Just for poetry I am tempted to live on much longer To live the unhappy life of a human being, just for poetry
I have spurned immortality.

But immortality is its own master. It doesn’t really give a fig if it was spurned by Sunil Gangopadhyay. And it is about to embrace for ever the poet who rejected it for poetry. As the poet may have guessed, it is his poetry that will make him immortal.
Sunil Gangopadhyay, cult poet, celebrated novelist and short story writer, path-breaking editor, delightful children’s author, writer of travelogues, scriptwriter and president of the Sahitya Akademi, passed away this week. He was 78. He died on the night of Durga Puja’s Maha Ashtami, when festivities peak in his beloved Kolkata. Intensely in love with life, he always seemed to enjoy the festive spirit of Durga Puja, never mind his personal scepticism about god, deities and religion.
Years ago, as a child, he had been so charmed by a Saraswati deity in his neighbourhood puja mandap that at a solitary moment he had gone up and hugged the clay idol. When he wrote about it as an adult, it created a furore. But for Sunil Gangopadhyay, or Sunil to readers, right and wrong were defined more by your inner voice than the voice of tradition.
I had spat into the sea No one saw it, no one got to know, My spit had dissolved in the foam crowning the crazy waves Yet I feel ashamed, even now I hear the curse of the sea…
Is it a sin to embrace a Saraswati idol in your early childhood?
I can’t decide on these matters But I hear very clearly The curse of the sea...
Sunil Gangopadhyay, along with friend and cult poet Shakti Chattopadhyay, defined Bengali poetry of the rebellious Fifties. They very decidedly changed the course of Bengali poetry. Like his previous generation of poets, Sunil too was struggling in a culturescape that was too seeped in Rabindranath Tagore. Unlike his predecessors, Sunil Gangopadhyay had no qualms about expressing his frustration with the overarching presence of Tagore in his life. “Tin jora lathir ghaye Rabindra rachanabali lutoy paposh-e!” wrote the poet. “Three pairs of kicks toss the Collected Works of Rabindranath on the doormat.”
But this was the man who sang Rabindrasangeet with great fondness. In one poem he talks of a young maid laughing at her old mistress. She has completely lost her head, says the maid, why, she even believes that the great Sunil Gangopadhyay was once her ardent admirer! That Sunil who is revered by all, whose poems live on the lips of admirers, whose birthday is celebrated every year by hours of music dedicated to him on the radio! (This is a modest description of the Tagore worship still prevalent in Bengal.) That great poet Sunil, the maid guffaws, was once crazy for this old hag? You, says the poet to the old woman, would want to call Sunil over to prove it. But by then he’s been dead for 25 years! So, listen to me, says the poet to the lady. You are young now, so is Sunil Gangopadhyay. Come to the young poet, who isn’t quite famous yet, though somewhat infamous already — people say he once had promise but he’s too wild, what a waste! Touch him, says the poet to the young lady, your arms are like magic wands of gold. “By your touch he may one day even become the second Rabindranath Tagore!”
In 1953, the young Sunil Gangopadhyay and friends had started Krittibas, a poetry magazine. Like most little magazines, it was powered by passion not money, but unlike most, it has survived, with hiccups, over almost 60 years. The culture of little magazines was always very strong in Bengal, but Krittibas stood out for not just its feisty spirit but also its incredible pool of talent. It was the platform for young poets, a space for experimentation, for breaking rules, for celebrating the fire of youth, for creating new literary trends. It shocked, it amazed, it sent the more conservative scurrying for cover, and it helped shape the New Wave of Bengali poetry. Meanwhile, Sunil had become friends with Allen Ginsberg and the influence of the Beat poets on his work and subsequently on Bengali literature, is clear.
But not just a Bohemian poet, Sunil was an overarching presence in contemporary Bengali literature. Generations grew up on his Kakababu series, where a handicapped Kakababu (or Uncle-ji) and his nephew catch baddies in spine chilling thrillers set in gorgeous lands. And on the almost magical, heart-achingly beautiful tales by Neellohit.
Readers waited impatiently for his novels and short stories that appeared in the special puja numbers of Bengali magazines. Though a prolific writer, Sunil did in depth research for his historical novels like Shei Shomoy (Those Days), Pratham Alo (First Light) or Purba Paschim (East West). While his poetry was not particularly political — unlike predecessors like Sukanta Bhattacharya or later poets like Joy Goswami — Sunil’s prose was often politically charged.
Sunil’s poems for the mysterious Neera have given generations the language of love. Neera, the woman he meets for three minutes at the bus stop and dreams about all night. Neera, who could make his world laugh or weep at will, who could summon his heart with an arch of her brow. But powering that passionate love of woman, powering the graphic love poems, was Sunil’s intense love for life.
I cling to this earth like a miser…
I still believe that life will blossom all around
The sea will become the sky, the grass a stunning gigantic tree…

Yet Sunil found no romanticism in being a poor poet. Why could poets not aspire for the good life in a world that treasures poetry?
When I write poetry this time, I will build a palace
When I write poetry this time, I want a Pontiac car…
I have written poetry, I demand Scotch, White Horse, and chicken legs
Cooked in the best ghee…
When I stop at the level crossing I want to hear gun salutes
When I write poetry this time, I won’t give up my rights.

Sunil Gangopadhyay did get a good life. But it wasn’t his poetry, it was his furious churning out of fiction that got him the palace and the Pontiac and the Scotch. But the poetry got him the gun salute. And when the grief dies out, Sunil will remain in our memories as the boy who finds immortality in the smell of lemon-leaves, the madcap who says: I wanted to love.

The writer is editor of The Little Magazine.