Flex Mentallo

That's a new one on me.

I wondered if anyone would comment on the natural beauty that is the average in a Bengali village! It seems that Arabic traders settled in the area long ago and intermarried, and it is said that this is the reason.

Nirmal Sen Gupta had a house near the village where he taught disadvantaged children. From this small beginning came a village movement giving an education to thousands of children. I learned that he had nor been back to his house for some years, and arranged for him to do so. This was the last time he went there before his death. It is a very beautiful spot.

A trip to Calcutta Museum with some village children who have learning difficulties, locally known as "the palace of wonders".

When Mitthu was a tiny girl, she was my protector. She used to bring me cups of tea, and act as my bodyguard. Whenever I crossed a road she would gravely take my large white hand in her tiny brown one to make sure I crossed safely. When I returned after many years absence it was to find her married, and heavily pregnant with her first child. She had no idea I was coming, and I no way of knowing she would still be there, girls often marrying outside and moving away.

Gandhi decides to stop the rioting by fasting. He refuses to eat until the violence ends, and becomes very weak, nearing death.. A SQUARE IN CALCUTTA. EXTERIOR. DAY. A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU: . . . Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers . . . TAHIB'S ROOF. EXTERIOR. NIGHT. Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty – and they are too – but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER: It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI: Go – try – God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI: Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him – the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear – but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI: Eat! I am going to hell – but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI: Only God decides who goes to hell . . . NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive): I – I killed a child . . . (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper): Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self-inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now – and wrath): They killed my son – my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI: The Muslims killed my son . . . they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI: I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI: Find a child – a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy – about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI: . . . and raise him – as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks – it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI: Only be sure . . . that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head.

The rioting in Calcutta is vividly depicted in the movie, Gandhi CALCUTTA. EXTERIOR. NIGHT. We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER. TAHIB'S ROOF. The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER: Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you – not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI: I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH: There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful): Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI: Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH: To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth): Go – do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner – at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile.

Mridula's father Ashraf had helped found the village after partition, when in 1947 he and other Muslims had to flee for their lives from the city of Calcutta. They didn't go far - in fact Calcutta has grown so much that the village is now technically a suburb. He had a stroke just before my visit and died a few days later. Sadly, the stroke prevented him from talking or moving, but he clearly recognized me after a ten year gap between visits.

I used to teach English to Mridula when she was a young girl. Now she is the proud mother of two young girls of her own. Her husband, Latif, used to drive a taxi and is now an important local politician.