trek back home. The ringleader was not only smug about his own team's achievement; he also had some health advice for us parents.
THAT WAS THE ONE stray incident. Seeing my level of anxiety on that occasion, Apu took care not to get too adventurous at the cost of getting late.
But this time it was different. All Apu's friends now had phones, and there was no reason why he couldn't inform me about any delay. I called up Dilip to find out what was taking their study group so long.
“Study group? You must be mistaken, Kakababu. I haven’t heard of any such group.”
“Are you sure, Apu isn’t studying with some other boys?” I asked.
“Not possible. Apu and I discuss concepts over the phone every day. Besides, do you think he’s a group-study type fellow, Kakababu?”
“Hmm, okay. Thanks for letting me know, Dilip,” I said and hung up.
My heart ached--more with hurt than tension. Where did I go wrong? All through the years, I had been Apu’s friend and confidant, not his parent. We disagreed and fought more than siblings would do, but made up in classic father and son style. All said and done, he never hid anything from me. And after all these years of raising the boy, he lies to me! As I walked a few more paces, the flicker of the torch-light annoying my inner darkness, I saw Apu at a distance. He was waving at someone.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
“Not tomorrow. After your exams,” came the reply.
“Oh yes,” Apu laughed, “You made me forget.”
“Bye, stupid boy,” she said.
I smiled and turned fast to get back to the apartment before Apu spotted me.
My son now had a girl in his life. Who knows if there were a few love notes amidst the scraps I saw on his table the day we had our terrace session? But I didn't bother. For once, Apu was allowed to cheat me.
Bhaswati Ghosh is an Indian writer whose work has appeared in leading Indian dailies such as The Times of India, The Statesman and The Pioneer, as well as in U.S. magazines such as Cause and Effect, ByLine and Teenage Buzz. An anthology of true stories, Letters to My Mother, published by Adams Media, carries her story, “On Angels’ Wings”. Another story of hers, “A Sparrow’s Flight”, has been published in the anthology My Teacher is My Hero, also published by Adams Media. In 2009, she won the Charles Wallace (India) Trust Fellowship for translation. Her English translation of “Shilpi Ramkinkar Alaapchari”, a Bengali book based on the renowned sculptor-painter, Ramkinkar Baij, is due to be published by Delhi-based Niyogi Books. She currently lives in California and blogs at At Home, Writing.
