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Penguin Books Ltd - Rohini Roy

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80 pages

English

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Rohini was barely in her teens when she lost her father and her hero, Rahul Roy. He had been a wonderful father, husband, and an upright and renowned professional in the world of finance. Yet Rohini felt she knew little about him. She spoke to relatives, friends and her father s colleagues to rediscover the man she called Baba . The best way to remember him, she felt, would be to write about him. Piecing together the public and the personal, the facts and the memories, Rohini Roy chronicles the life of her father: from his humble roots in north Kolkata to his Welsh connection; from his days at school to the lively debater in college; from his days as an accountant to becoming the youngest president of the Institute of Chartered Accountants of India; and, finally, from his days as a carefree young man to a sensitive and caring individual. Along the way lie snapshots of his life that at once surprise and charm the reader.

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Lettres et linguistique

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Publié par	Penguin Books Ltd
Date de parution	01 janvier 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184755428
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0450€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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ROHINI ROY
Remembering Baba
Contents
Dedication
Foreword by Nawshir Mirza
Foreword by Suhel Seth
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Illustrations
Epilogue
Letters to Baba (Appendix 1)
Letters from Baba (Appendix 2)
Acknowledgements
Copyright Page
To Baba, the wind beneath my wings. Thank you for believing in my dreams. I love you and Ma. Forever and always.
Foreword
Of all parent-child relationships, that between a father and daughter is, perhaps, the most unique. If the number of books that include the phrase my father s daughter in their titles is any indication, this relationship far outstrips for its literary inspiration that between fathers and sons, mothers and sons and even mothers and daughters. Rohini Roy s work is equally inspired by her father, of whom she has the fondest memories. She knew him as a child-she is still that when she has written this biography-and her adoration comes through very clearly. But this little biography is more than a daughter s paean to her father, whom she misses greatly. It is a well-researched biography of his life and of his ancestry, written in narrative fashion by this young author whom I only came to know through the subject of her book: her father, Rahul.
Rahul was my partner for several years in a chartered accountancy practice and it was through that relationship that I got to know Rohini and her mother, Soma. It was a delightful family, unlike those of most accountants. Their interests (quite plainly moulded by Rahul) were unlike those of most other accounting professionals and their families. Whilst Rahul was hardly an ignoramus in the world of accounting and business, his free time was spent in music and the arts-both Indian and foreign. He and I discussed literature and Western classical music whenever we met, not accounting standards or the political intrigues in the Institute of Chartered Accountants, of which he was the youngest president ever. The family was, like most families from Bengal, great travellers, visiting the most exotic of places. I recall once receiving from Rahul a message that they were standing amidst the ruins of the Oracle s abode in Delphi. Next year, that message sent my family and I on a Grecian holiday that we still recall with joy and for which we remain indebted to Rahul and Rohini.
Rohini s story obviously contains much that was told to her by her mother and other older relatives, who knew the details of her father s earlier life. But it would be unfair to say that she is only a teller of others stories. Many of the pages are her own recollections of her life with her father, of the close relationship that they formed, of how she was respected for her own intellect and how she and her father explored the wonders of life and its relationships together. What comes across is that her father did not treat her as a child but discussed with her matters that most parents would consider a child incapable of comprehending. It is also clear that Rahul was justified in that confidence, for Rohini writes her book with sensitivity and a comprehension that would be considered beyond the years of a person so young.
Rohini s story should be an inspiration to any parent. It is not just a biography of her father. It is a guide to the best ways for a father to relate to his daughter (or son for that matter) and what quality time really means. Daughters tend to wear their hearts more on their sleeves than sons do and so it is easier for them to publicly acknowledge the love they have for their parents. That is what Rohini has done, writing about a special relationship with her dad; one who was called by the gods when still very young. They must have loved him dearly.
Nawshir Mirza
Foreword
For many years of my life, Rahul Roy was an unnecessary irritant. He was an absolute pain and I dreaded seeing him. I hated his swagger; his very comfortable, cocky confidence and his condescending smile. But I admired his intellect and his generosity, and craved his friendship. Rahul was perhaps my most formidable debating opponent. And in those days, when you lost a debate, you didn t just lose stature; your rival gained the gaze of many pretty women in Calcutta and that was a more damning loss than you can ever imagine. But then as I said, Rahul possessed a demeanour unlike any that I have seen, which is why, though I may have lost to him in a debate or two, in the final analysis, I won a friend who remained one till the day he died.
For, Rahul was a very special person. He wore his achievements very lightly. He was an intellectual giant; he was brilliant at academics and had an enquiring mind. Many years later, when we met at an Ernst & Young function, I was proud that my friend Rahul had risen to the highest echelons of E&Y and once again earned the admiration of his colleagues and peers.
Rahul s biggest contribution to the student festivals was that he was able to transcend the mundane and inject an earthy enthusiasm to all that he did, and that, to my mind, was his hallmark. He lived life with great vigour, and that was reflected not only in the largeness of what he did but also in his lan and flair, which is very rare in today s turbulent world where greed and avarice score over intellect and compassion. More than anything else, Rahul was compassionate and caring. Not just as a student and later as a professional, but equally as a father and as a citizen.
In Rahul s moving on, I have lost a great friend, India a true citizen, and the world, a decent, fine man.
Suhel Seth
Prologue
No Baba, please don t leave me, you belong here you really do. Please don t go. I pleaded in tears.
I m right here. I m not going anywhere, he replied, and floated his crooked smile as I saw him leave our little chalet in the green mountains. His hands, which held mine, were jerked away, lost in the daylight that blazed into the room. Recovering, I looked at the messed-up bed, the crows cawing at the windows beside it, and realized it was just another dream. One that I didn t want to wake up from. Dragging myself up, leaning against a heap of pillows, I thought of my father, the man I look up to at all times.
Baba. The word brings back so many memories. Apt advice, ready help, warm moments. I remember his smile before he saw me off to school with his ritual incantatory chant, Go carefully, come carefully, be good and don t be naughty ; the times he sent me sorry cards just to apologize for scolding me; him sitting next to me for hours listening to me read in Bengali and then asking me what it was all about, pretending he didn t understand a single word I d read; teaching me The Merchant of Venice , and solving mathematical problems even though he hated them. Growing up was fun with him-especially measuring myself against him, celebrating every inch.
All along, I ve always wanted to be like him. I ve tried copying him in just about everything, from his walk to his talk. And this book is just another attempt at knowing him better. It gave me the chance to talk to people who knew him, who had worked with him, shared his joys and sorrows. His professional abilities apart, they respected and loved him, for his humility, for his big-heartedness, for his intellect. I am not surprised. He was all this and more to me. He was my mentor, friend and guide.
In a lighter moment, I wrote it all down in a poem:
When I was one, he held my thumb, And taught me how to walk. As babble turned to talk, The year flew, I turned two. It was time for A, B, C, and the very difficult 1, 2, 3, He was there right through. Three, and four, and five, and six passed, Playing hide and seek. After seven, I wanted to be eleven, And he made my little world, heaven. When I was thirteen, I finally felt like a teen, Leaving all my worries to him. I could only dedicate this poem to him. As I turned fourteen, I realized what he really means, He s someone who I ll always find when I m in trouble and I glance behind, The comfort in his arms, the trust in his voice, The way he sings me to sleep and covers me on chilly nights, The love in his eyes. Now, I m fifteen groping for words to tell others what he really means, But all I can ever say is that he means the world to me.
Chapter 1
Calcutta, 4 October 1963. It was autumn. The evening breeze from the north carried the smell of earth to a city tired from its daily work. A murder of crows met at the local garbage dump, as if to brood on the remains of the day. Women, tired from the day s work, gathered on verandas and terraces and chatted about their plans for the Pujas, some removing the washing from clotheslines. People wearing red-checked gamosas waited patiently for their turn to bathe at the common tap. The water came in fitful spurts, making bathing difficult. Impatient for their turn, some men in the queue began to argue with the man at the tap. Others, who seemed not to have a care in the world, busily discussed politics. Angry and exhausted voices mingled with monotone caws that found their way into the rhythmic jingle of the hand-pulled rickshaws. The rickshaw-pullers, pulling men and material, deftly made their way through congested roads. Yellow and white trams ran their course along meandering steel tracks that divided the road. Boys flew kites that traced colourful patterns against the orange-red city skyline. Heavy with the myriad moods of the day, the colours of the sky ranged from the soft tenderness of twilight to the sombre tone of the approaching dark. Pot-bellied men emerged from their dark houses, cursing the daily power cut, placed their mats on the footpath and became engrossed in a game of cards. Others cooled themselves with small cane fans that the women had probably made in their free time. The sun disappeared behind the horizon of small, dilapidated buildings.
Not all was peaceful, though, at Lady