You have been granted the opportunity to interview a well-known personality and you have to write an account of the whole experience for your magazine.
This should include: Your preparation for the interview — the life or career of your subject in brief — your arrival at the subject’s home – description of the subject’s home — the subject’s appearance and behaviour — the interview itself — final impressions — whether they confirm or change.
The assignment was encouraging, as it gave me an opportunity to see Darjeeling. But, that way it misfired, as I was not able to make it to Darjeeling. Of late a political friction and the resulting tension had forced the authorities to seal off the town. So, from Siliguri I boarded the bus for Cooch Behar.
My proposed personality is a renowned Bengalee writer. His style, classical construction of the plot and moral probity (= insight) have always impressed me as having a distinct flavour of its own. On the basis of these I prepared a questionnaire.
Every writer casts on his reader an impression of his personal address, features and other aspects. In the majority of cases, however, the actual experience belies (= makes false) these impressions. I took my personage to be of stern features and, initially, deterrent (= not inviting).
From the bus stand I had to explore a bit to reach his house, for I had never been to Cooch Behar before. At the given address and locality, I saw a house that drew me in. It was a modest and good-looking house. Inside a room – to all appearances a reading- cum-parlour – sat a few men in Bengalee dress. The central figure, evidently its owner, looked from outside to be unusually grave. They were in a chatty mood. It must be the man, I thought. The road, the locality and my idea of the man, all concurred (= agreed) to convince me. I ventured into the room with nervous feelings, holding my card. Their conversation paused as one of the company produced my card to my subject. But the latter’s response palsied (= made cold) my warmth and feeling. He narrowed his eyebrows and pointed the road with his upturned right thumb. I felt insulted at his response; took him for a brute what though famous as a writer, and was about to return the insult, when the man that returned my card told that my desired person lives on the other side of the same road.
I approached the house mentioned. It was a modest building whose outer verandah – a narrow space – was grilled. A homely simple man, dressed in a dhoti and loose summer dress, was sitting erect and cross-legged. He was rolling tobacco for a smoke. I approached with doubtful steps being warned by the recent snubbing not to be presumptuous (= expecting much in advance). In addition my notion about my subject’s mien (= behaviour and look) had already forewarned me.
I stood before his modest gate, not unwelcoming. My subject, contrary to all my fears and expectations, addressed me in a manner free from restraint. Its cordial tone, offer of a seat and questions about my name and my purpose of visit dispelled all my wrong ideas in a whiff. I touched his feet and within a span of fifteen minutes, he made me an inmate of his house. Nay, I was housed and introduced to his son and some others of the family.
The author’s home bore the imprint of modest living. It was peopled by his sons, daughters-in-law, an unmarried daughter who was a Deputy Magistrate, grandsons and granddaughters. The latter were trying their skills in archery with mini bows and arrows. I, once, narrowly missed being hit by one arrow. It was their recent prize-lesson from the “Mahabharat” which was, then, on the TV screen.
The interview was a long session. The writer’s paintings and portraits on the walls were impressive. He admitted array of that often his character portraits become drawn in his mind in images. He never writes without pressure, he said. He made a remarkable observation, that he is afraid of wasting time lest with age, his ‘dream’ vanishes. He is a widower and I learnt from his magistrate daughter that he works late into night. His bed of nearly 8′ x 10′ had first struck me a bit at odds with the normal run, especially as he slept alone. But I learnt that at night as he sits under the curtain, he makes of his bed a platform littered with papers, books and other things. He loves tea and often ordered tea on my pretext – his usual gesture, said his daughter. He gave me some of his books and asked his youngest son to see me off at the bus stand.
In the final analysis, I conclude that one should never form a preconceived notion about great personalities. They may appear taciturn (= tight-lipped) in writing, but they are soft at the centre, compassionate. Without these, they could not be great.
