‘What Will I Now Tell Bablu, Who Loves Didi?’

Though I had watched my uncle Ram Prasanna Ray deal with Malda district as a Rajya Sabha MP when I was still in St Paul’s school, and my mother Manjula tutor a political novice named Mamata Banerjee in my St Xavier’s college days in the early ’80s, I never imagined I would ever be a candidate, that too for Parliament. My first question as I returned to my room was, “What will I now tell little Bablu who wan­ted to meet his Didi so earnestly?” I had met Bablu, a specially abled child at Habibpur. Among many who flanked my open Gypsy to shake hands or shower petals, there was a man who pleaded with me to wait for a moment. He said his son Bablu had made a garland for me. I realised I had to get off the car to receive Bablu’s ‘mala’. Bare-bodied, the child placed the garland around my neck. I hugged and thanked the little boy. The gathering applauded.

In a few moments, we began moving ahead when Arjyesh, my son, cried “Stop, stop!” We noticed Bablu trying desperately to climb onto the Gypsy. I asked him “Where do you want to go?” The child replied, “To meet Mamata Didi. I love her.” As the father pacified his son, I assured him I would tell Didi about him and maybe get her to meet him. Bablu will be waiting I know, maybe forever, to meet his Didi. Meanwhile, I will suffer for a wish unfulfilled. My cell buzzed as I sipped my first cup of post-result tea. The realisation of having been an also-ran sank into me heavily. There were dozens of consolation messages stored already. But this latest one was from my younger son Agnish, who was in boarding school near Siliguri. On Face­book it read: “Whatever has happened was meant to be. It might not have been written in your destiny. All that matters is that I love you Baba.”