Pete Seeger forms an integral part of my childhood memories.
I remember me, Baba and Ma traipsing through the old Book Fair at Maidan, three tremendous lovers of books, tremendously excited. It was 1995. I was already an ardent bookworm, gobbling Enid Blytons and Upendrokishore Raychaudharis with equal voracity.
Dusty old maidan, scores of stalls, hundreds of hungry Bengalis. Winter evenings, bright with the promise of crisp new pages. And, Baba suddenly chances upon a shabby looking man, reading a little magazine, with gigantic black and white posters of folk singers spread out on the matted grass in front of him. Baba stopped, and immediately picked up old man Pete, eyes crinkled at the edges, huge happy smile, a blur of a guitar and it said -
'Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the flowers gone?
Young girls have picked them everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
The poster was there for the longest time in our Bijoygarh and then Lake Gardens house, in my parents' bedroom. And the first time I hummed "little boxes', Baba seemed really happy.
He used to take me for all the Sumon concerts as he loved young Sumon and his 'chena dukkho, chena shukh' and probably wanted his daughter to love as well.
I remember Ma telling me that since I was a baby, hardly a few months old, I would only sleep when Baba would rock me to sleep, and there would be Ravi Shankar or Kishori Amonkar or Vivaldi playing in the background. She would laugh and say "Baba bhabto tumi bhishon boro musician hobe" (Baba thought you'll be a great musician when you grow up).
Unfortunately, that never happened. But I'll always be thankful to Baba for making me listen to such eclectic forms of music from an early age.
I have always been a Babar meye (Daddy's girl) and as I see him grow older, something tugs at me loudly, like a crazy jazz trumpet.
I see him once/maybe twice a year, so worried about me, always wanting to help, always making me curious about new things. And I miss him. I miss the time I could have spent with him if I was in Calcutta. I wish I was there to talk to him more, or maybe help out more. I wish I wasn't angry at him. His restlessness is contagious, and I pray that he always stays this restless, this curious, this lovable, always.
I remember me, Baba and Ma traipsing through the old Book Fair at Maidan, three tremendous lovers of books, tremendously excited. It was 1995. I was already an ardent bookworm, gobbling Enid Blytons and Upendrokishore Raychaudharis with equal voracity.
Dusty old maidan, scores of stalls, hundreds of hungry Bengalis. Winter evenings, bright with the promise of crisp new pages. And, Baba suddenly chances upon a shabby looking man, reading a little magazine, with gigantic black and white posters of folk singers spread out on the matted grass in front of him. Baba stopped, and immediately picked up old man Pete, eyes crinkled at the edges, huge happy smile, a blur of a guitar and it said -
'Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the flowers gone?
Young girls have picked them everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
The poster was there for the longest time in our Bijoygarh and then Lake Gardens house, in my parents' bedroom. And the first time I hummed "little boxes', Baba seemed really happy.
He used to take me for all the Sumon concerts as he loved young Sumon and his 'chena dukkho, chena shukh' and probably wanted his daughter to love as well.
I remember Ma telling me that since I was a baby, hardly a few months old, I would only sleep when Baba would rock me to sleep, and there would be Ravi Shankar or Kishori Amonkar or Vivaldi playing in the background. She would laugh and say "Baba bhabto tumi bhishon boro musician hobe" (Baba thought you'll be a great musician when you grow up).
Unfortunately, that never happened. But I'll always be thankful to Baba for making me listen to such eclectic forms of music from an early age.
I have always been a Babar meye (Daddy's girl) and as I see him grow older, something tugs at me loudly, like a crazy jazz trumpet.
I see him once/maybe twice a year, so worried about me, always wanting to help, always making me curious about new things. And I miss him. I miss the time I could have spent with him if I was in Calcutta. I wish I was there to talk to him more, or maybe help out more. I wish I wasn't angry at him. His restlessness is contagious, and I pray that he always stays this restless, this curious, this lovable, always.
