Man for all seasons

The vagaries of power hold no mystery for Pranab babu
Years ago, as a child, i had seen a big car with a red beacon, sirens blaring, pull into our humble north Kolkata neighbourhood. Motorcycle outriders escorted it. It was late evening. In those days, streetlights were bulbs peeping out of circular shades strung up on steel poles. They gave off a dull yellow glow; the reason i couldn't see the big car's colour. But the entourage had definitely looked impressive. A red beacon adds heft to any car. I had emerged from the local stationery shop with my grandpa when the car zipped past. Curious, i asked the old man who could possibly be in that car. Pranab babu perhaps, he had answered. He's a powerful central minister.
But why would he be here, in a sleepy Kolkata locality, that too at such an unusual hour? It was around 8 pm. Our area had rows of West Bengal government flats, unimaginatively built, painted flat yellow, streaks of ugly slime and algae sullying their facade. There were no offices around.
Across the road, it was crowded - stand-alone houses and blocks of flats thrown haphazardly amid neglected patches of green that hadn't yet caught the eye of land sharks. A double-lane road cut through the area and Pranab babu's car had just barrelled down this thoroughfare.
Why is the minister here? I tugged at my grandpa's kurta. "Perhaps he's here to meet his father. I am told Kamada Kinkar babu lives here," he offered. His father lives here? Such a big man's father lives here? "Yes. In one of those government flats," he raised his long arm and pointed at a rundown dark-stained block with green wooden windows.
"Kamada Kinkar babu is a Gandhian, a principled man who lives a spartan life and walks briskly. Yes, he walks to Bagbazar Ghat some five km away every day. He swims the river." Wow, i said to myself, he swims the Hooghly every day? Must be extremely strong, i asked grandpa. "Internally strong," he answered. "He's a wiry man, tough from within. He was in the Congress and a former member of the legislative council." The conversation ended there.
Some years later, one afternoon, on way to tuition class, i was waiting for a bus. Traffic was heavy and the road bumpy. A hard-top, rickety jeep caught my eye - old and wobbly, very ordinary, the type middling government babus in the districts ride. A nondescript man was driving it. But beside him sat a man with a grim face: Pranab babu. The windows were rolled up. He was in a white khadi kurta and heavy, dark-rimmed glasses. The motorcycle outriders were missing. The big car with the red beacon wasn't there. He cut a forlorn figure in that jeep. Later, i learnt this was when he had lost his ministry, exited the Congress and floated his own political party. The wheels of fortune had turned.
On Wednesday, when i saw him again in a big limousine, memories of him sitting all by himself lost in thought in that wobbly jeep came flooding back. This time around, he had a golden Ashoka emblem for a number plate.
And, surprise, surprise, he wasn't in austere white khadi at the oath-taking. He had slipped effortlessly into presidential uniform - joined the eminent band of former heads of state in a neat black achkan with a gold chain draped elegantly from the pocket. The churidar he paired it with, though, seemed a tad flappy, not as smart as the rest of the ensemble.
He delivered a speech that was snappily written, modern, made the right noises, picked the right topics and made for good copy. And why wouldn't he?
If my grandpa was indeed right, and if it was the same man in that broken four-wheeler who made it to the glitter of the country's biggest palace on Wednesday, this is a person who has seen life in its many colours. A man for all seasons.