Rozy

Words are powerful. When written well, a piece of prose transforms from black and white letters on a paper (or screen) into movie scenes in your mind. And when the words describe someone you looked up to, in your impressionable years, the emotion lingers on for just that bit longer. 

That’s exactly what happened when I read this piece in The Telegraph, Kolkata by a fellow Xaverian (Arghya Sen) eulogising Mr. Elphage Pradip Rozario or ‘Rozy’ as we called him. 

Click on the photo to enlarge it or read the online version here.

Let’s travel back in time to 1994-95. I was an under confident 13-14 year old was studying at St. Xavier’s Collegiate School, Calcutta. ‘Rozy’ was mine. Mr. Elphage Pradeep Rosario taught our class 8E Mathematics and English. Rozy himself was a Xaverian - batch of 1974. I remember that he had the most beautiful handwriting on the blackboard. Quite exquisite. My best friend Arindam reminded me on WhatsApp that he had the most unique way of writing ‘x’ and that Arindam writes x like that even today. 

This paragraph from the article aptly remembers Rozy: ‘Sir’ had always been special. He didn’t use blue or black ink but a wonderfully unique turquoise. His hair was neither long nor short, but somewhat like a mullet (in Bengali - a babri). He was neither strict nor lenient — he was gentle when he needed to be, and firm when circumstances demanded it. 

Rozy was the person all of us looked up to. He personified everything Xaverian. He was very good academically. He played the guitar. He was there in times of emergency or just when you needed to chat. He always had time for the boys. He quizzed. He led the scouts. He was one of the ‘cool’ teachers who even the bad boys respected and listened to. He was a bhalo chele going out his way to help underprivileged children with free tuitions after school, and still a bachelor looking after his widowed mother and sister. And he rode a bike. The quintessential romantic hero of the 1980s Bollywood romcoms.

And then he passed away on 20 March, 1995 in a bike accident within metres of his beloved St. Xavier’s. Allegedly mowed down by an ancient Bedford van that was travelling on the wrong side of a one way road. He was just forty. The outpouring of grief was profound and spontaneous. I remember understanding the dull pain of death of a near one. The article took me back to that morning when we learnt of his passing. I went to the cemetery along with hundreds of my fellow Xaverians. The movie played back in my head. I felt the heartache again. Almost 30 years later. Some wounds heal, but scar.

When I was in class 8, my maternal grandfather (Bajé) passed away as well. Another fine gentleman. Death was not longer an abstract concept.