When I was little, summer holidays meant visiting my grandparents’ rambling villa in a corner of Bihar. My grandfather was a doctor and my grandmother, daughter of a renowned Bengali poet. Thus, they took pride in being the libertines of their times. The white walls of their villa were lined with shelves bulging with books and classics from around the world but never displayed the typical religious icons so common in Bengali houses, then. Only one photograph was given a place of pride. It showed an ivory-white bust of a man wearing a side cap. His eyes were encircled by old-fashioned, round spectacle frames. I often stood before it and wondered about the man. He looked away into the distance with his head slightly tilted as if he could hear music not audible to others.
To satisfy my curiosity, my grandmother told me about him. It was the bust of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, the firebrand freedom fighter and I was never tired of hearing about his exploits. She always ended stories about him, saying, ‘Everyone said that he died in a plane crash but most people do not believe it.’
‘Do you?’ I would ask.
‘No. I can’t believe that such a dynamic man who had outwitted the British so many times, could have died so easily.’ And in my child’s heart, I began to believe it, too; that somewhere in the wide world, Netaji still lived.
As I grew up, any news or information about Netaji fascinated me. When my husband was serving in Manipur in 1999, I made it a point to visit the Moirang museum where the Indian Tricolour had been hoisted for the first time on Indian soil by the INA. Then, I heard Anuj Dhar expound his views with graphical evidences about how Netaji had not only survived the plane crash but probably lived incognito as Gumnami Baba in Ayodhya and Faizabad. Much of this information had emerged only after his death in 1985.
Recently, work took me to Faizabad and I used the opportunity to visit the location where Gumnami Baba had spent the last two years and few months of his life. And lo behold! I had the great fortune of meeting two people who had actually interacted with Baba when he lived there. Rita Banerjee, petite and soft-spoken, a versatile singer and erstwhile Principal of a popular school and Mr Shakti Singh, a stalwart Thakur, his profile etched from the annals of Rajput history, family crest proudly displayed in his home had nothing in common but their encounters with this phenomena.
I listened to them mesmerized as they went back over the years to relive their experiences. Candidly, they delved into their memories while a gamut of emotions flitted across their faces. Both revealed a deep abiding reverence for Baba. Even now, they are awestruck with wonder that they had been destined to see him, hear him and feel his charisma. As for me, what I heard has completely converted me to a firm believer that miracles do happen.
Rita Chatterjee had just married Dr. Priyobroto Banerjee, the youngest son of Dr Tarachand Banerjee, a trained and reputed homeopathic doctor living and practising in Faizabad. One afternoon, her father-in-law returned from visiting a patient in Ayodhya. He was in an unusual state of excitement. His eyes were shining and his voice was thick with fervour when he revealed to his family that the patient he had treated was none other than Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose. Apparently, he was living like a hermit and had isolated himself from people. His room in Ayodhya had layers of cardboard on the walls and window panes so that nothing of the inside could be seen or indoor sounds be heard. Nobody knew his name. Sometimes, he referred to himself as ‘Deen Fakir’. At other times, as ‘Ek Majbur’. He hardly spoke to anybody and nobody had actually seen him. So, people had begun calling him Gumnami Baba. It was a rarity that the doctor had been permitted to come face to face with this nameless hermit in the process of treating him.
Dr TC Banerjee’s words sent his wife, Pushpa into a tizzy. She had been a passionate follower of Netaji’s ideals. She insisted on meeting this sanyasi. Priyobroto and Rita were equally keen to meet this extraordinary Baba. But none of it was possible, said Dr Banerjee because Baba did not show himself to anybody. Only an old woman who served him and looked after his needs came into his presence and Dr Banerjee, his physician, was allowed to see him. Otherwise, Baba spoke to his few visitors from behind a curtained window. He always spoke in Hindi though he had been heard speaking in Italian, German, Japanese and many other languages.
Not to be deterred, for some time, the doctor’s family also sat behind the curtain and conversed with Baba. But Pushpa Banerjee was a determined lady. She carried on a conversation with Baba in pure Bengali. He understood and responded but in Hindi. Pushpa would keep interspersing her dialogue with requests to allow her and the rest of the family into his presence. Finally, he agreed.
Baba called out to the old woman, ‘Jagdamba, spread a sheetal pati on the floor for them to sit on.’ Rita remembers being startled hearing the words sheetal pati since this was a special term used in formal Bengali language for the common woven mat. In Hindi, the mat is referred to as chattai or dari. Rita wondered, why did he use this Bengali term?
From that day onwards, an especially tender relationship commenced between Baba and the Banerjee family. His only admonition was that they must not speak about him or their visits to anybody else. The Banerjee family obeyed him so strictly that many of their close relatives and friends did not even get inkling about these visitations. He called the young Rita, ‘Phoolrani’ and often wrote letters to the family where he expressed great affection for ‘his PhoolraniMa’. Those letters are still with the family and I clicked snaps of some of them. What I found strange is the fact that the letters are written in Hindi with a smattering of English but the script is rounded and the curlicues are of Bengali letters of the alphabet. At first glance, you may think the letter is written in Bengali till you read it and realize it is in Hindi. Then he uses words like sabuj (Bengali for hara or green). Most of the Bengali words he spoke or wrote were unconscious usage but they echoed with the Banerjees who had lived all their lives in this semi-rural Hindi belt and were habituated to the sounds of the dialects spoken in those parts. None of them included the typically Bengali words he spoke.
Rita has a musical voice and is a trained singer. Often Baba would encourage her to sing. Her mother, Bithi Chatterjee was a renowned singer from Lucknow who specalisied in Tagore and Nuzrul music. Once when she was visiting her daughter, Rita dared to take her to Baba. Surprisingly, he let her into his room. Rita never forgot what happened when her mother sang Tagore’s Amar Shonar Bangla…(also the national anthem of BanglaDesh). Baba wept uncontrollably like a child. Another time, on his special request for singularly Bengali cusine such as Shukto, a multi-vegetarian curry and Ghonto, a spinach recipe, Rita cooked the dishes. She says, he ate them with gusto. How weird that he would even know of these dishes specific to Bengal?
Other than these clues to his origins, he would suddenly make comments that revealed more than they hid. He once said to the Banerjees, ‘Mei ek registered sanyasi huin. Lekin duniya ke register se mera naam kat diya gaya hai. (I’m a registered hermit but my name has been erased from the register of the world).’ What did he mean?
Around 23rd January (Netaji’s birthday) he would not meet anybody. He said he would be absorbed in prayers. Later, he would send the Banerjee family prasad of mishti doi, rasgullas and other Bengali delicacies only available in Kolkata during those days. All his clothes, books or other things of personal use were procured from Kolkata.
Rita recalls an instance when she had to cut short her visit to Baba as Dr Banerjee with whom she had come, had to go elsewhere. As she gave her excuses, Baba became silent. Afraid of offending him, she asked, ‘Are you angry, Baba?’
He had retorted, ‘Angry? When one has parents but cannot acknowledge them; when one has brothers and sisters but can’t acknowledge them; when one has a country but has no right to call it his own, does one have the right to be angry? No I’m not angry only somewhat wounded.’ Rita had tears in her eyes but she had no choice. She had to leave with her father-in-law. Still, she waited for his permission. He gave it saying, ‘Shivaste panthnam santu (May Shiva accompany you on your path).’ This was his usual farewell message to people, she reveals.
Mr Shakti Singh is the owner of Ram Bhavan. The last years of Gumnami Baba’s life were spent in the servant quarters of this edifice. Shakti Singh was then in his early twenties. At an age when most of his friends were painting the town red, young Shakti was drawn to the reclusive Baba who lived behind his home. Baba called him Narayana.
As I traversed the narrow back alley leading to a simple three-room brick and mortar dwelling, I noticed the grounds behind the servants’ quarters was open punctured by an occasional mango tree. Apparently, it had been a Dr Mishra who had come to hire these rooms for a person whom he alluded to as his grandfather. So many years ago, when Shakti Singh’s father had suggested that the rooms were not suitable for an elderly person, Dr Mishra had said that his grandfather was a sanyasi who lived in Ayodhaya and he had insisted on Ram Bhavan in Faizabad for his next residence; Ram Bhavan and no other! Strange! But when I saw its location, I guessed the choice was due to the fact that it offered a quick getaway…
Nevertheless, I was aghast at the poor structure of the rooms; they were old, crumbling and had an asbestos roof, then. Later, I heard from Ritu Banerjee that his abode in Ayodhaya had been much worse. Right now, the rooms were devoid of his personal effects which have been kept in a secure place under court order. Of course, Shakti had renovated the rooms since and uses them now to house the office of his organization that spreads awareness about the Netaji story. You can know more about his work from Gumnami Subhash Faizabad or @gumnamisubhash
As I moved around the rooms, my pulse beat faster and I could hardly breathe. Emotions struggled inside me. After so many years, finally I was in the place where possibly Netaji had lived. We sat in the tiny back room where Baba had spent most of his time. On one side was the window that used to be curtained. Visitors used to sit in the adjacent front room and spoke through the curtained window. Baba usually reclined on a wooden cot in such a way that if the curtain billowed, people would not see his face. I looked at the floor, the walls, wooden slats of the window, the inner doors and could not help thinking, Netaji had lived here, breathed here, these doors, windows, walls have been mute spectators to a great man…and we knew nothing of it all…if only I could have, at least heard his voice…what a loss his incognito status has been to all of us!
Shakti Singh certainly considers himself very fortunate to have known Baba. He narrates that while Baba’s command over language, his awareness of all national events, his astute analysis of them and his profound knowledge about everything impressed him, what really touched Shakti was his deep spiritual consciousness. Baba possessed many books, some of them were old publications and a few of them had notes in Bengali written by Netaji’s mother (identified by Lalita Bose). How did he possess books with Netaji’s mother’s writing? He also acquired new editions of many books as soon as they were published. Several newspapers and magazines were his daily consumption. Baba also had many articles like round frame glasses, binoculars, INA uniform, Netaji’s family pictures and many other things that a sanyasi is unlikely to have.
Shakti Singh recalls incidents that exemplify his acute intuition or possession of insight into minds. Once a friend of Shakti’s was posted to Faizabad as a senior police officer. He had heard rumours about Baba and was annoyed that a mystery existed in a town under his command and it had not been investigated. So he informed Shakti Singh that he was going to raid Baba’s rooms in Ram Bhavan. With posse of policemen, he arrived in the evening. Shakti Singh led him to the quarters behind his home. The man raised his hand to knock on the closed wooden door and paused. Then he turned to Singh and said, ‘Not today. I will come another day.’ He never returned.
A few days later, Baba remarked to Singh, ‘A friend of yours had wanted to meet me a couple of days ago. Why did he not come indoors?’ Saying this, he burst into peals of laughter. How did he know?
Both Rita Banerjee and Shakti Singh constantly speak of an exceptional spiritual aura around Baba and the feeling of serenity they have felt in his presence. Both are convinced that he was none other than Netaji Subash Chandra Bose and it irks them that consecutive governments have made a farce of investigations to prove this reality.
In this epistle, I have given an account of my personal experience of visiting his last residence, talking to people who had interacted with him and my convictions on the issue along with some evidence in the form of letters. I don’t want to comment on the present state of inquiries or the political agendas regarding the matter. There are many people like Mr Anuj Dhar who are working in this direction. His book is a stunner of revelations. I am waiting eagerly for the museum to be established in Ayodhya that will display Baba’s personal effects and give the people of India an opportunity to make their own judgment on who Gumnami Baba was notwithstanding the numerous fact-finding commissions and their omissions.
It is a sobering idea if we reminiscence that Netaji was a sanyasi from the very beginning. He gave up his family, home and joys of the mortal world and dedicated his life to achieving freedom for his motherland. I believe only Netaji really knew how one could be a true sanyasi and that is what he remained till the end of his days. I am inclined to believe that Gumnami Baba and Netaji were one and the same. I’m passionate about my views but this is entirely my opinion substantiated by this amazingly sublime and absolutely unforgettable encounter in Faizabad.
All rights reserved. @SutapaBasu 2017
