Some memories are difficult to pen down in words, but remain forever etched in the mind. A month back, the world of academia lost a gem – Gargi Chakravartty – historian and a lifelong activist for the cause of humanity. What follows here is my recollection of the very humble scholar and how she inspired the lives around her. Chakravartty belonged to the ‘Midnight’s Children’ generation, she loved to teach in the classroom and outside, and one could witness that child-like excitement as she delivered her lectures on one of the most traumatic, morbid themes in Indian history – the partition of India and its long term consequences. At other times, this meticulous scholar and activist would also give away a hint or two of that feminine urge in her to talk about what was new in clothes, bags and jewellery with her all-time favourite being those brought from Shantiniketan or other parts of Bengal. The Bangali in her was visible in her accented Hindi, as well as in her deep knowledge of Bangla literature which she used on all appropriate occasions and writings. She was, after all, the daughter of the great Bangla literateur, Sabitri Roy. Once when I met to give her a copy of my book, I remember she said, “Bah Pallavi Chakravarty! How I wish I had retained my Roy surname too! Good that you did not change your title.”Gargi ma’am, as I knew her, was an incredibly accomplished historian, a beloved teacher from Maitreyi College, University of Delhi, and the editor of an iconic journal, Mainstream, which she and her equally accomplished husband, the late Shri Sumit Chakravartty, continued to run despite the many technical and ideological problems it faced. She was also an active and vocal member of the National Federation of Indian Women and the Communist Party of India. Her entire life was a lesson in practicing what one preaches and walking the talk. As a scholar on Gandhi and his ideals, she epitomised and literally lived up to the words “My life is my message”.I remember her telling me that Delhi was not her first choice to come for a job: her knowledge of Hindi was a major handicap. But as fate would have it, she did get the job in Maitreyi College at the Delhi University despite many other stellar names on the candidate list, and this sealed her fate. Maitreyi College, which while nestled in what looks like a posh embassy enclave, actually catered to a mixed bunch of students and was – unlike its neighbour Jesus and Mary College – a bi-lingual college from the very beginning. This was a challenge the Calcutta University-educated, young Dr Gargi Chakravartty was all set to take up. She made detailed notes in English and translated them in Hindi with help from friends and colleagues, and came prepared for both Hindi and English medium sections. As she once jokingly told me, the students would sometimes laugh at her pronunciation and their only complaint would be: “Sab theek hain, bas ma’am ka gender kharab hain! (all is fine except she makes mistakes with gender in Hindi)”. After all, the Bangla language can be quite gender-neutral, resulting in hilarious consequences when it comes to Hindi translation. How much she loved Maitreyi College is reflected from the fact that despite the many other lucrative opportunities she eventually got, she never thought of leaving behind her Hindi-medium students (“who will teach them if I leave!”). Even when she retired from the college, she retained an account at the same PNB bank housed on college premises. “…atleast once a month I can meet my colleagues, see my college,” she would say.This was her sense of duty towards the institution and her affection towards her students, colleagues and the college as a whole.Her scholarly oeuvre can also be appreciated by noting the list of books, papers and talks she delivered – starting with her novel perspective on the link between Gandhi and his options as a possible solution to communalism (Gandhi: A Challenge to Communalism: A Study of Gandhi and Hindu-Muslim Problem, 1919-1929, ND: Eastern Books 1987), thereby significantly revisiting the ‘high politics’ debate in partition historiography; to eventually almost single-handedly changing the discourse on the ‘refugee-woman’ in post-partition India (Coming out of Partition: Refugee Woman of Bengal, ND: Bluejay 2005) where she gave more agency to these victim women, a perspective then adopted for Punjab which for long had dominated partition studies whereby victims were seen as passive only. As if these firsts were not enough, she also worked on the vast P.C. Joshi archives (P C Joshi: A Biography, ND: NBT 2007; People’s ‘Warrior’: Words and Worlds of P C Joshi, ND: Tulika 2014), and for her, this was the magnum opus – the work she was most attached to. It will be difficult to summarise everything from the many scholarly pieces across journals and weeklies she kept writing for till her last breath, but each one of them had a piece of her soul. She wanted to educate the laypersons more than the wise ones coming to privileged universities in India and abroad. Sometimes I wonder why, while she had all the name, fame, resources and scholarship, she hardly went for opportunities outside India. She once told me very matter-of-factly about sources she had accessed in the coveted British Library during the prestigious Commonwealth fellowship, but for her, it was not the highlight of her academic career.Her eyes would instead sparkle more when she spoke about how she picked up the issues of rights for college staff, colleagues or students. She was even more passionate when she spoke of India’s political situation post-2014, and in all of this, she would keep going back to her first work on Gandhi and the challenge to communalism. When figures like Swami Vivekanand and Subhash Chandra Bose started getting appropriated in the narratives of the right, she, on strictly scholarly grounds, pointed out the grave erroneous appropriations. In fact, towards the last phase of her academic life in Delhi, most of her talks and pieces were on this misappropriation and erroneous citations. Gargi ma’am always told me that we must not lose patience, and strictly adhere to the historians’ archive to answer the problems of the present. She did that all through her life: never one to reject the offer to speak on platforms, small and big. You could spot her all set in her crisp cotton sarees, big red bindi and Shantiniketan jhola, and while earlier she would drive around in her car, she eventually took up the services of a driver, though the level of enthusiasm remained the same. I once had the fortune of hosting her for a workshop on Gandhi at my university, and I remember all my colleagues were simply awestruck by her strong speech. Her short built and warm appearance were totally deceptive of the inner powers she had with the self-belief in her historian’s craft.I write this piece with a deep sense of gratitude towards the one I always held as my mentor. I believe I’m one of those who owes her entire academic career to her – “Ei shob bolena, shob tomar nijosho (don’t say that, it’s your own),” I can still hear her correct me instantly. But how can I forget that it was her path-breaking Coming out of Partition: Refugee Women in Bengal (ND: Bluejay 2007) which was the first book I had purchased as I started on my doctoral thesis, and which showed me a totally new direction to what I was working on. It was also in her Maitreyi College that I got my first job as an ad hoc professor. She was on her way out (a slightly early retirement) and I would like to believe that she almost handpicked me to replace her (big boots to fill in). I still remember her advice on the day of my joining: “English medium students will manage, please focus on the Hindi medium students, they need our handholding even more”. And just like her, I started making notes in English and translated them to Hindi – being a probashi (expatriate), gender was not an issue for me but how could one replace her vast knowledge, humility and child-like enthusiasm before every class. I also benefited immensely from her generous and prompt advice on teaching, marking and research; she was so accessible after all, with no airs of hierarchy; and as far as I remember, if there was someone who constantly pushed me towards publishing my thesis, after my mother, it was her: “Boi ta-r ki holo… aar koto duur (how is it going, your book?)”.We last met in 2023 as I was winding up my fellowship at the Prime Minister’s Museum and Library and she was packing up to shift to Kolkata, her favourite city, finally, but this time with a heavy heart. “There is so much work one can do in Delhi’s libraries and archives,” she lamented then. The decision was personal – to give better care to ailing Sir, her husband. And yet again, even in that brief interaction, she remained curious and enquired about my work, giving invaluable feedback and suggestions so casually over a cup of tea and sweets. As I now reflect, the most novel part of my PMML monograph was in fact a result of her contribution – the personal notes and files she generously shared and for which I shall always remain obliged. I don’t know when that monograph will be published but it will bear at least one very important visible mark of hers (the invisible ones are difficult to acknowledge).We kept in touch through texts and emails, regular new year’s, teacher’s day messages, and her every reply would be full of warmth and unconditional love. Come April 15, Poila Boishakh, I know I will scroll for her email and number on my phone and it will then dawn upon me that this time, I will not receive that reassuring message or the unlimited blessings anymore from my mentor, my guide, the beloved scholar and activist.Rest in peace Gargi ma’am. Yours was a life indeed well lived.Pallavi Chakravarty teaches at the School of Liberal Studies, Ambedkar University, Delhi.