I wrote this in July 2007
By
Ajit Chaudhuri
Do not stand at my grave and
weep,
I’m not there. I do not
sleep.
I am a thousand winds that
blow.
I am the diamond glints on
snow.
I am the sunshine on ripened
grain.
I am the gentle August rain.
And when you awaken to that
morning hush
I am that swift,
enlightening rush
Of quiet birds in circled
flight.
I am the soft stars that
shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and
cry.
I’m not there. I did not
die.[1]
It was a long time ago! Memories have
faded, and many reading this would be too young to know him as more than just
one of the ‘names’ the IRMA community throw around to motivate people towards a
certain career path. So let me begin with a short biography.
A Short Biography: Sanjoy came from a privileged background – the Cathedral School and
then Sydenham College in Mumbai, a family full of judges and civil servants,
the works. He joined IRMA as part of its first batch (deciding against IIM-A to
come here, I read later, though he never spoke about that), and then took up a
job with the Tribhuvandas Foundation in Anand. The URMUL Dairy wanted to
replicate TF in Bikaner district in Rajasthan and recruited Sanjoy to set up
the URMUL Trust in 1986. I joined the URMUL Trust in 1991, by which time it was
headquartered in Lunkaransar, with fledgling operations in Phalodi and Bajju,
and was financially independent of the Dairy. Along the way, Sanjoy married his
classmate from Sydenham, Sumita, they had two children (Joyita – now a final
year sociology student at LSR in Delhi, and Anindo – studying in Mumbai and a
budding investment banker, his mother tells me), and he had stints of further
education in Oxford in the UK and John Hopkins in the USA.
Sanjoy began to make noises about ‘going
somewhere his work was really needed’ in the early nineties. He worked on this
with his typical rigour and single-mindedness; ensuring that URMUL Trust would
continue without him (which it has), identifying a place (finally the
North-East, with a base in Jorhat in Assam, field operations in Majuli Island,
and networking and advocacy across the region), a mode of operation (he joined
AVARD as its General Secretary and set up a branch, AVARD-NE, to work through)
and preparing his family and colleagues for the move. He moved to Jorhat in
1996. He was picked up by ULFA in July 1997 and murdered. No body has been
found till date.
Why is he a ‘name’? Sanjoy was not like you and me. He was brilliant, extremely
hardworking, and ruthless – the alpha plus combination that gets you to the top
in whichever field you choose. He combined this with deep commitment, a love
for the nitty-gritty, genuine charm and a sense of humour, a magnetic
personality, and fearlessness. In the six years that we worked together, I have
seen all these facets of his personality (and have been at the receiving end,
not always in a nice way, of them as well) and can confidently say that he was
a one-off. He was as comfortable in plush multi-lateral offices in Delhi
discussing policy with the wonks as he was on the floor of a poor household in
a remote village discussing basic health. The other ‘names’ don’t compare –
Sanjoy would never have allowed himself to get comfortable, would never have
lived off past achievements, would always have put the needs of the worst-off
as central to what he did.
What if? In
that one year in the North-East, he had a dormant NGO sector churning across
the seven states. There was a genuine non-governmental space being developed
between the religious charities and the insurgents that would have been a force
to reckon with today had it not died a premature death with him. There would
have been a genuine role model for individuals within the Indian development
sector, critical today when the sector is competing for talent in a playing field
that is not level. And there would have been a role model for NGOs as well, and
a better quality of debate on the space for peaceful non-governmental action in
a polarising economic environment.
To conclude:
I am now going to indulge in a little sentimentality! For some years after his
death, I would be sort of expecting him to burst into the room any time and
fill it up with his presence – it is only recently that this feeling has
abated. I still try to avoid getting into discussions about him, unless it is
with close colleagues from those days like Madhavan and Sunil Kaul. What stays
on with me along with his commitment and his passion is his sense of fun and
his habit of eating only once a day. He livened up what would have been a
boring few days in Aizawl by discovering the ‘Mizo Flick’ – an adjustment Mizo
women did to their clothes while walking that provided a fleeting glimpse of
undergarments. He could ferret out food from the unlikeliest of places at the
unlikeliest of times – I remember us arriving in Pasighat some late evening,
hungry and tired and with everything closed, and he managed to charm some
shopkeeper into preparing hot food by speaking Marwari and enquiring into his
lineage.
Today, ten years later, one feels a certain
sense of déjà vu with the news from Assam of Mr. Ram of the FCI, the
is-he-dead-is-he-not, the playing with the sentiments of a family in deep
distress. I quote Sumita Ghose in a recent article in The Telegraph – that ULFA
are ‘a bunch of ageing dickheads (this word is mine – she uses ‘men’, but being
a member of the tribe I revolt at the association) who still believe that lies,
guns, extortion, force, and other such cowardly means will bring about a
positive and lasting change.’ She exhorts Mr. Ram’s family against believing a
word ULFA says. I second that!
