Breaking Rocks and Barriers: Memoirs of a Geologist and Mountaineer

By Sudipta Sengupta

'These trips to the Himalayas developed in me a deep love for the mountains.'

A pioneering geologist and a mountaineer trained by Tenzing Norgay, Sudipta Sengupta is one of the first Indian women to set foot on Antarctica and one of only nineteen women so far to be awarded the prestigious Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar Prize for Science and Technology (1991).

In Breaking Rocks and Barriers, she narrates her many adventures as a geologist studying and doing fieldwork in remote areas around the world--from unexpected encounters with snakes in the Jaduguda mines of Bihar and trekking across a 'black glacier' in Norway to being engulfed by a thundercloud in Sweden and being greeted by a flock of penguins in Antarctica. In between are memorable mountaineering experiences, whether it is the first women's expedition to Ronti peak in the Himalayas in 1967 or the all-women expedition to an unexplored peak, which they were the first to climb and name.

Sengupta writes fondly of the many people--strangers, fellow geologists, mentors, mountaineering enthusiasts--she met in the course of her life, of the friends and colleagues she lost, and provides a rare glimpse into what it meant to choose a career in science as a woman half a century ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins India
• Release date: Aug 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9789362130853

Sudipta Sengupta

Sudipta Sengupta obtained her PhD in geology from Jadavpur University. Between 1973 and 1979, she carried out post-doctoral research work at Imperial College, London, and at the Institute of Geology, Uppsala University. Upon her return to India, she joined the Geological Survey of India. In 1982, she joined Jadavpur University as a lecturer and retired in 2011 as professor. She continued her research there as INSA Senior Scientist till 2016. She was one of the two women to participate in the Indian Antarctic Expedition in 1983–84. During her career, Sudipta has published numerous important research papers in reputed journals and a bestselling book on Antarctica in Bengali. She is a recipient of the Shanti Swarup Bhatnagar Prize for Science and Technology, the National Mineral Award, the Antarctic Award, the Geological Society of India Women Scientist Award and the D.N. Wadia Medal, among others. She is a Fellow of the Indian National Science Academy and West Bengal Academy of Science and Technology. A trained mountaineer, Sudipta is the lone surviving summiteer of an expedition to a Himalayan peak that has been successfully climbed only once. She is a member of the Indian Mountaineering Foundation.

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BREAKING

ROCKS AND

BARRIERS

BREAKING

ROCKS AND

BARRIERS

Memoirs of

a Geologist and

Mountaineer

SUDIPTA

SENGUPTA

First published in India by HarperCollins Publishers 2024

4th Floor, Tower A, Building No. 10, DLF Cyber City,

DLF Phase II, Gurugram, Haryana – 122002

HarperCollins Publishers

Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper

Dublin 1, D01 C9W8, Ireland [e-mail]

www.harpercollins.co.in

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright © Sudipta Sengupta 2024

P-ISBN: 978-93-6213-721-0

E-ISBN: 978-93-6213-085-3

The views and opinions expressed in this book are the author’s own and the facts are as reported by her, and the publishers are not in any way liable for the same.

Sudipta Sengupta asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers. Without limiting the author’s and publisher’s exclusive rights, any unauthorised use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercise their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserve this publication from the text and data mining exception.

Typeset in 11.5/15 Adobe Garamond at

Manipal Technologies Limited, Manipal

Printed and bound at

Thomson Press (India) Ltd

This book is produced from independently certified FSC® paper to ensure responsible forest management.

Version: 2025-07-02

To

Ma and Baba,

for giving me the freedom to be my true self

‘To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, ‘Ulysses’

Contents

1. My Foundation

2. Geology: The Music of the Earth

3. Mountains Calling

4. Remembering Ronti

5. Lalana: Triumph and Tragedy

6. A Professional Geologist

7. A Whole New World

8. Uppsala Days

9. In the Land of Reindeer

10. New Adventures

11. Journey to the End of the Earth

12. Terra Incognita

13. Antarctica Revisited

14. A Wonderful Journey

Acknowledgements

Index

My Foundation

Born to a middle-class Bengali family in Calcutta just a year before India gained independence, I had a happy childhood blessed with years of innocence and simplicity. We lived in Ballygunge Place, a comfortable neighbourhood in south Calcutta. Education was considered very important in our family, and my parents were broad-minded in their beliefs and ideas. My father was a man of science, a meteorologist with the Meteorological Department of the Government of India, while my mother, a university graduate, was a homemaker.

I was the youngest of three sisters and the darling of the family, much pampered by my father (whom we all called ‘Baba’). My mother, however, was careful to show equal affection to all her children. Despite the frequent comments from relatives and neighbours about not having a son, I don’t recall my parents ever showing any disappointment about it. Ma would always respond to those comments by saying that she was not worried about her children’s gender, as long as they turned out to be good human beings.

My parents did their best to make us self-sufficient and independent. While Baba’s main concern was our education, Ma was keen for us to also be culturally enriched through some music or dance training. My mother was a trained sitarist herself, though she rarely played her sitar after marriage. She was also a good singer. The eldest of us sisters—Sutapa, whom I called ‘Didi’—chose to learn Rabindra sangeet. The middle daughter—Sunanda, called ‘Tutul’—took up dancing. I usually followed Didi in most matters and so I too decided to learn singing. After my initial training in a local music school, I learned Rabindra sangeet from the renowned singer, Suchitra Mitra.

Most children in our extended family were quite fair-complexioned. However, Tutul and I were not. Many of our relatives would mention this regularly in front of us. In fact, the teasing had me quite worried. This was more so after an elder cousin told me that Tutul and I were the daughters of our dark-skinned nanny, Jashoda. The cousin went on to add that my mother had adopted us out of pity. I was only about three years old at that time and very gullible, and would get quite upset as I half-believed my cousin.

Jashoda was a widow with no family except for a daughter, who was married. She had been with us for a long time and had taken care of me since I was born. She loved me and treated me as her own daughter, always referring to me as her ‘koler meye’ (daughter of her lap). But after my cousin’s mean joke, that phrase only added to my worries and doubts about my parentage! Although I loved Jashoda very much, I still wanted to be my mother’s daughter, and felt rather hurt and confused.

Tutul, two years older, was quite nonchalant about the teasing. She dismissed it all as a stupid joke. ‘We are dark because Baba is dark,’ she told me. ‘It is as simple as that.’ My mother laughed when I finally told her. ‘Don’t react to your cousin,’ Ma said. ‘He is just teasing you!’ She then added, ‘Being dark or fair is not important. What matters is whether you are a good person or not.’

It was much later when I understood that it is quite common in India to tease dark-complexioned people about the colour of their skin. Even today, they face discrimination and humiliation in our society. This is reflected in the popularity of the various ‘fairness’ products sold in our country.

I remember Kalipada, the barber, who would visit us regularly. I loved to watch how he worked with his scissors and razor. After giving us sisters our haircuts, he would shout, ‘Mayeee!’ I would be waiting for that call and would run to him as soon as I heard it. He would then lift me up on his shoulders and carry me around the neighbourhood.

Once, I was very angry and upset with Kalipada for his perceived treachery after he shaved our heads on our mother’s instructions—a common practice in those days to improve the quality of hair. All three of us howled at him to stop, but to no avail. Tutul and I soon forgot about it—except for the times we passed a mirror. But Didi, older and more concerned about her appearance, simply refused to leave her room. To pacify her, Ma tied a black scarf on her head to give the illusion of hair.

By the early 1950s, the famine, riots, British oppression and Gandhiji’s assassination were all behind us. People were looking forward to a new, resurgent India with hope and expectation. The residents of our para, neighbourhood, were like an extended family. Everyone knew each other, and shared one another’s joys and sorrows. They all participated in family ceremonies, be it weddings or funerals. They also never hesitated to reprimand each other’s children when required.

The parar chheley, neighbourhood boys, were always available to help during celebrations or emergencies. They would organize the ceremonies during Durga Puja and other festivals. On Durga Puja nights, residents staged plays at the Durgabari. The female roles were also played by men. Some performances were very good.

I have great memories of those nights. We would go to Durgabari after dinner with other neighbourhood children to watch the plays. However, I would invariably fall asleep within an hour, as would the others. None of us ever watched an entire performance, but we still had a lot of fun.

When I was around twelve, I became friends with a seven-year-old boy next door. His name was Agni and he had a sister who was two years old. They would spend a lot of time in our house as their parents were doctors and were always busy. On Sunday mornings, our mothers allowed Agni and me to go into town and watch movies in the cinema halls. We would take the no. 25 tram to Esplanade, where cinema halls such as Metro, Lighthouse and New Empire were located.

We enjoyed hilarious films starring Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy and Buster Keaton. We often watched the same movie several times. It was quite an adventure to travel to these cinema halls by ourselves, unaccompanied by adults. It made me feel all grown up and independent. I wonder how many parents would allow their children to do this kind of thing now, or how safe it would be if they did.

Though later in life we became quite similar in our outlook, as children, my siblings and I were very unlike each other. Didi was a quiet, mild-mannered bookworm. Tutul, however, was naughty, fearless and a complete tomboy. She was the leader of the children’s gang in our neighbourhood. ‘Always stand upright and put your hands on your hips when you talk with your enemies,’ she once told me. Even older girls accepted Tutul’s leadership and domination. She was an expert at climbing trees and playing kabaddi. I was a hanger-on. At home, I would follow Didi and fight with Tutul, but outside I was an obedient disciple of our middle sister.

Yet, as we grew up, the equation inexplicably changed. Tutul became subdued and more interested in household chores, cooking and helping Ma around the house. She eventually became a fabulous cook, apart from being a very accomplished dancer. Didi and I became more assertive as we matured. Nonetheless, we preferred to stay at home and read books, but Tutul was very social and always had a large group of friends The three of us were still somewhat similar, as we remained independent and self-confident.

In our teenage years, though, as sisters, we were the best of friends but we also fought a lot. We chatted, argued, laughed, squabbled and discussed everything under the sun. We would sometimes burst into Rabindra sangeet at the top of our voices, often accompanied by Tutul’s dancing. Looking back, I feel that this was the best time of my life. We were happy-go-lucky, carefree and full of hope for the future. The deep bonding and the sense of belonging that developed amongst us sisters in those days have lasted a lifetime.

After Didi went to Presidency College, we loved to hear her talk about her experiences there. The Coffee House and the College Street bookshops seemed like such exciting places. Tutul would share stories of her rehearsals and dance performances. Our adda sessions, or chit-chat, usually took place after dinner and continued till late at night, interspersed with giggles and laughter. If we were too noisy, Ma would shush us and switch off the lights.

During exam season, it was Baba who would switch off our lights—but for a different reason. He did not believe cramming was beneficial, but we invariably resorted to it. After our father retired for the night, we would switch the lights back on and resume studying.

We didn’t have a television in the ’50s and ’60s but only had our books for entertainment. My sisters and I loved to read, and we had a regular supply of books that we received as birthday presents or school prizes. Our lives were enriched by an array of Bengali authors. I learned to recite Sukumar Ray’s delightful nonsensical poems from Abol Tabol even before I could read. I remember books with whimsical titles like ‘Ha-ja-ba-ra-la’ and ‘Pagla Dashu’.

My other favourites were Leela Majumdar and Shibram Chakraborty. Leela Majumdar’s stories would transport me to a fantasy world. It was through her writing that I first experienced magical realism. I read about an icy land beyond the oceans where the sun moved around the horizon all day and penguins walked around in black coats. I also longed for that golden feather of the mysterious yellow bird, which would make one a wanderer for life!

When I was older, I began reading English books from my father’s collection. My sisters and I had our desks in Baba’s study, alongside his own imposing table and several glass-paned wooden bookshelves full of his books. My father was a voracious reader and would buy books every month from second-hand book shops. After coming home from work, he would sit in his easy chair and read.

His interests ranged far and wide. In our home library, we had books penned by authors of different generations and nationalities. There were hardbound books, books bound in leather with golden inscriptions and the orange-and-white Penguin paperbacks. Even our neighbours and relatives would borrow books from my father.

When I started reading his books, it was as if a door to a different world had opened up. Not only was I exposed to English literature but I also learned about history, art, science and philosophy. Often, I would be so immersed in a book that I would continue to read it even during my study time, hiding it under my textbook! Baba never forbade us from reading anything. Only for some books did he ask me to wait for a while before reading them, so that I could better appreciate their content.

However, Ma was not so generous about the Bengali books she borrowed from the local library. She would always hide them and get angry if we touched them, as those were ‘Boroder boi’ (books for grown-ups). But I was curious and often read them surreptitiously, feeling quite guilty while doing so.

The roots of our family are in East Bengal (present-day Bangladesh). Both my grandfathers were schoolteachers. My mother’s father, Shashadhar Majumdar—whom we called ‘Dadamoni’—was the principal of a government school in Assam. My mother was born in Shillong and spent her childhood there. Later, her family lived in various places in Assam as Dadamoni was transferred from school to school. Dadamoni was very fond of travelling and would take his family on annual vacations.

My mother had three sisters and a brother. The children were brought up in a rich cultural milieu. Alongside their school education, the girls were taught knitting and embroidery, and were also encouraged to learn music. That was when my mother took up the sitar.

We called our maternal grandmother ‘Didimoni’. She was an excellent cook who passed on her expertise to her daughters. She was a very affectionate woman and we doted on her. Didimoni was our sanctuary whenever our mother admonished us.

After his retirement, Dadamoni purchased two adjoining houses in Ballygunge Place, a neighbourhood in south Calcutta. That was where my sisters and I grew up. During the Second World War, my maternal grandparents moved to Malda, where Dadamoni died a few years later.

My father’s side of the family is from Barisal. My paternal grandfather was Monoranjan Sengupta. We called him ‘Dadu’. He had lost his father at a very young age and grew up in luxury as an only child. He was a brilliant student and came to Calcutta to study mathematics at Presidency College. In the college hostel his roommate was Rajendra Prasad, who would go on to become the first President of India.

During his stay in Calcutta, Dadu’s relatives covered all his expenses, allowing him to lead an extravagant life. All that changed after his return to Mahilara, his village in Barisal district. There, he joined the Swadeshi movement and relinquished his claim to the ancestral property. He then left the village to move to Barisal town with his young wife.

Barisal was at the forefront of the Swadeshi movement. Dadu turned down well-paying jobs at academic and administrative institutions to join a group of like-minded young men and establish a Swadeshi school based on nationalist ideals. However, there was a constant shortage of funds. His wife, Sunitibala Debi, supported him even though she was from an affluent family.

My paternal grandparents had eight children—six sons and two daughters. My father was the second son. Dadu was a stern father who believed that sparing the rod would spoil the child. My paternal grandmother—‘Dida’ to us—did not believe in physical punishment. She made Dadu promise that he would not beat the children. While he gave her his word, he still found ways around this condition to discipline his children.

One of my father’s brothers found this out the hard way. One day, he was quite late to return home and was expecting a thrashing from his father. However, to his surprise, Dadu just handed him a letter to be delivered to the principal of his school at once. After reading the letter, the principal started caning my uncle without a word in explanation. Later, my uncle discovered that the letter had been a request from Dadu to cane his son!

Dida had a different method of punishing errant children—she would hide their schoolbooks. Since the children didn’t dare go to school without their books, they never repeated any mischief. Dida was much ahead of her time in her belief in gender equality. She taught all her children to learn to take care of household chores along with their studies. All of them, irrespective of their gender, helped with domestic chores. All six sons could cook reasonably well. They also became expert handymen.

Both my father’s sisters were younger than him. The older one, whom my sisters and I called ‘Boro Pishi’, was three years younger than my father. The younger sister—‘Moni Pishi’ to us—was born twenty years after my father! Boro Pishi graduated in mathematics and Sanskrit from B.M. College in Barisal and then taught at a school till she got married in 1938. Moni Pishi was a postgraduate in political science from Calcutta University. She also taught at a school before her marriage.

My father was exceptional at his studies. Seeing his brilliance, one of his wealthy relatives took him to Rangpur. After his matriculation, he continued with his higher studies there. He graduated in physics from Carmichael College in Rangpur, was awarded several gold medals and won a scholarship for further studies at Science College in Calcutta. He took a part-time job at a library to cover his living expenses.

After completing his MSc, he wanted to pursue a career in academics, but the financial constraints of his family back in Barisal compelled him to find a job. He joined the Indian Meteorological Department in 1935. Four years later he married my mother, Puspa Rani Majumdar, and they moved to a small flat in Calcutta.

Undivided Bengal was going through a tumultuous time in the 1940s. With famine, communal riots and violent protests against the British, the situation was only worsening in Barisal. In 1944, my father’s family decided to move permanently to Calcutta. Dadamoni graciously offered them the ground floor of his house in Ballygunge Place, and they lived there for over five years. However, three years after the move, Dadu died. He was sixty-two. Sadly, he did not survive to see Independence, for which he had sacrificed so much, nor could he witness the future successes of his children.

At the time of Dadu’s death, only his eldest son and Baba were working—the rest were still students. Fortunately, all of them were talented and industrious, and got good government jobs within a few years. Gradually, all my uncles moved out from Ballygunge Place to live near their places of work. Only Moni Pishi remained with us to complete her education. She was only seven when my parents got married and they always treated her like a daughter.

My parents had fairly dissimilar personalities. My father was sombre and reticent, and preferred to be in his own world. Being scholarly and learned, he was well-respected by our neighbours and extended family members. Despite the reverence people had for him, they kept their distance because Baba did not care much for company. His favourite pastime was reading. When I close my eyes, I can still see him reading a book in his easy chair with a cigarette between his fingers. He was a chain-smoker, but had to give up the habit in later years.

Baba loved to teach. Tutorial homes were non-existent at that time and very few people had private tutors. If someone in our family or neighbourhood was struggling with physics or mathematics, Baba was happy to tutor them if he was approached for help. Years later, I met people well-established in their professions who told me that they had been taught by my father in their younger days.

Baba always helped us with our studies when we were in school. Once, a neighbour came over when Baba was teaching me mathematics. He commented, ‘What is the point of teaching them all these? In a few years they will get married and then spend their lives in the kitchen cooking for others.’ This made my father visibly angry. ‘When they grow up, it will be entirely their choice to cook or do mathematics,’ he retorted. ‘In either case, I will be happy. I will do my bit to help them study and I don’t really care whether they get married or not.’ That put an end to any further discussion on that subject!

I did not realize it then, but I now appreciate his exceptionalism to be so unconcerned about societal pressures. He gave us the freedom to choose what we wanted to do with our lives. My mother supported him, and ignored comments from friends and relatives on this matter. They also supported Tutul when she chose to marry a professional dancer, and never pressured Didi or me to marry when we chose to remain single. This was in contrast to many of our friends, who had to get married against their wishes and give up their career ambitions. Even today, it is common for parents to force daughters to get married instead of helping them become self-sufficient and financially independent.

Baba was agnostic, whereas Ma was a believer. There were no disagreements about this since they respected each other’s way of life. Like her parents, Ma was influenced by the teachings of Ramakrishna. She also observed Lakshmi and Saraswati pujas at home like most Bengali families. Baba would help with the arrangements and shopping, but he never took part in the rituals. However, every Christmas, Baba would bring cakes home without fail. His ideas were very different to that of most men of his time. Even in family matters, he stood by his wife in a joint family where young daughters-in-law could be hurt in many different ways by their in-laws.

My mother was an affable and easy-going person. She was adored by everyone in our family, and my sisters and I were closer to her than we were to our father. She was emotional, kind and soft, yet strong and independent. She was always ready to help anyone in need. For both sides of our extended family, she was the most popular and dependable member, and always in demand during any kind of crisis.

Ma was in charge of the family finances. Baba would hand over his salary after keeping a small amount for his own expenses. She chose our schools, extracurricular activities and even our clothes. If any of us fell sick, she would arrange for the doctor as such matters would make Baba nervous. He would leave it to her to decide the course of treatment.

Our mother was also a strict disciplinarian. I remember, as children, when there were guests at home, we were never allowed to stay in the room after the initial pleasantries were exchanged. One stern look from her and we would obediently leave the room. If our guests brought children, we were supposed to take them to our room. She did not permit us to listen in on the gossip and discussions the adults invariably indulged in during such visits.

My first extended trip outside Calcutta was at the age of five, when Ma, Moni Pishi, my sisters and I visited Lucknow in the summer of 1951. That was where our father’s younger brother, Sudhi Ranjan, was posted. He was our favourite uncle and we called him ‘Boro Kaku’. He was an engineer and had been the first in our family to travel to England, where he had spent some time in training.

After he returned from England, he moved into a bungalow with a large lawn on Havelock Road in Lucknow with one of his brothers. He brought back gifts from England for each of us. They were simple things such as pencil boxes or other little souvenirs, but for us they became the most precious possessions of our childhood.

Lucknow was a beautiful city with historical monuments, but what thrilled me the most was sleeping on charpoys in the lawn under the open sky. There was a zoo very close to the house. At night, I could hear the roars of the tigers and the lions there. I remember being very scared about what would happen if they decided to visit us when we were asleep!

We spent our days playing with my uncle’s small spaniel, Jackie, running around the big compound and over the flowerbeds that my uncle had spent hours preparing. I even managed to trip down the stairs while chasing Jackie and had to suffer three stitches on my forehead. After being subdued for a few days, I resumed my adventures.

That was when a letter from my father arrived. We were asked to return to Calcutta immediately as he had been transferred to Kathmandu in Nepal. Baba had been deputed from the Indian Meteorological Department to open a meteorological office and laboratory there, as Nepal did not have its own department at the time. We would be moving to Kathmandu for a few years and needed to prepare for it.

Upon returning to Calcutta, we were thrilled to learn that we would be flying to Kathmandu. None of the children we knew had ever stepped into an airplane. We had only seen tiny planes flying high above us. To be able to fly in an airplane and see the land from the sky would be a dream come true! I kept asking Baba all sorts of questions: How do planes fly? How high will we go? How far is Nepal? Will we cross the Himalayas? My questions were never-ending but Baba answered them patiently. 

My parents got busy preparing for the journey. Ma bought us clothes from New Market. Normally, we would get new clothes only during Durga Puja and on our birthdays, so the excitement of getting new clothes and shoes was tremendous! Baba took us to a famous shop called J.S. Mohamedally in Chowringhee and bought us overcoats. Didi got a blue one, while Tutul and I got bright red coats.

In 1952, flights between Kathmandu, Patna and