KOLKATA imPRESS CLUB

KOLKATA imPRESS CLUB

by

IQBAL SACHDEVA

The day Khushwant Singh left Kolkata, after trashing Gurudev Tagore, I had the misfortune of landing there. Naturally the Bengali sentiment had been seriously hurt. Winding my way through Maidan, as I barged into the Kolkata Press Club. a tipsy journo from the ‘Basumati’ newspaper, spotting me a turbaned sardar, hailed me scornfully to the club bar.

‘Eee shala Khushwant Singh ki bolchi?’ (What rubbish this Khushwant Singh talks?). Tumee ki khabo, Whisky, Rum or Beer? (What do you prefer, Whisky, Rum or Beer?), he asked thrusting his hospitality on me

‘Chede dao Dada, eeh Sardar pagal hoi galo. (Forget it, this Sardar has gone mad), I said to pacify him. There after he started talking patriotism, friendship and communal harmony.

It had rained heavily in the day and the evening was cool & pleasant. Several scribes sat in groups on the grassy lawn on carelessly strewn chairs and tables.

‘Tumake Monibabu bahar dakche! ( Monibabu is calling you outside!) Said one bearer supporting a sardar like beard. Tactfully shaking off my hostile host, I slipped out to the lawns to meet Monibabu, first and the last time.

‘Shordarji Sat Shri Akal!’ Monibabu hailed me in his rustic Punjabi, with a warm handshake. Unbelievable, he spoke Punjabi better than me, and I had no choice but to join the group, all lustily pulling at the bear mugs.

Without much ado, he ordered beer for me and did’nt rest until I finished two bottles, much too much for me. Their conversation mostly centred around Bengal having produced great people like Tagore, Subash Bose and now Amratya Sen etc.

‘I worked in Punjab for four years as the ‘Telegraph’ correspondent and my fellow scribes taught me Punjabi, so much so, I could interview that die hard orthodox Simranjit Singh Mann, in his own lingo’, he said in one breath. I could’nt believe it and doubted if he was a Bengali, but he was.

‘You know, Kolkata is the cultural, educational and intellectual hub of India’, said one, as if educating me.

‘Yes Sir!’ I said jokingly, ‘You have culture and Punjab has agriculture.’ We all laughed it out.

‘Get on to my ‘Bullt’ (Bullet motor cycle) and I will drop you’ Monibabu ordered me like a drunken monarch, and I had no choice, but obey. It was already about midnight. His motorbike thundered through Chowringee, and straight into my Park Hotel lobby, startling gaurds and guests.

As I lay in my hotel bed pondering over the greatness of national heroes like Gurudev Tagore and Netaji Subash Bose, I wondered at Bengali dada’s need to monopolize them.

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