Legacy: Letters from eminent parents to their daughters, Menon, Sudha [books to read to increase intelligence TXT] 📗

conferred with the prestigious Padma Bhushan award for his contribution to the field of art. But he believes that his journey as a student of art and life is a work in progress.

Getting hold of the elusive artist was in no way an easy task and took many months of first tracking him and then persuading him to write the letter.

At over seventy years of age, Das is a delightful man, fired with a passion about art and life in general, that people half his age would find hard to muster.

When I first mooted the idea of writing a letter to his daughter, he categorically refused, delivering a stinging lecture to me on the media and its intrusive ways. He castigated the folks who actively seek out the media and let their life hang out with all its warts and moles in public space, just so that they can get their names featured in newspapers.

The relationship between a parent and a child is a very private thing and not something he would want to share with the rest of the world, he explained. Not wanting to give up easily, I cajoled, trying to explain to him that this was an inspirational letter not just for his dear daughter, but for all the women in this country who could take life lessons from his experiences. I think that did the trick, along with the fact that I urged his actor daughter, Nandita, to contribute to the book as well. He would, I think, have smarted and bristled if the pressure had come from someone else but coming from his daughter, it was a request he simply couldn’t say no to. When he did write the charming letter, he insisted that I call it a ‘note to her’ and not a letter, which is more of a personal exchange between a father and a daughter.

I am delighted to present the note that he wrote—full of nostalgia, memories of his own childhood, of the years that he spent raising his children, and of his growing concern about the direction in which our world is headed.

In a world where balance sheets and bottom lines have taken control of our daily lives, this letter reminds us all that there is a world beyond the call of money, one where honesty, decency, and concern for the people around you still matters.

A NOTE FOR NANDITA

Preface:

One’s family is a private space. The media today is intruding into the private lives of people, and the people at large are not shy or hesitant to spread themselves thin and expose themselves and their personal lives to the public. I, for one, strongly believe in the sanctity of the private space.

Children are very special to their parents and vice-versa, especially when they are little. And I reminisce those moments very dearly.

My dear Nitu,

I know you will be surprised to see a typed note by me, one being printed and read by others even though it is meant only for you.

Your childhood was spent in small flats, travelling between the urban cities of Bombay and Delhi. Contrastingly, my childhood was spent in the old, princely state of Mayurbhanj, in a large family consisting of five brothers and a sister. We grew up in a big house with a garden extended with ponds and a farmland where I spent my time until I was seventeen years of age. I remember my mother saying, ‘No one has come today, I don’t feel like eating’. Sudden visitors were always welcome with open arms.

When I moved to Bombay in the sixties, many of my friends came and stayed with me, though I was staying in a single room flat at the time. At twenty-six, I got married to your mother. You were born in Bombay. Eventually, we decided to move to Delhi and six years later, Siddhartha was born.

We lived in Nizamuddin, in a first floor flat with terra red flooring which I got polished and smoothened so that you were comfortable when you crawled. This ‘house’ became ‘home’ to all my artist friends who came and stayed with us. You knew all of them well and received their affection and caring.

My studio always occupied the largest room in the house. You grew up with the smell of turpentine and saw a painting grow day by day. I always painted bare figures and both you and Siddhartha were never shy about it. Poets and artists breezed in and out all day and friends from Bombay, Calcutta, and various parts of the world came to stay with us. Slowly, the Nizamuddin home in Delhi became a guest house.

I hope you remember all the happy times we spent in that flat. I was housebound because my studio was at home. I was not only the cook and the gardener, I was also the babysitter, changing nappies and feeding you all. Since your mother was working full time at the National Book Trust, I was fully in charge of the house. You may not know I changed your nappy many a times.

I remember my friend Paritosh Sen would always come and stay with us and would babysit you when we went to parties. At other times, we would bundle you up and take you with us to exhibitions and get-togethers. I taught you paper cutting and tooth brush painting on stencils. I vividly remember when we were at an exhibition showcasing artist J. Swaminathan’s work at the Kanika Chemould Gallery and you told me, ‘Look, look baba—Swami Uncle is also painting like me, the way I spray on stencils with a toothbrush.’

Many of my artist friends’ children and you grew up together. Ramachandran and Chameli’s daughter, Moli, and Paramjeet and Arpita’s daughter, Boban, were your best friends. We had a lot of shared meals together and I still have several black and white photographs of that time.

For all festivals and vacations, we went home to Baripada, our hometown in Mayurbhanj, Orissa where you and Siddhartha (Nitu and