Swapna Dutta, my Mother: First Chapter

Swapna Dutta — my Mother. It is difficult for me to write anything about my Mother, and I am not entirely sure if I should—or if I am even capable or worthy of doing so.

My Mother, Swapna Dutta (born 2 October 1953), passed away on 27 July 2025. I have heard that some religions and practices, like certain Sanatan Dharma traditions and Islam, discourage keeping pictures or memories of deceased individuals. There might be a strong reason for this view— these memories can bind us to the past. While there might not be much harm in that, those memories of the past are fixed. Right, wrong, events, actions—all are unchangeable. And the main point is, the person is not coming back. 

Yet, on the other hand, I have seen other practices where much is written or created in memory of the deceased. I recently spoke with a wonderful person who was deeply affected by the death of someone close to him—a spiritual guide, and during that painful time, he composed a booklet about his spiritual teacher. 

Writing a booklet is beyond my ability, so I shall start writing with what I have at hand.

The Difference (Prabheda)

Writing about the lives of ordinary people often creates difficulties for the writer and perhaps for the reader too. Such narration lacks thrilling achievements or grand accomplishments. There are no high mountains climbed, no deep jungles explored, no prestigious awards received. Nothing! So, what is there to write about? What could there possibly be? There is sorrow, there is pain, but who wants to read or write about those, especially if the sorrow or pain is utterly mundane? A series of losses, a series of setbacks, unfulfilled desires, humiliations. Can one truly read or write about these?

There is a story by Balai Chand Mukhopadhyay (Banaphool) titled "Prabheda" (Bangla: প্রভেদ, The Difference). The story is narrated like this. Many years after the self-sacrifice of Khudiram Bose, a martyr of the Indian independence movement, a memorial service for him was being held in a small office in Bengal. Various office staff members were speaking about Khudiram's contributions at this gathering. "Those who sang the song of life on the gallows, they stood unseen, what sacrifice would they demand", one of the speakers recited these lines.

Jogen Babu, an elderly clerk of the office, listened intently to these words. As he listened, Jogen Babu's own household problems came to his mind. The financial situation at home was not good; medical treatment was needed, but circumstances were unfavorable. The landlord's rent had not been paid. Jogen Babu remembered these.

On the stage, eloquent speakers continued – "Who fearlessly stepped forward to uproot the British power, whose lion-like strength had made the whole world tremble? Bengal's fierce son, young Khudiram. Who, confined in the prison of subjugation that had held all of India, had shattered his head against its stone walls and died bleeding? Our very own Khudiram. The Bengali people had decided that day to strike down the arrogant pride of the imperialists with a thunderbolt; which Dadhichi first had offered his bones for the creation of that thunderbolt? Our own Khudiram."

Listening to all this, old Jogen Babu began to remember his own youth and adolescence. Jogen Babu, too, had once been associated with the Anushilan Samiti. Khudiram, whose memorial was being held that day, was Jogen Babu's friend. Jogen Babu had known Prafulla Chaki too. At that time, when the revolutionary Khudiram and Prafulla Chaki were moving towards self-sacrifice, Jogen Babu couldn't. Pushed back by the tears of his parents and their many obstacles, Jogen Babu could not step onto the path of Khudiram and Prafulla Chaki. And then? Many years passed slowly. Jogen Babu began to feel, what had he done his whole life? Due to circumstances, he could not even get a good job. His life passed by doing petty clerical work. At his father's request, he had married the daughter of one of his father's poor friends. His parents had passed away, and his father-in-law too. The entire responsibility of his household rested on his shoulders. There was extreme poverty in the house. He had five daughters of his own. He married them off. His provident fund money was almost gone, and he'd incurred some debt. His son was not grown yet. And Jogen Babu's life was coming to an end.

At the end of Banaphool's story, when old Jogen Babu was walking out of the memorial hall, some words filled with anger, resentment, and much despair floated through his mind. Quoting directly from the author's words here—

Jogen Babu, could no longer think. He had traversed a long path of life with a massive burden on his head—he felt he could not go on. Every day, eroding his own life force piece by piece, he had sustained this vast family; what value was there in it? No one would remember him for this. For ages, meetings would be held for Khudiram, Prafulla Chakis, but no one would even remember him. 

No one applauds someone for supporting their family. Yet, a society is built on families, and the nation is built on society. No one would even consider that by upholding his family duties with integrity, he too had truly served the nation! 

People considered dying on the gallows to be greater heroism, poets wrote poems about it, but dying bit by bit went unnoticed by anyone and everyone.

This is the difference (prabheda). A person who grinds themselves down, bit by bit, with gritted teeth, who will remember their work, their contribution? No poems or ballads will be written about them, nor will it remain alive in memory. And yet such people, such lives—they are everywhere. This is not only about my Mother Swapna Dutta. This is about all of us. This is life — the shared breath of the world. 

Life begins with the expression of tears. We are born in pain. We live in silence. And then we die, quietly. Maybe tomorrow will be kinder? Maybe someone will understand all the unsaid things? But who? And when? We don't know. They never come. And so, we place our faith in God, in Allah, in Ma Kali. However, they also don't come or do anything. In this way, days pass, time passes. And one day, everything ends.

Let me share something I once heard in a talk by Sadhguru. Consider a woman—perhaps a single Mother or someone impoverished. She raised one or two children. Bathing them, feeding them, helping them study—managing the house while juggling countless responsibilities. Is not this an immense project in itself? Especially if the woman is weak or destitute, then performing that work is like a great struggle for her. Yet, in our society, this fight, this struggle, is completely neglected and unrecognised. We may celebrate medal winners, professionals, or public figures—but we rarely notice the silent sacrifice that never enters the spotlight. This is the difference (prabheda).

Swapna Dutta — my Mother.
In late 2023 she was admitted to Ruby Hospital, Kolkata,
followed by an admission in a rehabilitation nursing home.
This photograph was taken around twenty days after her discharge (dated 22 January 2024).

Charaiveti

What I am writing or will write is certainly about my Mother, Swapna Dutta, but I firmly believe that this is our story. The story of the Life. Look—so many people, so many lives, are vanishing, perishing. This has happened before, this is happening now, and this will happen again.

In the "Vana Parva" of the Mahabharata, Dharma, the father of Yudhisthira, who appeared as Yaksha, asked Yudhisthira— "What is the greatest wonder in this world, in this life?" Yudhisthira replied— "Every day countless beings are consumed by the jaws of death, yet those who remain believe that death will never touch them. What could be more astonishing than this?"

This is where we conclude the first chapter.  I certainly intend to continue. How exactly this writing will proceed, and how far I'll go, I do not know. Charaiveti.

স্বপ্না দত্ত, আমার মা (Swapna Dutta, my Mother)

• ● বাংলায় পড়ুন: প্রথম অধ্যায়, দ্বিতীয় অধ্যায়, তৃতীয় অধ্যায় (সংযোজন), চতুর্থ অধ্যায় (প্রথম পরিচ্ছেদ, দ্বিতীয় পরিচ্ছেদ, তৃতীয় পরিচ্ছেদ)
• ● Read in English: First Chapter, Second Chapter, Third Chapter (Addendum), Fourth Chapter (Part I, Part II, Part III)

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This page was last updated on: 2 August 2025

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