Perhaps the year was 1959 and we were close to finishing class VIII. A new English teacher Pradyumnababu (Mitra) joined our school. Clad in white dhoti and a dark orange Punjabi, the fair complexioned gentleman reflected a serene countenance. He was distinctively different, with a unique capacity of eliciting awe and veneration. As in other cases, a new teacher always remains an enigma till the time his students get to know him better.

In the very first session, we were caught up in his magic – by his enthralling voice and unique approach to the subject. “Today I will take up with you a piece which is not in your text book. Let us read the work of a poet named Robert Browning who was known as a ‘dramatic monologist.’ After explaining Browning’s poetic genre he explained the inner poetic flavour of every stanza of ‘The Last Ride Together”…that’s how he got started.

His next theme was Keat’s ‘Le Belle Dame sans Mercy’. He weaved in deftly our assigned texts with pieces of his choice. His philosophy was that if love for the language/literature was not implanted in our tender minds there was no use completing the syllabus. The pied piper not only helped us effortlessly complete the syllabus but also made us fall in a much desired love for the subject. When we passed out of our school, Sir has also left and had joined a government college as a lecturer.

Years passed by, and I had lost all contact with him. It was 1976. Having completed my engineering by then, I was heading an office at Dalhousie Square. But the seeds planted by Sir had grown healthy, allowing me to write literary pieces regularly. A renowned journal in Calcutta published one such article.

The delivery boy who came to deliver the author’s copy to my office had a surprise question for me – ‘Sir, were you a student of Howrah Zilla School?”

My surprised look made him utter in the same breath – ‘we have a regular author named Sri Pradyumna Mitra. And seeing your name as one of the writers in the current issue he has asked me to put this question to you and report back. Sir, excuse my impertinence.’ I was awestruck and asked, ‘Do you have his phone number?”. I then learnt that Sir was the Executive Officer of the West Bengal Book Board and his office was just opposite Wellington Square, quite close to mine. I profusely thanked the boy for the information and collected Sir’s phone number from him.

With overflowing exuberance, I gave him a ring immediately and I could sense how happy he was to have heard from me.

“I have been in search of you for a long time. I saw one advertisement in a news paper of a Govt. of India organisation. It was a tender notice calling for bids. The ad carried the name of the Purchase Officer, your name sake, with his phone number. I just took a chance and rang him only to receive a heavy verbal bashing. Can you come to my office today?”

In the next 15 minutes I was in his office. He was speaking to someone over phone as I entered his room. He signalled to me to take a seat. Once his conversation was over, he turned towards me and asked –“ Yes, how can I help you?”

“Sir, I am Subrata.”

He jumped off his seat, and before I could offer my pranam he embraced me with warmth and affection.

“Can you take leave from your office to-day? I will call it a day. We will have a day-long marathon adda at the coffee-house. Can you make it?”

It took me a second to say yes to his proposal. We wrapped up and moved to the Central Avenue coffee-house and sat at a corner table. It was really the experience of a lifetime. He explained his research work on Pankaj Mullick in minute detail. Even being an ardent admirer of Pankaj Mullick, I had never thought so much about the beauty of his renditions. I was dumbfounded. We discussed about my poetry too. The day ended, we departed.

That was the last meeting. Quite a few years after, I heard that he was bed-ridden at Chunchura. With time the bad news came. We will never have the adda again.