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Raaja Bhasin
NONE of us was very bright at economics, but that did not stop the class from doing a ‘mass bunk’. From an open window we watched in amusement as Prof Baldev Kumar took the roll call of an empty room. After calling out each number, he shut the attendance register and walked towards the blackboard. As he turned, merriment changed to horror: the chalk stick began unrolling one of the most difficult chapters of Keynesian theory. The more conscientious and fearful amongst us quietly slunk back into the classroom. Those with greater bravado brazened it out in the canteen and shut away visions of mark-sheets that spelt failure or, at best, that narrow alley of dubious escape, a ‘compartment’.
Classroom disruptions have probably been around for as long as there have been teachers and students. Before Partition, my father had studied at Government College, Lahore. His tutor was the redoubtable, but charming Prof Abdul Majid Khan. Committed to the cause of India’s freedom and a true Gandhian, very little could faze the professor. But whenever the students did not want to study and sought some excitement, someone would say something against Gandhiji. That would be the end of the lesson, for despite all his humour, the professor could not tolerate anything being said against the Mahatma.
After Independence, Prof Abdul Majid Khan, not unexpectedly, chose to come to India. He was appointed as ambassador to a European country and on his retirement, settled in Shimla. I wasn’t even in my teens when I was first introduced to him by my father. All I can remember of that meeting is the admonishment on my clumsy namaste.
As the years went, one would see the slowly ageing, but still elegant man walk down from the still-a-suburb of Shimla, Sanjauli. Past the Lakkar Bazaar, he would reach the Ridge and there with folded hands, he would bow before the statue of Mahatma Gandhi. He would remain in that position for a few moments and then look up at the statue. We wondered what words they exchanged and what he told the Mahatma of what we were doing to the country whose independence they had wrested with such sacrifice.
From there he would carry on to the Coffee House and order a masala dosa. From his bag, he would pull out a small slab of butter and smear it over the dosa. I have never seen an expression of such pure bliss as came on the Professor’s face as he savoured each bite.
As was bound to happen, one day he passed away. As far as the town was concerned, no one knew of his family and everyone thought that he was a bachelor. Years later, it emerged that at the time of Partition, he had chosen to come to India while his family opted to continue living in Lahore. A partition for life had taken place within the household. Very few, if any, remember this remarkable man and his Gandhi topi, but I think that it is thanks to him that the Coffee House has a ‘masala dosa with butter’ on the menu.