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When I joined IIT KGP in 1965, the Main Building housed many Departments, which by and by got their own buildings later on.
Our Physics Department was (and is) in the Central Corridor of the Main Building; and the Canteen was housed below the sloping roof of the Netaji Auditorium. And the one ritual never missed by most everyone of us was the Ceremonial Visit to the Canteen by groups and subgroups and doublets and singlets. After one round of Tea and Fags, many were caught on the rebound and asked to turn back and rejoin the next group. Needless to say, the chats centered around every worthwhile (and worthless) topic; and if RGC and MSS were present in the group, much Physics could be learned just by listening in to their discussions.
The one invariable sight on our way to the Canteen was that of an oldish short bald gentleman, clad in white dhuti and khadi half-shirt, walking briskly all the way to and fro the Raman to the Bhatnagar Auditoriums, smoking beedi, shouting orders in colloquial Bengali, hurling abuses, and even threatening to physically assault anyone of his lumbering victims.
At first I couldn't follow his Bengali and was at a loss whom he was shouting at and what for. By and by I learned from watching the tamasha that his shouts and orders and threats were directed at the uniformed sweepers of both sexes who would jump up from their sitting, sprawling and chatting positions, and pretend to get busy with their brooms as soon as they heard the booming voice of their boss from afar.
I found out that his name was Steward Sen...I mean, that is perhaps the only name (apart from Doctor Kotnis that I heard in my childhood) where the profession merged so smoothly with the title that they were inseparable...he was always referred to as Steward Sen...I bet 99% of the IIT population never knew nor bothered to know his first name.
Steward Sen never minced words. I never saw him smile. His gestures consisted of threats with the hand that didn't hold the beedi at the moment. And his unenviable task was to keep the floors and the bathrooms clean. It was never an easy task. Most male sweepers started their days high and found the cool floors of the Main Building as restful as cats find sofas. And the females of the species were forever wrangling among themselves and chewing paan and treating the whole world and the bathroom wash basins as their spittoons...with the blood of them beetles they chew as the Japanese tourist concluded knowingly.
I once saw Steward Sen box the ear of a new girl-recruit and lead her to the spot on the wall she decorated a second ago with her spittle and make her rub it clean with the wet cloth issued to her before the mark became as indelible as voter's ink.
This jarda paan of Bengal was new to me. Married folks in AP chewed paans with leaves so tender that they melted in their mouths leaving no solid or liquid residue...my friend NP used to call it the Cauchy Residue...he also used to say that the KGP wall-spitters should be made to lick their spittle back...my own suggestion was to deport them to Singapore...where I am sure they will change the local culture, civilize the natives, and paint Singapore red.
Anyway, Steward Sen used to so charm and galvanize me with his energy and dedication that I tended to adore him from a distance...I never saw him talk flippantly with anyone.
By and by Steward Sen retired in the early 1980s...perhaps to the merriment of the Class IV staff...I don't know...they too may have been adoring him inwardly and missing him. Those days there used to be this charming tradition of bidding Farewells to the non-teaching staff...after the gentleman was drowned in presents at his Farewell Party, colleagues would troop along carrying him to the B C Roy Circle (also called Lovers Circle), seat him a in a rickshaw, and one after the other take the driver's seat and drive him round and round shouting: "Shankarda Jug Jug Jeevo" maybe.
How I wish I got a Farewell like that instead of staid speechification...
As soon as he retired, Steward Sen spent all his boundless energies in organizing the Shiv-Kali temple on the perimeter road. He perhaps lived there practically since I always saw him seated at one corner of its floor quietly rolling beads and praying silently...a trait that was not evident during his service years.
And he was there at every cremation on the utterly disorganized and messy plot behind the temple dedicated to the last rites of the departed souls. One needed only to pass the message to Steward Sen...and leave the rest to him...by the time the bier arrived, a priest would be hovering, firewood would be ready and arranged...one has to inform the weight of the body though...one shouldn't waste wood nor have to run for last-minute replenishment...kerosine and matches would be ready...and Steward Sen would be present till the end of the ritual.
One saw Steward Sen light his beedis crouching by the raging fire...no disrespect meant for the departed souls though...I heard none of them complain...
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When I joined IIT KGP in 1965, the Main Building housed many Departments, which by and by got their own buildings later on.
Our Physics Department was (and is) in the Central Corridor of the Main Building; and the Canteen was housed below the sloping roof of the Netaji Auditorium. And the one ritual never missed by most everyone of us was the Ceremonial Visit to the Canteen by groups and subgroups and doublets and singlets. After one round of Tea and Fags, many were caught on the rebound and asked to turn back and rejoin the next group. Needless to say, the chats centered around every worthwhile (and worthless) topic; and if RGC and MSS were present in the group, much Physics could be learned just by listening in to their discussions.
The one invariable sight on our way to the Canteen was that of an oldish short bald gentleman, clad in white dhuti and khadi half-shirt, walking briskly all the way to and fro the Raman to the Bhatnagar Auditoriums, smoking beedi, shouting orders in colloquial Bengali, hurling abuses, and even threatening to physically assault anyone of his lumbering victims.
At first I couldn't follow his Bengali and was at a loss whom he was shouting at and what for. By and by I learned from watching the tamasha that his shouts and orders and threats were directed at the uniformed sweepers of both sexes who would jump up from their sitting, sprawling and chatting positions, and pretend to get busy with their brooms as soon as they heard the booming voice of their boss from afar.
I found out that his name was Steward Sen...I mean, that is perhaps the only name (apart from Doctor Kotnis that I heard in my childhood) where the profession merged so smoothly with the title that they were inseparable...he was always referred to as Steward Sen...I bet 99% of the IIT population never knew nor bothered to know his first name.
Steward Sen never minced words. I never saw him smile. His gestures consisted of threats with the hand that didn't hold the beedi at the moment. And his unenviable task was to keep the floors and the bathrooms clean. It was never an easy task. Most male sweepers started their days high and found the cool floors of the Main Building as restful as cats find sofas. And the females of the species were forever wrangling among themselves and chewing paan and treating the whole world and the bathroom wash basins as their spittoons...with the blood of them beetles they chew as the Japanese tourist concluded knowingly.
I once saw Steward Sen box the ear of a new girl-recruit and lead her to the spot on the wall she decorated a second ago with her spittle and make her rub it clean with the wet cloth issued to her before the mark became as indelible as voter's ink.
This jarda paan of Bengal was new to me. Married folks in AP chewed paans with leaves so tender that they melted in their mouths leaving no solid or liquid residue...my friend NP used to call it the Cauchy Residue...he also used to say that the KGP wall-spitters should be made to lick their spittle back...my own suggestion was to deport them to Singapore...where I am sure they will change the local culture, civilize the natives, and paint Singapore red.
Anyway, Steward Sen used to so charm and galvanize me with his energy and dedication that I tended to adore him from a distance...I never saw him talk flippantly with anyone.
By and by Steward Sen retired in the early 1980s...perhaps to the merriment of the Class IV staff...I don't know...they too may have been adoring him inwardly and missing him. Those days there used to be this charming tradition of bidding Farewells to the non-teaching staff...after the gentleman was drowned in presents at his Farewell Party, colleagues would troop along carrying him to the B C Roy Circle (also called Lovers Circle), seat him a in a rickshaw, and one after the other take the driver's seat and drive him round and round shouting: "Shankarda Jug Jug Jeevo" maybe.
How I wish I got a Farewell like that instead of staid speechification...
As soon as he retired, Steward Sen spent all his boundless energies in organizing the Shiv-Kali temple on the perimeter road. He perhaps lived there practically since I always saw him seated at one corner of its floor quietly rolling beads and praying silently...a trait that was not evident during his service years.
And he was there at every cremation on the utterly disorganized and messy plot behind the temple dedicated to the last rites of the departed souls. One needed only to pass the message to Steward Sen...and leave the rest to him...by the time the bier arrived, a priest would be hovering, firewood would be ready and arranged...one has to inform the weight of the body though...one shouldn't waste wood nor have to run for last-minute replenishment...kerosine and matches would be ready...and Steward Sen would be present till the end of the ritual.
One saw Steward Sen light his beedis crouching by the raging fire...no disrespect meant for the departed souls though...I heard none of them complain...
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