Jyoti Basu and Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee during a trip to Darjeeling in 1993

I have often looked back and reflected on my long association with Jyoti Basu. Those who know me as a firm believer in the classical principles of Marxism would perhaps be a trifle amused, because my admission would perhaps be construed as un-Marxist as it seeks to spotlight, in their opinion, an individual.

Never mind that; for once I am willing to stand accused of such a violation. My Marxist beliefs and my Indianness are inter-linked, non-negotiable. This Indianness has taught me to examine and understand the institution of the guru but, I must hasten to add at this point, not in the typical narrow sense but more in a philosophical and cerebral context.

The preface is necessary to understand Jyoti Basu, who cannot be merely described as an “important individual”. I have seen, lived, learnt and evolved in the company of two great — and to my mind, history-ordained — individuals, Jyoti Basu and Promode Dasgupta. These two men are gurus in the true sense and much more. Their real assessment — their contribution to the Left movement and their role in influencing post-Independence India’s politics — would be made by future historians equipped with greater insight and analytical skills.

As one living under the skin of the system, I can say we were fortunate to have Jyoti Basu and Promode Dasgupta moving and shaping the Left movement as well as governance in Bengal for such a long period.

I consider myself doubly fortunate in that I could evolve in the company of Jyoti Basu. I am nearing 60, the bulk of which, about 40 years, have been spent with him.

Imagine how matter-of-factly the association began! I still recollect the fine September day in 1966 when Jyoti Basu, then a youthful leader, was released from jail. A few of our comrades had gone to receive him. He came out of the prison walking ramrod straight, got into the waiting car and told his comrades: “Let’s go, a lot of work is waiting to be done.”

He reached the venue, Jatin Chakraborty’s office, within a short while to address a meeting of the trade union and students. Walking in at his trademark brisk pace he stood before us, took in the scene in the room in a very quiet, unobtrusive way and said in a low voice:

Tahole shuru kara jak (Let’s get started, then).

A few heads nodded in agreement.

—Amader juba sangathaner ke eshechhe (Anyone from our youth wing)?

I stood up.

—Naam ki, comrade (Your name, comrade)?

Buddhadeb, Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee, comrade Basu.

—Bhalo, boshun (Thanks, take your seat).

Looking back, none could imagine that the seeds of a long, exciting and eventful relationship were sown that September day. To be honest, none in the audience of hard-core party sympathisers could imagine that day that their beloved party would become a prime force of change in India and run the government of an important state like Bengal for 27 years. All of us had dreams of taking the party to greater heights but none knew what lay ahead.

For close to 40 years, I have seen Jyoti Basu from the ringside. And I can tell you, watching this multifaceted man was pure education. His fundamental identity, which he has kept intact, was that of the staunch communist who, despite provocation and circumstances, like a true believer in the ideology, would not consider himself anything but a product of the party. But what separated Basu from the crowd was his aversion to competitive politics and an enviable ability to stay above things partisan. It may sound cliched to alien ears, but we know as insiders how it was with him.

Even at the risk of sounding cliched I must say he had been, at other levels, the quintessential Bengali bhadralok, a proud Indian, a believer in traditional values and an extraordinary warrior. Yes, a warrior.

Before I elaborate on the last bit, let me put on record that I do try to imbibe his less-known qualities to be able to discharge my duties in an effective way. I am an emotional man, and it is no secret. An incident of firing, a pretty regular occurrence in today’s context, will keep me awake, give me a huge headache, push up my blood pressure. Similarly, when the pressure on me rises, I would try to de-stress by smoking more cigarettes or drinking more coffee, and end up with a sore throat or nausea.

“A few more cigarettes are not the solution,” he would say dryly. I can’t help it, I’m made that way. But nobody knows how Jyoti Basu managed to hunker down like a vast iceberg in times of crisis and, like a general, marshall his troops and fight back. There were many instances when he proved to us — by fighting back in his understated way — that not for nothing was he called a legend. I cannot mention them all since such incidents involve other men and women of all-India substance, and matters of governance.

Many a time he would energise us with a simple line, “aamra to boshe boshe ei anyay dekhte pari na, chalo ekta to pratibad korte hobe (we can’t take this injustice lying down; come, we have to protest)”, and make the opponents, be it Indira Gandhi or the BJP or a particular situation, look insignificant. And mind you, Jyoti Basu was a warrior in his political sphere too, but he would neither show his wounds nor celebrate his victories. “Buddha, the trick lies in keeping your cool,” he would often tell me.

I mention the word “crisis” in the context of his twin entities as a public figure who straddled the political landscape for over 60 years as well as a private man who knew how to keep personal tragedies to himself. The deaths of his wife and a child, unjustified criticism, open attacks — nothing could shake him because he had an infinite capacity to absorb all kinds of blows.

Jyoti Basu as an administrator was a delight to watch and worthy of emulating. He would read a situation, relate it to his priorities and compulsions, size up the depth of support and hurdles and act on it, betraying no emotion at any point. For example: the industrial policy that he got formulated, passed in the state Assembly and afterwards endorsed by the Chandigarh party congress. Not too many people know that the policy was a big political story — he used it to send a signal to various quarters. Later, he allowed me a peek into the factors that governed his actions on the policy.

This newspaper has often asked me how much guidance I received from him when I was asked to become chief minister. As I once said, the very idea of trying to put my feet into his shoes was daunting, but I tried to be myself while doing the job.

In my early days in office, I would go over to him for counsel. He, too, would advise me if he felt the subject or situation demanded greater attention. However, over two years into the job I noticed that the more I started getting a grip on the situation, the farther Jyotibabu would withdraw into the background.

He would not call me to offer advice, but he kept himself available for me any time of the day. Whenever I felt I needed his advice, his presence, I sent word to him and he came out and stood by my side. I happened recently to be in negotiations with Citu in a particular industry. He said: “Buddha, tumi Citu-ke ja bolte chao balo, aami upasthit thakbo (I’ll be present at the meeting, tell Citu whatever you want to say).”

His conscious journey into the background was meant to ensure more space, more freedom for me, like an affectionate father does after his son assumes the responsibility of running the family. I have no hesitation in saying he was a father to me apart from being my teacher.

I can go on about Jyoti Basu because he was probably the last true legend in our politics, because he taught us political approach, because he showed us how to listen to society at large. Understanding Jyoti Basu in his entirety would not be possible if I did not mention his sense of humour, which was always very understated.

Many years ago, when we were rather new to office, Jyotibabu and I had walked into a raging debate at the Ganashakti office over printing Boroline advertisements in our party paper because the ad showed a female figure, and hence was unacceptable to the purists in the party. Since the paper did not get many advertisements those days, a section was in favour of printing it because it would bring in some money.

After the meeting, Jyoti Basu and I found ourselves talking in an almost empty room. “Jyotibabu, what do you make of the debate?” I asked.

“Buddha, I am reminded of my English teacher,” he said. “He would read Shelley to us. There is a paragraph where the poet describes eloquently how the sunrays kiss the earth, how the moonlight kisses the water, how the bee kisses the blossoming flowers for honey and so on. What is most funny is that our teacher would read the poem replacing the word ‘kiss’ all through with a string of ‘hmm, hmm, hmm’ and more ‘hmms’. Don’t laugh Buddha, the poor man thought all his innocent students would get corrupt if they got to learn about the existence of a natural human act, kissing.”

I looked at him: the face was still immobile but the eyes contained a touch of the silent laughter that he had managed to bottle up inside him. I do not expect, we do not expect to see another such legend in our lifetime. Thanks comrade, for leading from the front, for holding an umbrella above our heads and for showing us how to laugh at life.