"Nobu, you are a good-for-nothing!"
I had heard my mother say this countless times during my childhood. But honestly, Nobu did his work quite well. His only flaw was that he was extremely lazy and loved to sleep. Because of his habit of napping during the day, the evening tea water would boil at 4:30 instead of 4:00. So, when my mother called him opodartho, it was mostly out of frustration.
But in the case of my Sejo Kaka (third uncle), the word opodartho was an undeniable truth. I have never seen the term fit anyone else so perfectly.
Sejo Kaka’s real name was Kshetramohan Sen, nicknamed Khetu. My father had four brothers—Baba (the eldest), Mejo (second eldest), Sejo (third), Shona (fourth), and Chhoto (youngest). Except for Sejo Kaka, all of them had found success in life.
My father was a well-known lawyer. Mejo Kaka was a respected professor with a double M.A. in Sanskrit and History. Shona Kaka became a businessman and built three houses in Kolkata. Chhoto Kaka was a renowned classical singer, earning 36 gold medals from wealthy patrons.
But Sejo Kaka? His life was a story of endless failures.
It was said that there was an earthquake when he was born. Some people believed that the tremors somehow affected his brain, making him the way he was.
As a child, he suffered from almost every illness imaginable—chickenpox, whooping cough, diphtheria, dengue, eczema, and smallpox. He even had seizures seven times due to excessive crying. At seven, he developed a stutter. At nine and a half, he fell from a guava tree. Though the stammering disappeared, he broke his ankle. The doctor set it incorrectly, causing him to limp for the rest of his life.
Because of this, he couldn’t play sports. His poor hand-eye coordination meant he was terrible at carrom. He wasn’t good at chess either. Even playing cards was beyond him.
Sejo Kaka did attend school but failed the F.A. (equivalent to high school) exams three times. Finally, our grandfather (Thakur Dadu) gave up on his education, saying,
"Khetu, you are a complete good-for-nothing. Spending money on your education is a waste!"
But letting him live at home without any work wasn’t an option either. So, our grandfather assigned him a task—going to the market with our distant uncle, Bhombol Kaka, to learn how to buy groceries.
For some time, Sejo Kaka went to the market with Bhombol Kaka. Then one day, our grandfather handed him two ten-rupee notes and told him to do the shopping alone.
That was a disaster.
Sejo Kaka never made it to the market. His pocket had a hole, and by the time he got there, the money had fallen out.
After that, no one ever trusted him with any responsibility again.
My Childhood Memories of Sejo Kaka
When I was three years old, I remember playing with him on Kali Puja night. I was riding on his back, pretending he was a horse. Suddenly, a lit firecracker flew onto our veranda.
"Oh no!" he shouted and stood up abruptly.
I fell off his back and hit my head on the stone floor. Blood was everywhere. That night, almost everyone in the family scolded him mercilessly.
But I felt bad for him. No one took him seriously. It was as if he didn’t even count as a person. As I grew older, I felt a strange affection for him.
He was of medium height, medium complexion, and always had a mix of happiness and sadness on his face.
I often visited his small room to chat. But I soon realized that asking him to tell a story was pointless—he never remembered the endings.
"And then, Sejo Kaka? What happened next?" I would ask.
"Then... then... then..." he would say, his voice trailing off like a dying harmonium.
His storytelling would gradually turn into humming, then into an off-key song, and finally, he would doze off. I would tiptoe out of his room, leaving him to his sleep.
Sejo Kaka’s Cure for Being Good-for-Nothing
When I was twelve, I found him reading a thick book.
"What are you reading, Sejo Kaka?" I asked.
"An Ayurveda book," he replied seriously.
"Why?"
"Because my uselessness must be a disease, right?" he said. "Nothing sticks in my mind. I can’t remember anything. That must be an illness!"
"So, are you going to treat yourself?"
He nodded. He had bought the book for ten annas from a footpath shop.
A few days later, he left the house to collect the root of a rare medicinal plant behind an old Shiva temple. But when he returned, his white kurta was covered in red stains.
"Sejo Kaka! What's that on your chest?" I shouted.
He hadn’t noticed it until I pointed it out.
When he removed his kurta, we discovered that he had been attacked by leeches! Fourteen fat leeches had sucked a good amount of his blood.
That was the end of his Ayurveda experiment.
Sejo Kaka’s Attempt at Acting
Years passed. I excelled in academics, went to America, and became a well-known scientist and professor at the University of Chicago.
One day, I received a letter from my mother.
"Sejo Kaka has gotten a role in a movie!"
He apparently resembled Swami Vivekananda. When a film was being made about Ramakrishna Paramhansa, he got the part of Vivekananda.
But within a week, another letter arrived.
"Sejo Kaka has been removed from the film!"
Despite memorizing his dialogues day and night, he kept mixing up lines from different scenes. He proved to be just as opodartho in acting as he was in everything else.
The Last Meeting
When I was sixty, I returned to Kolkata. To my surprise, Sejo Kaka was still alive, staying with his nephew Dr. Ronesh Gupta. I went to see him one Sunday evening.
Though he was now ninety, he still looked strong. His head was full of white hair, but he still had some original teeth left.
"So, Jhontu! What are you doing in America?" he asked in a commanding tone.
"Physics research," I answered humbly.
My seventy-seven-year-old aunt interrupted, "Tell him properly! He’s famous!"
"Have you won a Nobel Prize?" she asked bluntly.
I laughed and shook my head.
"Then what’s the big deal?" she scoffed.
Sejo Kaka burst out laughing. "You ran off to America. I thought I’d find some peace in Kolkata, but look at this city! Ten hours of power cuts! Dust everywhere! Prices soaring! What a mess!"
He kept ranting, and strangely, I found myself feeling happy.
Maybe we had been wrong all along. Maybe Sejo Kaka wasn’t the opodartho one.
Maybe the world was.
The End
A few days later, I received a call.
Sejo Kaka had passed away in his sleep.
And in true opodartho fashion, he left on the exact day of my niece’s wedding, ensuring his death became just another inconvenience.
Credit
Story: Opodartho (The Good-for-Nothing)
Writer: Satyajit Ray
First Published In: Chakmukhi Magazine
Publication Year: 1390 Bengali Calendar (1983 AD)
0 Comments