When does a virus become personal? When do numbers become real people, and these people never come back? These questions seem to be straight out of a novel about pandemics. Except this one is still being written, the ink still fresh and the wounds that they leave, still to close. In fact, the wounds are just opening up, telling us that the story to be written will be personal for all of us, whether we like it or not. That when the pontificating and high-brow arguments come to an end, the limelight dims and the facts and figures are studied threadbare, the pain will remain. Perhaps that’s why novels are novels, and not just dry historical commentaries.
Strangely, the transition from “facts and figures” to the realm of the personal begins with someone who is, or was, a historian. It is true that some historians write dry and purely factual histories, other bring life and blood to the stories they tell. In which category did this man fall ? Or could he be categorized at all ? I can’t tell, because – and I don’t hesitate to admit it – I barely read any of his historical works. Or any that made him the revered scholar that he already was when I first saw him. Nevertheless, his impact upon me and my life has been enough for me to write this. So perhaps history isn’t all there is to the historian.
Who was this historian ? His name is Dr. Hari Shankar Vasudevan. Dr. Vasudevan, or HSV as we came to call him, was already a well-renowned historian in his field when I had the chance to become his student. His field, as I had heard, was Russia. That in itself was rare, since students of Russia rarely make India their home, and few in India bother to study Russia. I suspected that part of this may have had to do with Communism, but I did not bother to delve further. Russia may be interesting, but it was not the subject that drew me to the man. It was the man who took me towards a better appreciation of Russia, and history itself.
A proper obituary will probably start with recollections that go back to my earliest days, and these would probably involve a class of the special paper on Russia in M.A. First Year. To be perfectly honest, his classes were not the most remarkable. He came into class, greeted us and promptly began to write. Beginning meticulously on the left side of the board, he would complete a column, then move onto the next column, and then the next. We, the students, would peer over his shoulder and that of those in front of us, to be the first to jot down the next line. I’ll be honest – this was painfully boring work, especially since the notes were themselves just bland summaries. Where was the story in all of this ?
Once he had written enough (and it was a lot, given that he would oftentimes complete three to four columns, erase the first and continue writing), he would pause and begin explaining. For someone explaining a topic about a country that was as fundamentally different as Russia, the explanations were quite simple. Too simple, since his efforts to reach out to the Bengali speaking students resulted in some oversimplifications that I now appreciate (and indulge in) myself as a teacher.
His tone was calm and none too hurried. Not for him the strictures of syllabus completion. He spoke with authority of a land and a people whose customs and actions were difficult to understand at first, but eventually made sense. He happily took questions, but smartasses were not tolerated. Too much unasked for theory, too “advanced” an answer, and you would be shown your place fairly quickly. That said, he had ample patience and enough forbearance to never walk out of a class no matter how unruly it was.
Yet, at the end of the day, his class was hardly the most lively. If anything, it created a gentle stirring of interest in the minds of those willing to listen to his relaxed yet firm narrative, until you found yourself doing your own reading, looking up your own books and asking questions on your own. Perhaps he knew that given what he taught, a faster pace would just create exhaustion and leave the more “note-minded” folks behind. Make no mistake, an uninterested person would soon become lost, but this would be no forced march.
While he did specialize on Russia, he did teach a lot else. He was the one who taught the topic that would go onto become the cornerstone of my M.Phil. dissertation – planning in India. His teaching – now on a much smaller white board- brought to light the connections between Russia and India in the early days of planning and helped shape the first chapter long before I had actually prepared the proposal. Only when it was finally written and I was perusing through my old notes did his influence become clear.
But I would be lying if I said that my fondest memories involved his lectures. They were great, they did influence me in ways I did not realize until much later, but all that said, his teaching does not evoke the strong emotions that memories of personal interactions do. Before I go into these interactions, it would be pertinent to mention that the professors of CU are constantly surrounded by students whose one goal in life is to coax out “suggestions” for the end-year (now end-semester) examinations. Most professors don’t enjoy this sort of cynical attention. HSV was definitely one of them, though his questions were none too difficult to guess, but quite difficult to answer in a way that would truly please him.
Perhaps my earliest queries were not very difficult from the rank-and-file questions about syllabus and what would come in the exams. Having been bred in the CU school of “prepare for the exam” mentality, I instinctively looked out for any hints that may help me narrow down the wide buffet of options laid out by him. Yet as I mentioned, his teaching created interest through gentle nudges and quiet appreciation. Very soon, I found myself going beyond the standard readings on 19th Century Russia and looking into books that would provide a fuller view. Looking back at my 21 year old self, I realize that part of this was to impress him, and boy was it hard to do so without gaining a good understanding yourself.
I remember one such interaction vividly, if only because it definitely did not go according to plan. The topic being taught was the development of radical ideas in the late 19th Century in the lead-up to the development of the Communist and Social Democratic and Revolutionary parties. I had obtained a book by a scholar called Alexander Polunov and unearthed some new terms. Among them was one called studenty – to refer to students with radical ideas. Or so I understood it. Upon my broaching this term on the landing between the third and fourth floors though, his expression told me quite clearly that he did not appreciate random use of Russianized terms just for the heck of it. I wasn’t told off, but simply asked to go through the standard readings before I went off on my own adventures. Needless to say, studenty was replaced by radical students in my final answer. More than the term though, the interaction taught me how one should handle unnecessary but earnest attempts at going beyond the textbook – with a firm but constructive smile and a suggestion to go back to the basics.
When he wasn’t in class or dealing with the myriad mysteries of the various Centres associated with the Department, he could be found in his room, one he shared with Prof. Kingshuk Chatterjee during my days as an M.A. and M.Phil. student there. He would sit at a large desk, framed by a large portrait of something in Russian. Waiting for him to finish speaking to someone else, I often tried to decipher the Cyrillic letters. I daresay I had some success, but never could make out the meaning. Never did ask either. One of my regrets now.
Anyway, as I was saying, he would be found sitting, enjoying the all too generous sunshine that differentiated the professors’ rooms from the eternally tubelit corridor. He would generally be found having a conversation or reading something. In him, more than anyone else, the general social behaviour of a professor came to be epitomized. I don’t recall ever seeing him agitated, or storming about, or getting into an argument. Well, I did once. He was speaking on the phone about some serviceman who simply wouldn’t turn up, and how it was inconveniencing him. But yes, that was the only instance.
Students of the Department often had the chance to observe their professors conversing with one another. To their credit, these professors were never to self-conscious before us, and as we eased ourselves out of M.A. and into M.Phil., this sense of ease grew. Or so we felt. HSV, even when conversing informally, would maintain perfect language and a perfect tenor. He had a sense of humour, but did not try to force a joke on those who did not get it. And he would not be harried into any conversation.
This brings me to another memory, which again, did not go according to script. One day I was roaming the corridors of history seeking questions (examination ones specifically). Those who seek such jewels in the sea of historical knowledge rarely ever do so alone, and those who are seen as the most adventurous, the most foolish or the most likely to succeed, almost always obtain an entourage whose sole task is to inspire the leadership to perspire for the worthy cause. I will not claim to have been the leader. Nor will I be so humble as to claim that I was a mere bystander to the eternal quest to figure out the question paper in advance.
Something between these two extremes led me to HSV’s chamber, and I found him working on the computer. Sir preferred physical copies of essays, articles, etc. but was sufficiently computer savvy to get his work done. At this moment, he calmly looked up from his computer and asked me to what pleasure he should owe my presence. The sailors in the sea of (exam) suggestions are rarely a serene lot, and I admit I was not in that frame of mind either. I began blabbing about how I had studied this, prepared that and what should I focus on now.
I will never know if he saw through this ill-designed façade. But he did stop me with a “Woah ho, calm down. You’re going too fast young man.” He had clearly been disturbed by my torrent of words, and did not find them particularly enlightening. On slower exposition, it became clear to both of us what my true purposes were, and when he replied, I got the distinct sense that I had gone to ask for something without covering what I already had. Again, however, I wasn’t told off. Rather, he asked me to come again sometime after. I can’t recall what I actually got from him and my comrades-in-arms were disappointed, but I did learn to always compose myself before approaching anyone. A strange lesson from an unexpected source, but once that has served me well.
But with the harder lessons did come the softer appreciation. I was one of the few students who would regularly get answers checked by the professors. He was known to be one of the more lenient professors who would give as much as 75% marks for a good answer. This was partially why a 60% made me want to work harder, since his comments always told me that he expected more. Of course, satisfying a man of his erudition was not an easy task, but I will be arrogant enough to claim I did manage it once.
It was in the paper on 20th Century USSR I believe. I had written an answer in the final exam and had promptly forgotten about it. After the results came out, I happened to visit his room for an unrelated matter. To my surprise (and unmitigated happiness) he started the conversation by stating how he was impressed by my answer. He even pointed it out to the other professors, and suggested that I had improved. Unlike his reproach, his appreciation was unreserved and heartfelt, and it made me want to jump for joy. More than the marks themselves, it was this personal appreciation that will remain a fond memory forever.
But HSV gave to the Department much more than lectures and advice. He practically lent out a good part of his own collection of books to the Seminar Library. The Librarian – who himself passed away sometime back – was especially wary of lending out to us these books. One in particular stands out. It was Alec Nove’s Economic History of the USSR. The book was yellow and worn, and most assumed this was simply because generations of CU students had held it in their tender mercies. The truth was that it was HSV Sir’s personal copy, lent out in perpetuity for students to use because the book was not easily available.
Ditto for articles. There was (perhaps still is) a venerable old folder full of articles that seemed to have been photocopied during the Soviet era. Some of them definitely dated to a period when I was still in school. The top covers were in Russian, and the ink was faded, telling us of wondrous Russian scholars who must have handled the originals. Again, I never really did try to find out the story behind the xeroxes. But it was amply clear that these were HSV’s own copies which were also lent out to the Seminar Library. In short, he not only taught Russian history with all his heart, but ensured that those few who wanted to study it in detail could do so without burning through a minor fortune.
Eventually, I would move on from M.A. and into M.Phil. My research topic was fine-tuned in consultation with Prof. Bhaskar Chakrabarti, though I did take ample advice from HSV Sir as well. In hindsight, when I see the bitter egotistical rivalries that plague departments across the globe, the warm relations between professors of the Department of History, Calcutta University, where students were at liberty to consult whom they liked and mix and match ideas without stepping on anyone’s toes, seems like a utopia. Credit is as much due to every professor as to HSV Sir, but this is about him in particular. As a teacher myself, I realize how hard it is to appreciate ideas of other professors while giving one’s own suggestions. Yet when I approached him with ideas of another professor, it never seemed as if he was either trying to impose his own ideas on me, or giving way. A simple synthesis took place, and I came out with better developed concepts and a better approach to my research questions in general.
Fortune smiled upon me and HSV and BC were made my Co-supervisors for my M.Phil. dissertation. To be perfectly honest, I consulted BC Sir primarily, and HSV only occasionally. But the trend that had begun during the days of topic formulation continued, and my thesis was substantially enriched due to his suggestions.
By the time I finished my M.Phil., Sir’s “professional” career as a tenured teacher in the Department was in its twilight. There was of course no doubt in anyone’s mind that he would continue to be intellectually and physically active in all his pursuits. Indeed, he positively looked forward to devoting more time and energy once the constraints of the job fell away. We would miss him, and future batches of M.A. and M.Phil. would not be able to get as many lectures as we did. It would be their loss, but HSV Sir would continue to enrich the landscapes of Russian history, foreign policy, and much else.
And he did. Our meetings became infrequent, partly because he came to the department less and mainly because I visited the Department very rarely. Yet surprisingly, he always remembered what I had worked on, and where I was teaching. On meeting him randomly one day, he told me that he may begin working on an edited volume (or was it a series of articles?) of ideas relating to planning. Would I be ready to contribute something ? By this time my research interests had moved away from planning, but I dared to think that I would be capable of writing something that would pass muster. I said as much. We parted on a hopeful note.
Time went by and the project never did materialize. Or perhaps it did and I just wasn’t there when it did. I continued meeting Sir on and off in the Department, or at a seminar in the CSSS, or someplace similar. He didn’t seem to age more than he had during my M.A. days, and his energy and devotion to the discipline remained intact. Once in a while, I would come across an article by him on a topic of general interest, and would appreciate his flair for writing history. But that was it.
The last time I met him was purely by chance. I was getting married and was inviting the professors who had and influenced me to my wedding reception. Almost all the professors had been invited, but I wasn’t sure how I would approach HSV Sir. I had never been one to call professors up, preferring to fix appointments in the Department and meeting them as per their schedule. Neither did I have the courage to take his address from a third party and turn up at his door one fine day.
In the end, neither was required. I was waiting with my friend Bibek outside KC Sir’s room (we had taken to calling it that since HSV retired) when time seemed to have been dialed back several years. Sitting in the room was HSV Sir, and I suddenly felt like I was back in my M.A. days. Not having any clue as to why he had come or whether it was a good idea to disturb him, we waited for quite some time. Eventually he emerged, preparing to leave. Egged by Bibek, I finally approached him, and with all the composure I had had in my M.A. days, I explained the reason for obstructing his departure from the Department.
If he was taken aback by the sudden invitation, he did not show it, as I knew he wouldn’t. Instead, he inquired how I was doing, how my research was progressing etc. Then he turned to the question at hand, and told me that he would be travelling and would not be able to make it on either the day of my marriage or my reception. But he would keep my card nonetheless. I was a bit disappointed, but happy that I had managed to invite him at all. I wasn’t sure when I would meet him again, but I was sure I would meet him someday.
The pandemic is breaking all that seemed so sure. The confidence with which we would wake up, get to work and move on with our lives. The confidence with which we would say that we would meet again, collaborate again, learn again from those who still had so much to teach us. By nature I am not one to inquire about professors’ personal lives, their families and how they live their lives when they aren’t teaching or doing research. Now my social media pages are filled with obituaries that talk of a man about whom I feel I knew very little. This makes me fundamentally unfit to write an obituary, and hence this is not one. It does not extol the man, nor point out his flaws. It is just a memoir, to set in ink what mind’s leaky vessel will not hold forever.
Perhaps, in his own indomitable but quiet, dignified manner, he would have appreciated this. Perhaps asked that it be made more concise, and a little less verbose. Perhaps the events need to be more structured, a common thread made to bind it together lest it fall apart. Sir, I do not know how to do so, for you have taught so much in your own unassuming manner. For emotions are getting the better of my writing skills. But I know I must not keep rambling on.
You will always be cherished Sir. Rest in peace.