বিদায় ৰঞ্জিত ককাইদেউ … [Goodbye, Ranjit, elder brother …]

Once upon a time, it was the telegram that brought urgent news, good or bad, to family and friends in distant places. Now, a variety of instant messaging services have replaced the telegram that was once transmitted by a Morse code operator over the airwaves, to be received and deciphered by another operator at a faraway place.

Telegrams are now redundant and dead. But the code still survives. Amateur radio operators the world over use Morse code to communicate, overcoming propagation and linguistic barriers associated with normal voice communications. Using a key, they transmit ‘dits and dahs’ (dots and dashes) over radio waves for others to receive and respond to. The key is almost akin to the life of a ham. So much so that when a ham passes, it is referred to, in ham parlance, as becoming ‘silent key’, or SK for short.

Ironically, it was through an Internet messaging app that I received word last month that a dear friend and fellow amateur radio operator, Ranjit Chaliha (call-sign VU2RCH) had become SK (silent key). The shock could not have been greater. Only a week earlier, we had chatted over the Internet about many things, including the transfer of ownership of a Yaesu transceiver.

Ranjit da (as I used to call him, the suffix ‘da’ meaning elder brother, though he was only a year or two older) was the quintessential ham. He was a self-taught genius – and I do not use that word lightly. He was the master of ‘home-brew’ (DIY) and he designed and constructed receivers, transmitters, and amplifiers with ease. There was no electronic or electrical gadget that he could not figure out, whether they be vintage tube radios or state-of-the-art, modern communications equipment or even some run-of-the-mill domestic appliance.

Anecdotally, after a government organization had imported an expensive piece of communication equipment that turned out to be a lemon, and they could not afford to have the heavy machine shipped back overseas for repairs or have a technician flown in, it was Ranjit the Super(radio)man who saved the day. He fixed the problem for less than 1% of the original estimated cost of repair.

For all his skill and expertise, Ranjit was modest to a fault. His shy smile was his endearing trademark. He never, ever bragged about his accomplishments or his knowledge. Where he differed, he conveyed his opinion with a self-deprecating smile and a light laugh.

Ranjit was the epitome of the polite and cultured ‘Ahomiya’ (Assamese) gentleman – pleasant, genial, hospitable, friendly, easy-going, and always willing to help. This was complemented by an almost child-like inquisitiveness, which led him to many other interests. Ranjit was ever-learning, experimenting, curious. He valued the sylvan, idyllic place of his birth and was content with his lot, not chasing after wealth or fame.

My memories fly back more than thirty-five years to the early 80s (the precise date, or even the year, I cannot verify – the records being stored at a far-off place) to a small hamlet quaintly called Lapalang Rynjah on the outskirts of Shillong (the capital of Meghalaya State, India). I was there at the well-guarded radio monitoring station of the Government of India to appear for the examination to qualify for and be granted an amateur radio license. It was my first meeting with Ranjit. He had traveled all the way from his home (QTH in radio lingo) in Nagaon (the old Nowgong, as the English tea planters had once called it) in the neighboring state of Assam. We became instant friends.

We were lucky to become the first amateur radio operators from the states of Assam and Meghalaya respectively, though it took more than a year for the results of the difficult written examination and the practical Morse code test to be declared and for the licenses to be processed, because of the reluctance of the Indian government to allow amateur radio activity in the North-Eastern region.

Over the years, our friendship grew, and our families came together – Ranjit’s wife, Bijoya, a college professor and a ham herself, VU3BCH, and their daughter, Geetanjoli, (who addresses me as ‘khura’ and whom I call ‘bhonti’) and my nephews and nieces. In 2017, on one of my visits home to Shillong, on an impulse, I hired a taxi and traveled with two nephews and a niece to meet Ranjit and Bijoya in Nagaon, the tea-estate-surrounded town in the plains of Assam. Never dreamed that that pleasant reunion would be the last time I would see him in person (“eye-ball QSO” in radio jargon).

One of the subjects we discussed was his recently acquired hobby of ornithology. With his SLR cameras, Ranjit has captured some truly amazing photographs of birds, many of them migratory, in their natural habitat. My pitch was to put the photos together in a book for posterity. Sadly, that did not happen in his lifetime. Hopefully, Bijoya or Geetanjoli will someday get around to doing this when they have overcome their grief.

Talking of grief, I cannot fathom my own. It is the saddest I have felt in many years. I am also angry that precious time may have been lost in getting him medical attention after being involved in a road accident, though it happened in his own hometown, while on his way home for lunch from his shop only a few miles away, and that it took awhile for him to be identified and Bijoya to be contacted. My friend, Ranjit da, passed away on the 21st November 2018

Ranjit da, I have no words to bid you goodbye. I shall remember you each time I throw the switch of my transceiver and call “CQ” to talk to some distant station in a far away land.

May the corner of the world you loved dearly, Nagaon, Assam, be forever green; may the birds continue to thrive and arrive in hordes; and may your life continue to inspire many more since you were a true “Elmer” (mentor in ham radio) in your beloved state of Assam.

বিদায় ৰঞ্জিত ককাইদেউ …

Abie – AB1F/VU2ABE