Chandan Mitra, pursuing his doctorate at Oxford, with son Kushan
Three years ago, on the night of the first of September, 2021, my father, Chandan Mitra, breathed his last. The last few months of his life had been hard for him, and also hard for those around him. Watching the cognitive decline of possibly one of the most intelligent human beings you have ever known is extremely tough and when that person happens to be your own father, it is so so much worse. I write a lot, but I haven't ever written about Baba's passing or my relationship with him. Three years on, I think it is time.
As I rode with his body in an ambulance to the cremation grounds, those 45 minutes gave me a lot of time to contemplate. Well, 45 minutes is nothing when you're trying to think over a 40-year relationship but there was some solitude inside the vehicle. I recall my fathers childhood friend from La Martinere, Paranjoy Guha Thakurta being in the van with me, but I think that we were both lost in thought.
I will be honest, ours was not a simple relationship. Most sons, particularly in India have deeply complicated relationships with their fathers, but I would like to think mine was more complex than most. As many know, my parents were divorced and had separated when I was around 13 years old. While that is not something easy for a young teenager to process, as a 45-year old man today, I understand how relationships can wither away and die.
But as a result of that, Baba was not always around. However, my younger brother and I did spend time with him and also stayed nights at his place in Vasant Vihar. I would also like to thank his landlady, the journalist Shymala Shiveshwarkar, who herself passed away earlier this year, for helping him and keeping him on the straight and narrow. That said, through my later teens and early twenties, we were barely on talking terms, Baba's place was a place I only dropped into to party. Could it have been better or different? I don't know, but I do know that by this time, he had found companionship with the first of his many Labradors, Loin.
As I begun my career as a writer and journalist, Baba was always there to provide advice, and as he went beyond dipping his toes into politics, and started his time as a Member of Parliament, visits to his bungalows at Humayun Road and then Ferozeshah Road were common. He was someone I could always turn to for career advice and also talk about life and love. It was here I decided that I would help him in The Pioneer.
This newspaper was his soul by then, he had revived it from a moribund newspaper, to one of Delhi's most reliable and trusted newspapers, and when the rest of the Indian english media had bent over during the UPA-era, which they have all conveniently forgotten today, The Pioneer, remained steadfastly right-wing, despite the newspaper paying a severe commercial price for that, although my father maintained strong relationships with many on the other side of the aisle.
Many journalists across the media today got their start with The Pioneer and worked with my father and many of those keep on reaching out to me, from India and abroad to have a proper memorial service for 'Boss' because he passed away while Covid restrictions were on. This December would have been his 70th Birthday, and God willing, if things go right, I, along with many of those who loved him, hope to celebrate his life.
A lot of what has happened in the past few years is water under the bridge, and I hope a decision or resolution that honours the memory of my father is found soon. Unfortunately his trusting nature in some people allowed them to take advantage of him. I wish he was that trusting of me and others who had the best interests of the newspaper in mind, but it is what it is. And it is a damn crying shame, and that is all I will say other than to hope that the stag can jump high again in the near future in memory of the man who kept it going.
