<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya, one of the most popular and versatile folk singers of recent times from Bengal,&nbsp;has&nbsp;recently died&nbsp;in a road accident. That day on my way to the crematorium, I found young boys and girls completely absorbed in a premature celebration of Holi on the streets. The incongruity of this riotous celebration of life and colour was stunning my senses: how could such unbridled joy exist on a day of such loss?</p>

<p>It all appeared meaningless and intangible, much like a tune that you can&rsquo;t really place, put your finger on, but hum on, haunted by its magic.&nbsp;</p>

<p>Kalika Prasad was very much like that: full of joy and laughter and music, and intensely alive. With a kind of breathless vitality, he traversed the intricate pathways of Bengali Folk Music, taking joy at every turn and fork of the road. Now, all that remains is the road, bearing the marks of death, of one who has gone away.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

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<p>Barak Valley was the centre of The Bengali Language Movement (Twitter)</p>
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<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Kalika Prasad (1971-2017) came to Kolkata from Silchar in 1995 to pursue a Masters in Comparative Literature. A small town on the banks of the Barak River, Silchar is the district head quarter of Kachar, Assam. This region has a unique and complicated history: it was part of the pre-independence province of Greater Bengal and, yet, became part of the state of Assam after the Partition of India. The seeds of conflict were ingrained in this very administrative re-structuring of the region.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Even though 82 per cent of the Hindu-Muslim population of the state spoke Bengali as their mother tongue, the official language of the state was Assamese. Things came to a head on 19th. May 1961, when eleven protesters were brutally killed by the state police as they were demanding for the recognition of their mother tongue, Bengali. This event cast a deep impression on Kalika&rsquo;s mind.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

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<p>A procession commemorating the language martyrs of 19th May, 1961, who laid their lives in defense of their rights to their mother tongue. Source: Bangalnama (Others)</p>
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<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Having been a resident of the so-called periphery &ndash; linguistically, at least &ndash; in his home state, Kalika Prasad always had a strong sense of empathy with the marginalised, which made him embark upon the quest in search of his roots. The Surma-Barak Valley has always been a rich storehouse of traditional folk music, even when it was a part of Greater Bengal. Stalwarts, such as the singer-composer and folk-music theoretician Hemanga Biswas hailed from this region.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>It was Hemanga Biswas who was instrumental in creating the notion of Ganasangeet within the domain of the cultural activities of the Communist Party, adapting and embracing liberally from the rich folk music tradition of his native land. It was a heady time, when singers and party workers toured villages and urban shanties alike, trying to infuse their countrymen with political consciousness and awareness. It was deeply influential in shaping our ideas of folk music and its political character. In one of his television shows in remembrance of Hemanga Biswas, Kalika himself acknowledged this debt.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

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<p>Hemango Biswas was a Bengali singer, composer, author and political activist. (Twitter)</p>
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<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Kalika began his career at a time of great upheaval; the swirls of globalisation were beginning to take India and the world by storm. The official demolition of the Berlin Wall began on 13th June 1990 and ended in 1992 &ndash; the year the Babri Masjid was dismantled.&nbsp; It was in these times of unity and dispersion that Kalika began to delve into the music of his native land, in search of meaning.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>India is a rich storehouse of community knowledge that now lies half-hidden in intricate layers of tradition, customs, dance, art, music and ways of life: an archive which houses the essential &lsquo;pulse&rsquo; of our country. It was this knowledge system that incorporated ways of peaceful co-existence and helped Kalika frame the political perspective of his musical quest. His vision and sense of the political were enhanced by his association with the Department of Comparative Literature of Jadavpur University, which made him into one of the most politically conscious performers of our time.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>In the late 1990s, he created the Bengali band Dohar with a few young friends.</p>

<p>An understanding of the musical paradigm he chose for himself would be incomplete without an awareness of the state of Bengali music in the 1990s. Kabir Suman returned to Kolkata in 1989 after the expiry of his contract with German Radio, and his first solo album Tomaakey Chaai was released in 1991. It was a watershed in the history of Bengali music. Suman almost single-handedly changed the course of the Bengali modern song, and new modes of creative expression in lyrics and music arrangement began to emerge.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>A whole new generation of singers and musicians and bands &ndash; predominantly urban in their consciousness and expression &ndash; began to rise, and grow in popularity. This was concurrent with a surge in populist representation of folk music within the urban space of Bengal. In this scenario, Kalika Prasad &ndash; with the help of his young friends &ndash; tried to create a niche for the marginalised.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>What set him apart from many of his contemporaries was that, he constantly endeavoured to engage with the notion of Rabindranath Tagore&rsquo;s music, which somehow appeared to have been estranged from this new musical movement. More significantly, he attempted to declare the political presence of the marginal before his predominantly urban audience &ndash; an attempt that is thrilling in its audacity.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

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<h5>With the passage of time, he reinvented himself as more of a presenter and facilitator than a performer, attempting to showcase lesser-known artists and performers from rural backgrounds</h5>
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<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Kalika Prasad came from a family of musicians and collectors, who had long been engaged in the collection of Bengali folk lyrics. One never ceases to wonder at how many such unsung archivists &ndash; unofficial historians &ndash; have kept alive the stream of knowledge &ndash; in whatever form &ndash; shared in a community with meagre resources.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Initially, his attempts to create an archive of Bengali Folk Music was not marked by discretion as to the authenticity of the music he collected.&nbsp; Consequently, he created a somewhat curious admixture of &lsquo;authentic&rsquo; folk and &lsquo;urban folk&rsquo; songs which were sung by bands in the cities. Kalika had arrived from Silchar with a deep sense of the history of his homeland and the importance of archiving, but perhaps it took him some time to realise that within the current economic structure, archives &ndash; unless represented by the performative &ndash; are little more than a heap of dry facts.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>The selection of songs for the albums of his band Dohar reflected his preoccupation with different aspects of a people and their ways of life. The songs sometimes focussed upon people&#39;s religion,&nbsp; upon festivity and, in other times, upon the relationship that people shared with the land. But every time, invariably, the focus was on the popular modes of production and how it reflected in the local music. The unfinished work that he left behind, Songs of Workers, is a testament to his deep and abiding fascination with the music of the workers, the rickshaw-pullers, the boat-men and the farmers.</p>

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<h5>We, who have so long been alienated from our own history, are provided a brief, yet a vivid glimpse into who we really are as a people. It is perhaps the greatest achievement of Kalika Prasad</h5>
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<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>Kalika Prasad had an almost 20-year career as a musician. With the passage of time, he reinvented himself as more of a presenter and facilitator than a performer, attempting to showcase lesser-known artists and performers from rural backgrounds. In most of his later television shows and performances, he incorporated research material on Indian Folk Music, weaving it into the text of his performances and utterances &ndash; an act that is unique within the domain of popular public entertainment shows on television.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>While other performers or bands sought to shine the spotlight upon themselves, Kalika used his public profile to shine the light upon others: the forgotten and little-known, yet highly skilled performers of folk music, who are near the earth and water from whence this music springs.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>This was not merely self-effacement. Kalika aimed to present before us the diverse narrative of how our country was conceived in music, and how our history can be traced intertwined in the different strands of this music. The popularity of his shows is, perhaps, a testament to the fact that this music and this narrative somehow strikes a chord within us all. We, who have so long been alienated from our own history, are provided a brief, yet a vivid glimpse into who we really are as a people. It is perhaps the greatest achievement of Kalika Prasad.</p>


Kalika had deep and abiding fascination with the music of the workers, rickshaw-pullers, boat-men and the farmers of the land

Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya, one of the most popular and versatile folk singers of recent times from Bengal, has recently died in a road accident. That day on my way to the crematorium, I found young boys and girls completely absorbed in a premature celebration of Holi on the streets. The incongruity of this riotous celebration of life and colour was stunning my senses: how could such unbridled joy exist on a day of such loss? It all appeared meaningless and intangible, much like a tune that you can’t really place, put your finger on, but hum on, haunted by its magic. Kalika Prasad was very much like that: full of joy and laughter and music, and intensely alive. With a kind of breathless vitality, he traversed the intricate pathways of Bengali Folk Music, taking joy at every turn and fork of the road. Now, all that remains is the road, bearing the marks of death, of one who has gone away. Barak Valley was the centre of The Bengali Language Movement (Twitter) × Kalika Prasad (1971-2017) came to Kolkata from Silchar in 1995 to pursue a Masters in Comparative Literature. A small town on the banks of the Barak River, Silchar is the district head quarter of Kachar, Assam. This region has a unique and complicated history: it was part of the pre-independence province of Greater Bengal and, yet, became part of the state of Assam after the Partition of India. The seeds of conflict were ingrained in this very administrative re-structuring of the region. Even though 82 per cent of the Hindu-Muslim population of the state spoke Bengali as their mother tongue, the official language of the state was Assamese. Things came to a head on 19th. May 1961, when eleven protesters were brutally killed by the state police as they were demanding for the recognition of their mother tongue, Bengali. This event cast a deep impression on Kalika’s mind. A procession commemorating the language martyrs of 19th May, 1961, who laid their lives in defense of their rights to their mother tongue. Source: Bangalnama (Others) × Having been a resident of the so-called periphery – linguistically, at least – in his home state, Kalika Prasad always had a strong sense of empathy with the marginalised, which made him embark upon the quest in search of his roots. The Surma-Barak Valley has always been a rich storehouse of traditional folk music, even when it was a part of Greater Bengal. Stalwarts, such as the singer-composer and folk-music theoretician Hemanga Biswas hailed from this region. It was Hemanga Biswas who was instrumental in creating the notion of Ganasangeet within the domain of the cultural activities of the Communist Party, adapting and embracing liberally from the rich folk music tradition of his native land. It was a heady time, when singers and party workers toured villages and urban shanties alike, trying to infuse their countrymen with political consciousness and awareness. It was deeply influential in shaping our ideas of folk music and its political character. In one of his television shows in remembrance of Hemanga Biswas, Kalika himself acknowledged this debt. Hemango Biswas was a Bengali singer, composer, author and political activist. (Twitter) × Kalika began his career at a time of great upheaval; the swirls of globalisation were beginning to take India and the world by storm. The official demolition of the Berlin Wall began on 13th June 1990 and ended in 1992 – the year the Babri Masjid was dismantled. It was in these times of unity and dispersion that Kalika began to delve into the music of his native land, in search of meaning. India is a rich storehouse of community knowledge that now lies half-hidden in intricate layers of tradition, customs, dance, art, music and ways of life: an archive which houses the essential ‘pulse’ of our country. It was this knowledge system that incorporated ways of peaceful co-existence and helped Kalika frame the political perspective of his musical quest. His vision and sense of the political were enhanced by his association with the Department of Comparative Literature of Jadavpur University, which made him into one of the most politically conscious performers of our time. In the late 1990s, he created the Bengali band Dohar with a few young friends. An understanding of the musical paradigm he chose for himself would be incomplete without an awareness of the state of Bengali music in the 1990s. Kabir Suman returned to Kolkata in 1989 after the expiry of his contract with German Radio, and his first solo album Tomaakey Chaai was released in 1991. It was a watershed in the history of Bengali music. Suman almost single-handedly changed the course of the Bengali modern song, and new modes of creative expression in lyrics and music arrangement began to emerge. A whole new generation of singers and musicians and bands – predominantly urban in their consciousness and expression – began to rise, and grow in popularity. This was concurrent with a surge in populist representation of folk music within the urban space of Bengal. In this scenario, Kalika Prasad – with the help of his young friends – tried to create a niche for the marginalised. What set him apart from many of his contemporaries was that, he constantly endeavoured to engage with the notion of Rabindranath Tagore’s music, which somehow appeared to have been estranged from this new musical movement. More significantly, he attempted to declare the political presence of the marginal before his predominantly urban audience – an attempt that is thrilling in its audacity. With the passage of time, he reinvented himself as more of a presenter and facilitator than a performer, attempting to showcase lesser-known artists and performers from rural backgrounds × Kalika Prasad came from a family of musicians and collectors, who had long been engaged in the collection of Bengali folk lyrics. One never ceases to wonder at how many such unsung archivists – unofficial historians – have kept alive the stream of knowledge – in whatever form – shared in a community with meagre resources. Initially, his attempts to create an archive of Bengali Folk Music was not marked by discretion as to the authenticity of the music he collected. Consequently, he created a somewhat curious admixture of ‘authentic’ folk and ‘urban folk’ songs which were sung by bands in the cities. Kalika had arrived from Silchar with a deep sense of the history of his homeland and the importance of archiving, but perhaps it took him some time to realise that within the current economic structure, archives – unless represented by the performative – are little more than a heap of dry facts. The selection of songs for the albums of his band Dohar reflected his preoccupation with different aspects of a people and their ways of life. The songs sometimes focussed upon people's religion, upon festivity and, in other times, upon the relationship that people shared with the land. But every time, invariably, the focus was on the popular modes of production and how it reflected in the local music. The unfinished work that he left behind, Songs of Workers, is a testament to his deep and abiding fascination with the music of the workers, the rickshaw-pullers, the boat-men and the farmers. We, who have so long been alienated from our own history, are provided a brief, yet a vivid glimpse into who we really are as a people. It is perhaps the greatest achievement of Kalika Prasad × Kalika Prasad had an almost 20-year career as a musician. With the passage of time, he reinvented himself as more of a presenter and facilitator than a performer, attempting to showcase lesser-known artists and performers from rural backgrounds. In most of his later television shows and performances, he incorporated research material on Indian Folk Music, weaving it into the text of his performances and utterances – an act that is unique within the domain of popular public entertainment shows on television. While other performers or bands sought to shine the spotlight upon themselves, Kalika used his public profile to shine the light upon others: the forgotten and little-known, yet highly skilled performers of folk music, who are near the earth and water from whence this music springs. This was not merely self-effacement. Kalika aimed to present before us the diverse narrative of how our country was conceived in music, and how our history can be traced intertwined in the different strands of this music. The popularity of his shows is, perhaps, a testament to the fact that this music and this narrative somehow strikes a chord within us all. We, who have so long been alienated from our own history, are provided a brief, yet a vivid glimpse into who we really are as a people. It is perhaps the greatest achievement of Kalika Prasad.

Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya: Musician of the margin

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<p>I let Kalika Prasad&rsquo;s ancestral house in Silchar slowly take over my visual space. Partly, because I want to escape the television channels flooded with uncouth images, but also because that house never stopped haunting me since I visited it in January 2016, and it resurfaces all too intensely now. At the precise moment, someone calls up to say, &quot;this is probably not the best time to tell you this, but would you please write about Kalika Prasad for us?&quot;&nbsp;</p>

<p>I am too dazed to say anything but realised I just said, &quot;yes&quot;. &quot;Whichever aspect you are comfortable with, Rongili di&quot;, the voice disappears. The overwhelming green doors and windows in the house in Silchar reclaim their space in my vision.</p>

<p>Back in 1997, I first heard Kalika sing a song from the <em>chorok</em> festival which became phenomenally popular later - &quot;ganjar chirol chirol pat&quot;&nbsp;(the finely diced leaves of the hemp) at our professor Sibaji Bandyopadhyay&rsquo;s house in Kolkata. While other friends present there were quite taken up by the beautiful tune and fresh style of presentation, something else struck me &ndash; Kalika&rsquo;s Sylheti accent was so genuine and befitting that it resonated in the air for the rest of the evening along with Lalan Fakir&rsquo;s &quot;ekdin o na dekhilam tare&quot;&nbsp;(I have not seen him, not even once) rendered by another friend, Uttam Das, in a haunting chuadanga fakiri style. Here are two people, I told myself, who have distinguished provenances.&nbsp;</p>

<p>I have already known Kalika for years by then, but it was only at that point that he told me specifically which house in Silchar he belonged to, &quot;Of course, Rongili di, I am Ananta Bhattacharya&rsquo;s nephew, you must be knowing how close Hemango Biswas was with our family during his Assam IPTA days.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;You mean with Mukunda Bhattacharya?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Yes, with Mukunda -kaka but also with Ananta-Kaka, my youngest uncle, he has four to five thousand songs in his collection and he is trying to make a library of folk music out of those now. Ananta kaka is one of your father&rsquo;s closest followers along with two of my aunts.&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;An archive, a repertoire of five thousand folk songs &ndash; a household replete with Silchar&rsquo;s IPTA history - when will I go to your house?&quot;</p>

<p>&quot;Anytime that suits you.&quot;</p>

<p>No time suited me till 20 years after this conversation. Ananta Bhattacharya passed away in 1998, and I remember a visibly distraught Kalika giving me the news with a lot of remorse: &quot;He could not finish what he wanted to &ndash; I mean the library in its fullest form, and we could not help him much either staying here in Kolkata.&quot;</p>

<p>Kalika called up soon again to say he was going to perform with a newly formed group at Students&rsquo; Hall, Kolkata as a tribute to Ananta Bhattacharya and wanted to learn a few north-eastern songs from Hemango Biswas&rsquo;s personal collection. Among the couple of songs that he quickly picked up from me was a Jayantiya one - Haitu Mmo- that depicts the story of a hunter, who one day targets a fawn and discovering how beautiful it is, fails to throw his arrow, smitten in particular by its ravishing eyes.</p>

<p>It is a well-known story now, how from that one-time tribute-performance, Kalika Prasad&rsquo;s group &lsquo;Dohar&rsquo; evolved to be one of the most popular ones in West Bengal&rsquo;s contemporary musical scenario over the past nineteen years.&nbsp;</p>

<p>This is not the space to engage critically with his musical performance or, for that matter, research areas which certainly were vast and varied. What captivated the urban audience was Kalika&#39;s combination of background storytelling, elaborate narration on the genres and a certain mode of performance. On rare occasions, when we happened to talk about his performances, I would insist that he sings certain core Sylheti folk forms &ndash; other than bhatiyali, bichhedi or dhamail - that were much less known to the people. Sylheti folk songs often border on the gibberish but a theme emerges when one hears them intently, for instance, certain forms within gajir geet focuses on winter harvest. In one of his shows at Gyan manch, Kolkata, a couple of years back, Kalika did sing from one such genre and for me, that was the best part of his performance, again, because of his impeccable Sylheti diction and a certain amount of vivacity that always came with it.</p>

<p>As I mentioned before, it took me 20 years to go to Kalika&rsquo;s ancestral house in Silchar. I was doing a project on Hemango Biswas&#39;s involvement with Indian People&#39;s Theatre Association (IPTA) in Assam. My project was looking into the history of IPTA and, in general, the leftist cultural movement in Assam in the decades from the 1940s through mid-60s.&nbsp; The focus was on the peasant struggles of Tebhaga and Telangana as well as the days of the language riots in Assam.&nbsp;</p>

<p>At Kalika&rsquo;s ancestral home. Anadamayee Bhattacharya, his paternal aunt whom he often talked about, was in tears when she reminisced how deep my father&rsquo;s connection was with the family. &quot;Niranjan Sen and Hemango-da would often come to Silchar in the formative years of Assam IPTA, stay at our house till very late in the night for rehearsals. Along with Kailka&rsquo;s uncle Mukunda-da who was one of the most famous dancers as well as organisers of Assam IPTA and later the Founder-Professor of the Department of Folk dance in Bhatkhande Music Institute University, Lucknow, they would talk about organisational things that I was unable to comprehend at that age. It was the late 1940s. They would stay in a small room across the street that has become a cloth merchant&rsquo;s shop now.&quot;&nbsp;</p>

<p>In that windy, chilly night in Silchar, Anadamayee crooned a few lines from a song that she learned from Hemango Biswas in those years. Her voice is still beautiful, laden with profound emotion for those historic days.</p>

<p>&quot;You know we have a family business and, once or twice, Prasad did try to carry out certain orders about that from the elders, but it was clear he did not like it.&quot; She then started talking affectionately about Kalikaprasad: &quot;He came to me at one point and said, &#39;I do not think I wanted to do this in life. I want to go study literature, do something else.&#39; I saw the conviction on his face. So, I said, yes, do it, and see, did he not do well?&quot; Anandamayee&rsquo;s face finally beamed up.&nbsp;</p>

<p>&quot;Do we call him now, would be a nice surprise, I did not tell him I was coming here because it was all so unplanned,&quot; I said. &quot;No, he is in Dhaka now, left today morning, we spoke before he left&quot;,&nbsp; Anandamayee stopped me. I began to realise how deep Kalika&rsquo;s connection was with his family. He made it a point to communicate almost every detail of his complicated itinerary to his aunt and others in Silchar before he left for a place. And certainly, it did not stop there. Relatives from Silchar would constantly come to Kolkata for medical attention or other purposes, and he gave time to them. Explaining his strong attachment, he once said, &quot;Well, Rongili-di, we still have the connection with our roots, you know. My daughter does not even ask her mother if I am gone for two/three days. Good for her. When I kick the bucket, she will not suffer much&quot;.</p>

<p>&quot;That is not true. Not even a true lie, a false one&quot;,&nbsp; I said and we laughed.</p>

<p>Today while writing this, it does not escape my memory how he came repeatedly to our house whenever I needed him &ndash; for music, for medical attention, even for handling a familial crisis after the death of a beloved person. My heart goes out to his family members, and I know I will go back to the house in Silchar, one with overwhelming green doors and windows, to reconstruct the history of IPTA in the 1940s and 50s. This is the least I could do to honour the memory of Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya and to celebrate his contribution.</p>


A tribute, up, close and personal from a fellow music archivist and singer

I let Kalika Prasad’s ancestral house in Silchar slowly take over my visual space. Partly, because I want to escape the television channels flooded with uncouth images, but also because that house never stopped haunting me since I visited it in January 2016, and it resurfaces all too intensely now. At the precise moment, someone calls up to say, "this is probably not the best time to tell you this, but would you please write about Kalika Prasad for us?" I am too dazed to say anything but realised I just said, "yes". "Whichever aspect you are comfortable with, Rongili di", the voice disappears. The overwhelming green doors and windows in the house in Silchar reclaim their space in my vision. Back in 1997, I first heard Kalika sing a song from the chorok festival which became phenomenally popular later - "ganjar chirol chirol pat" (the finely diced leaves of the hemp) at our professor Sibaji Bandyopadhyay’s house in Kolkata. While other friends present there were quite taken up by the beautiful tune and fresh style of presentation, something else struck me – Kalika’s Sylheti accent was so genuine and befitting that it resonated in the air for the rest of the evening along with Lalan Fakir’s "ekdin o na dekhilam tare" (I have not seen him, not even once) rendered by another friend, Uttam Das, in a haunting chuadanga fakiri style. Here are two people, I told myself, who have distinguished provenances. I have already known Kalika for years by then, but it was only at that point that he told me specifically which house in Silchar he belonged to, "Of course, Rongili di, I am Ananta Bhattacharya’s nephew, you must be knowing how close Hemango Biswas was with our family during his Assam IPTA days." "You mean with Mukunda Bhattacharya?" "Yes, with Mukunda -kaka but also with Ananta-Kaka, my youngest uncle, he has four to five thousand songs in his collection and he is trying to make a library of folk music out of those now. Ananta kaka is one of your father’s closest followers along with two of my aunts." "An archive, a repertoire of five thousand folk songs – a household replete with Silchar’s IPTA history - when will I go to your house?" "Anytime that suits you." No time suited me till 20 years after this conversation. Ananta Bhattacharya passed away in 1998, and I remember a visibly distraught Kalika giving me the news with a lot of remorse: "He could not finish what he wanted to – I mean the library in its fullest form, and we could not help him much either staying here in Kolkata." Kalika called up soon again to say he was going to perform with a newly formed group at Students’ Hall, Kolkata as a tribute to Ananta Bhattacharya and wanted to learn a few north-eastern songs from Hemango Biswas’s personal collection. Among the couple of songs that he quickly picked up from me was a Jayantiya one - Haitu Mmo- that depicts the story of a hunter, who one day targets a fawn and discovering how beautiful it is, fails to throw his arrow, smitten in particular by its ravishing eyes. It is a well-known story now, how from that one-time tribute-performance, Kalika Prasad’s group ‘Dohar’ evolved to be one of the most popular ones in West Bengal’s contemporary musical scenario over the past nineteen years. This is not the space to engage critically with his musical performance or, for that matter, research areas which certainly were vast and varied. What captivated the urban audience was Kalika's combination of background storytelling, elaborate narration on the genres and a certain mode of performance. On rare occasions, when we happened to talk about his performances, I would insist that he sings certain core Sylheti folk forms – other than bhatiyali, bichhedi or dhamail - that were much less known to the people. Sylheti folk songs often border on the gibberish but a theme emerges when one hears them intently, for instance, certain forms within gajir geet focuses on winter harvest. In one of his shows at Gyan manch, Kolkata, a couple of years back, Kalika did sing from one such genre and for me, that was the best part of his performance, again, because of his impeccable Sylheti diction and a certain amount of vivacity that always came with it. As I mentioned before, it took me 20 years to go to Kalika’s ancestral house in Silchar. I was doing a project on Hemango Biswas's involvement with Indian People's Theatre Association (IPTA) in Assam. My project was looking into the history of IPTA and, in general, the leftist cultural movement in Assam in the decades from the 1940s through mid-60s. The focus was on the peasant struggles of Tebhaga and Telangana as well as the days of the language riots in Assam. At Kalika’s ancestral home. Anadamayee Bhattacharya, his paternal aunt whom he often talked about, was in tears when she reminisced how deep my father’s connection was with the family. "Niranjan Sen and Hemango-da would often come to Silchar in the formative years of Assam IPTA, stay at our house till very late in the night for rehearsals. Along with Kailka’s uncle Mukunda-da who was one of the most famous dancers as well as organisers of Assam IPTA and later the Founder-Professor of the Department of Folk dance in Bhatkhande Music Institute University, Lucknow, they would talk about organisational things that I was unable to comprehend at that age. It was the late 1940s. They would stay in a small room across the street that has become a cloth merchant’s shop now." In that windy, chilly night in Silchar, Anadamayee crooned a few lines from a song that she learned from Hemango Biswas in those years. Her voice is still beautiful, laden with profound emotion for those historic days. "You know we have a family business and, once or twice, Prasad did try to carry out certain orders about that from the elders, but it was clear he did not like it." She then started talking affectionately about Kalikaprasad: "He came to me at one point and said, 'I do not think I wanted to do this in life. I want to go study literature, do something else.' I saw the conviction on his face. So, I said, yes, do it, and see, did he not do well?" Anandamayee’s face finally beamed up. "Do we call him now, would be a nice surprise, I did not tell him I was coming here because it was all so unplanned," I said. "No, he is in Dhaka now, left today morning, we spoke before he left", Anandamayee stopped me. I began to realise how deep Kalika’s connection was with his family. He made it a point to communicate almost every detail of his complicated itinerary to his aunt and others in Silchar before he left for a place. And certainly, it did not stop there. Relatives from Silchar would constantly come to Kolkata for medical attention or other purposes, and he gave time to them. Explaining his strong attachment, he once said, "Well, Rongili-di, we still have the connection with our roots, you know. My daughter does not even ask her mother if I am gone for two/three days. Good for her. When I kick the bucket, she will not suffer much". "That is not true. Not even a true lie, a false one", I said and we laughed. Today while writing this, it does not escape my memory how he came repeatedly to our house whenever I needed him – for music, for medical attention, even for handling a familial crisis after the death of a beloved person. My heart goes out to his family members, and I know I will go back to the house in Silchar, one with overwhelming green doors and windows, to reconstruct the history of IPTA in the 1940s and 50s. This is the least I could do to honour the memory of Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya and to celebrate his contribution.

Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya: Songs from Silchar, with love

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Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya: Musician of the margin

Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya: Songs from Silchar, with love