Stars in the Sky
Two days ago, after a small-scale celebration of my dad’s 75th birthday, I had to drop my sister and my five-year-old niece Aarushi to my sister’s in-laws’ place. Sitting behind me on the scooter my niece looked at the sky and asked her mother, “Amma, how come there are so many stars in the sky?”
Living in a polluted city, though she has seen stars, it is beyond her imagination that there are countless stars in the sky. From countable dots in the sky, as seen in the city where they live, suddenly in our small town the stars became innumerable scattered pearls shining brightly… That which is natural appeared unnatural to her and that which should have caused wonderment puzzled her.
As I continued to drive the scooter I wondered if this is what we have done to ourselves in a bigger way… The natural potential of human free will, the expanse of human imagination, the depth of human hearts, the possibility of creative existence– have they all been lost sight of because of the polluted ways of life orchestrated by profit-hungry economic systems that reduce humans to consumers and by politics of power which reduces humans to identities. Have we limited the possibilities of the human world so much that when we occasionally catch a small glimpse of the width and depth of life-affirmative energies, actions, and gestures, they puzzle us and cause a kind of disbelief? The natural appears unnatural and the richness and beauty of human life are looked at with suspicion.
I am still wondering how many stars are there in the sky and how many I have lost sight of.
Rebuilding Relationships
Aarushi, my five-year-old niece, asked me to read her the storybook ‘Best Friends, a book she borrowed from her school library. The story ‘Best Friends’ is about two Hippos named Keesha and Ebenezeer.
One day, in the story, Keesha’s knicker gets torn and is gifted a colorful handmade knicker by Ebenezeer. Keesha accepts it happily. The next day when she wears it to school, she finds Ebenezeer also wearing a similar knicker. He had tailored a similar knicker for him as well. Seeing both wearing colorful knickers other hippos laugh at them. It doesn’t impact Ebenezeer but does embarrass Keesha. She returns the gift to Ebenezeer. Hurt by this act, Ebenezeer doesn’t go to school the next day. Keesha realized why and went to meet Ebenezer at his home. But he did not open the door. Keesha wrote an apology letter to Ebenezeer and the next day they both wore their colorful knickers again. The story ends by saying Keesha cared more for friendship.
What really moved me is how the story resolves the issue. Keesha not just realizes her mistake and makes an effort to reach out to Ebenezeer, but also apologizes genuinely, and more importantly, repairs the damage exactly where it is broken. She wearing the colourful knicker is not a result of mending things, but an act towards mending things.
What I’ve experienced & witnessed, in many & also myself, is the inability to do the last bit- attending to the wound in its exact place. Many of us do realize the hurt caused, & do feel apologetic too. But we fail/ fall short of expressing genuine apology & cementing the exact place where things have cracked. Instead, we do some compensatory work, which is good, but probably not sufficient.
Recently someone told me that the one who causes wounds cannot cure it. I said I don’t agree. Though I had read such statements earlier (and disagreed every time), nobody had ever told those words to me. When someone did tell me, I couldn’t tell them why I disagreed. I could’ve elaborated, but didn’t. Today I have found clarity in crispness for my disagreement. But it is a bit late, I guess.
How many times do we fail others, ourselves, and each other not just by caring what the world says and/ or by using our rationale to eclipse what is our natural instinct- to connect like Keesha and Ebenezeer!
Cinema, Life and Me- The Three of Us
Whether it is the algorithm or popularity, I don’t know; but reviews, recommendations, and even screen-grabs of Avinash Arun’s film Three of Us have been appearing majorly on my feed; & that has prompted me to write/ share this experience, not just because it is around Three of Us, but also because 2023 is coming to end and…
A senior friend/ mentor invited me for a private screening of the film Three of Us, sometime in early 2023. The plan was to watch the film, talk at length, have dinner, and then disperse. But halfway through the film, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold any conversation about the film, not just because the film was too good to be discussed immediately but also because…
Soon after the end credits rolled, we all sat in silence. A few words were exchanged, & immediately I canceled the dinner plan & left the place.
As I walked to the metro station, I searched for a particular number on my phone & walked a long way holding my fingers just above the dial button. I wanted to dial that number, take an appointment, take a detour, and meet that person… I wanted to reconnect, reconcile, reunite, & restart. Or at least healthily communicate the same & check what are the possibilities of it. Or at least, discuss & find a closure…
My mind played several scenarios of what could happen if I chose to call this person & meet her. I reached the metro station without having made the call. I had to just dial the number, take her appointment, and buy a ticket to go to where she stays. But I couldn’t pull the courage.
I bought the ticket to go home. On reaching home, I just broke down. Wept endlessly.
It is easy to create a world of Yash Chopra or Karan Johar & make the audience feel, ‘I wish life was like cinema’. But is much harder to make a film on a subject like this & make the audience feel life was like cinema. Avinash Arun achieves that.
When I narrated this experience to a friend, I was asked whether I felt comforted by Three of Us. I responded by saying, “I wish life was like cinema. There is at least a closure if not reconciliation. Life is harder. Too hard to be comforted by the cinema. Especially when epic possibilities & potentials get aborted.”
Collaboration is completion
My newly published book- translation of Jacinta Kerketta’s poetry collection into Kannada- has a striking image created by Vandita Jain on its cover page.
Recently when my friend Divya visited us, I gave her a copy of my book. Her daughter Jhari was also present.
The next day Divya recollected what Jhari told her after I left. Jhari picked up the book, looked at the image on the cover, and said to her mother, “I don’t understand Kannada but this book looks interesting.” When asked what about the book did she find interesting, she replied saying, “The leaf is cut and not full”. The mother asked the daughter why she found the half leaf interesting and the ten-year-old Jhari said, “The rest is for us to complete in our minds.”
I think her response tells us something about children– they don’t like to be ‘told’ or ‘shown’ or ‘taught’ but like to be ‘invited’ to the game/ process/ learning.
Jhari’s response also makes me realize why the best of art, and above all poetry appeal to us so deeply. They don’t give us things in complete form. They invite us to join the dots and complete the picture or rather make our own picture. It triggers our imagination!
Probably Jhari’s response also suggests that reality alone doesn’t ‘complete’ things and the real becomes real and complete only with the handshake of imagination.
In addition, her response also reflects the true nature of human life– we have to collaborate towards completion, and that is the joy of life and that is what makes life interesting and fulfilling. Isn’t it? To collaborate towards completion. Or, maybe the completion is in the act of collaboration itself. Collaboration is completion.
Having Faith in Fixing Things
When Rumi gifted me his painting, I was happy. But I also wondered, heart in the heart without making it visible, how would I carry the painting home, given I had an overnight bus journey to make to reach home, before which I had to travel within the city to go meet my sister and my niece. Love will find its way- I told myself.Â
Rumi asked Appu Sir to pack the painting and I left for my sister’s home. On the auto rickshaw to the metro, I carefully placed the painting on the seat and gently placed my hand over it to ensure the jerks on the road wouldn’t make the painting fall from the seat. When I had to enter the metro station, I had to run all my bags through the scanning machine. The security person wouldn’t let me carry in my hand something that was covered so neatly. Along with my bags, I placed the painting as well. As I left my belongings to run through the scanner and went to the guard to get myself scanned, I heard a ‘thak’ sound from the scanning machine. As I turned around I saw my bags coming out of the scanner, followed by the neatly covered painting with the paper cover torn on the edge. I realized that probably the frame of the painting is broken. When I swiftly walked to collect my bags and painting, I touched the frame where the covering was torn, and yes, the frame was broken. But the cover held the frame tight, ensuring the frame wouldn’t fall apart. I held it carefully and took the metro.
While in the metro I told myself that on reaching my sister’s home I would use good-quality glue and fix the frame before taking the night bus. I also told myself that I would keep the painting with me in my hand on the bus, to ensure it was safe.
On getting down at the metro station closer to my sister’s place, I called my sister to ask for the map, and my sister said she would book a rickshaw for me. I, the technologically paralyzed, agreed to it for it was convenient. Holding the painting close to my chest, and carrying my bag like a cross on Christ’s back, I got down the stairs of the station, I stood by the road waiting for the booked rickshaw to arrive. It was mid-noon, and the sun was a bit unkind. So, I walked slightly towards the stairs of the metro and stood there under the shade. The driver canceled the booking. My sister booked another rickshaw. I continued to wait. As I waited, suddenly I felt some movement before my eyes, and heard a ‘dhup’ sound! A lump of pigeon shit had fallen from above. I looked up and there were many pigeons there. Checking whether the pigeon shit fell on my dress, I walked a bit away from where I stood. As I walked, I was relieved that the pigeon shit hadn’t fallen on my dress. But then my eyes moved to the painting and there, the pigeon shit had fallen on the painting I was holding close to my chest, hence my dress was clean. There was pigeon shit very close to the place where the cover had torn because of the scanning machine. I immediately checked if the pigeon had conspired against me and shat right through the torn part of the cover. Thankfully my fear was proven wrong. But I saw the pigeon shit because of its dampness was slowly weakening the paper cover around it. Just then the rickshaw arrived and I got into it.
As soon as I got into the rickshaw I took out my notebook from the bag, tore a page, and tried wiping off the pigeon shit from the cover so that its dampness doesn’t tear the page and automatically the shit won’t fall onto the painting. But by then the area had become wet and the paper weak. When I tried to cleanse the pigeon shit, the paper that had covered the painting tore even more. As it tore, my heart also tore. I feared the shit falling on the painting and ruining the painting. So, I decided to remove the paper that was used by Appu Sir to neatly cover the painting. I pulled off the paper quickly not wanting the painting to get spoilt. When I pulled the cover, one part of the frame fell down! The cover had held the frame together even after it was broken by the scanning machine. The pigeon had forced me to remove the cover and now the frame was in two pieces- one piece on the floor and the other in my hand, still holding the painting in its arms. As I bent down to pick one part of the frame, my grip on the other part of the frame that held the painting weakened a bit and the wind almost blew away the painting. I dropped the part of the frame that I was picking up and held the painting. I gently placed my feet on the broken part of the frame that was on the floor, to make sure the bumpy road and ride wouldn’t throw the frame out of the rickshaw. I wondered why this painting was being tested so much in such a short span. Gathering myself, I told myself to not drown in such thoughts when the moment demanded I take care of the painting.
Allowing myself to breathe deeply to calm myself, I slowly picked up the other broken side of the frame and held it in my hand. The painting was constantly fluttering like a flag. I decided to free it from the other part of the broken frame. I gently took it out and placed the broken parts of the frame on the seat. With my hands, I held the painting, tight enough to ensure the wind didn’t carry it away and gentle enough to ensure the paper on which the painting was made didn’t crumble.
When the rough driving of the auto driver, in the middle of unruly traffic, on a badly maintained road, made it difficult to hold on to the painting, the broken pieces of the frame, my bags difficult, and sitting even more difficult, I wondered if I should just let the broken frame and just get a new frame done for the painting on reaching home. But for some reason, I just held to everything even when holding on to them wasn’t difficult. It felt like a summarized version of my own life, and my recent reality. My thoughts were connecting this incident to many episodes of life and as these thoughts sucked me in, tears began to well up in my eyes. Soon I pulled myself out of these thoughts when I saw holding on to all the broken parts, the precious painting, and my bag(gages) required a lot of effort and concentration.
When I got off the auto-rickshaw, it was difficult to pull out the bag, put it on my back, while not letting the painting crumble, ensuring the broken parts of the frame do not fall apart, and at the same time balance all of them while signing at the security gate of my sister’s apartment. It became even more difficult to press the elevator button with so much to carry and me having only two hands. I somehow held them all and reached my sister’s home.
On seeing the painting in my hand, my niece Aarushi asked me why am I carrying the painting in my hand. I told her that the frame had broken and I had no other option. She kept looking at the painting and then saw the broken pieces of the frame. She then asked how did it break. I almost wanted to say it broke because of my being ill-fated. But that wouldn’t make any sense for her. So, I asked her if she would help me fix the frame. She said, “Okay.” Later in the day with the help of my sister and Aarushi, I fitted the painting inside a broken frame first and then using high-quality glue fixed the frame and let the glue dry.
That night when going to board the bus, I had to be more careful, not just because of the fear ripples created by the experience in the day, but also because with the frame being broken and fixed again, it was more vulnerable. I kept it beside me while sleeping and then carefully brought it home.Â
Now, the painting is in my room, and whenever I look at it, I am reminded not just of Rumi’s affection and the struggle I went through to bring it home, but also reminded, contrary to popular belief, that it is not a sign of foolishness to hold on to broken things. Additionally, it need not necessarily be considered wise to leave behind things. Especially when they get broken because of the ways of the world and negative coincidences. Disposing of things easily without giving them a chance to be fixed, is a sign of a lack of faith in life. Holding on to broken things isn’t a bad thing, when one sees the possibility of fixing them- I realize. It is life-affirmative energy. But, at the same time, it requires not just seeing the possibility but also patience and cooperation. Life experience tells me that sometimes we don’t find the latter, even when the earlier dawns on us. The possibility of the earlier doesn’t dawn on many because a capitalist, consumerist, market-driven society has tuned us and our thoughts in a way that scarcely can have faith in fixing things, giving things a chance, maybe a second chance. Now this painting with its frame, tells me that if given a chance things can come back to life, at least in some situations. I hope life confirms and affirms this learning in other realms of life too.
Beauty and Safety at the Cost of Truth
Celine Song’s directorial debut Past Lives did not captivate me the way it seems to have moved many. Yet, when I watched it in mid-July, it left me with some thoughts. But, people’s deeply emotional response to the film pushed me to second-guess my own views. It made me wonder if I failed to grasp something crucial. But parking aside my self-doubt, I am publicly sharing some thoughts that I had shared with some friends weeks ago.
Nora and Hae, the key characters in the film, frustrated me because of their unwillingness to engage with their emotions wholly. The two are reluctant to meet eyes with their feelings. To use an allegory, the two are reluctant to place their feet on the floor. Even when they do, they make sure their feet are covered with layers of socks and a shoe, which makes the floor and feet meet yet not meet. The fear of dirtying the feet, or worse, the fear of the possibility of thorns or pebbles injuring their feet seems to be high. In wanting to ensure safety, the two deprive themselves of experiencing life in its real sense. Be it love, be it fondness, be it pain, be it longing, be it yearning, the two look at their emotions from a slight distance, and hence are unable to meet each other, and sadly, also themselves.
Both Nora and Hae find partners in their own orbits because coincidentally things work out conveniently for them, with no risk involved, and no labor required. The two almost settle down for what just works out easily and refuse to work for love that holds the potential to expand their inner horizons.
Some argue that the film is about such characters. I don’t find it not entirely convincing. For a film to be of characters who can’t embrace their own hearts wholeheartedly, it (the film) need not become like its characters. If the film is about such characters, it could explore the inscape of such characters, the reasons for characters to be so, and/ or the repercussions of choosing to live in such a manner. The film, like the characters, seems to be scared of exploring what lies beneath the surface and what lies beyond what the eyes can see and (conscious) mind can perceive. The unknown scares the characters and the film too.
To add to the disappointment, the characters don’t want to acknowledge their fear of emotions. Instead of embracing emotions or confronting the emotions, the characters take refuge in philosophy (‘In-Yun’) and convince themselves that it is the ‘meaning’ of their state of being. Humans taking the help of the wisdom of people who have walked on the path of life earlier is not a crime. It is something humans have always done. But there is a difference between taking shade under philosophies while grappling with reality while trying to make sense of things while struggling with life, world, and self, and taking shelter in philosophies to avoid meeting eyes with reality, the situation, and the self. To use wisdom, or philosophy as an excuse to avoid confronting a situation and justifying/ reasoning/ absolving one’s own inactions, is an act of self-deception.
The film too, like the characters, uses this philosophy/ wisdom to run away from diving into the depths of the situation and understanding itself. The characters and the film use this as a crutch to compensate for their own inability to embrace themselves and confront themselves. But they do it in an extremely lyrical way, and convince themselves, and also try convincing the audience that the lyricism is poetry, and the situation at hand is just poetic. Sadly, the lyrical nature of the film is just superficial and it isn’t poetry in its depth. Even the characters and their (in)actions seem complex, because of this lyrical presentation and the coloring through philosophy, but at its heart is nothing but an inability to feel wholly, live wholly, and a reflection of the compromise made to live a rather shallow lie than explore deeper truths.
Not surprisingly this is the kind of humans we all are becoming, or rather have already become. When I ask my students to watch a film, before watching the film they wish to know the IMDB ratings, read some reviews, and make up their minds about the film even before watching the film. Many friends wish to know the ratings of the restaurant they wish to go to. People want to be sure of the people they are meeting for a possible romantic/ sexual encounter. These are just a few examples.
Of course, one can justify these behaviors in one or the other way, but at the depths of it, these are nothing but the fear of the unknown, unwillingness to explore the unknown, wanting to be risk-free, wanting to be in complete control of the situation, even if it results in limiting the scope of the experience life can offer.
The saddest part of it is that we have all become intelligent enough to lie to ourselves and convince ourselves that the lie is the truth. We are all capable of doing it in an aesthetic and philosophical way too. Past Lives and its characters too do the same. For safety they deny the truth and dodge the truth, but all in great beauty!
So finally there is beauty, there is safety, but there is no truth.
The characters live a lie, having convinced themselves it is the truth. The film too compromises on truth while being superficially beautiful, believing that beauty created through (self) deception can compensate for the absence of truth.
If this is the truth of us as human beings in the new life conditions, the film could have at least gone beyond that and explored more about this phenomenon. But it too lacks the heart and courage to embrace reality and confront it. It too, like its characters, is more than happy to settle down for a beautiful lie.
In beautifying such a self-deceptive shallow living, the film is almost okaying such an existence. That, for me, is the most discomforting thing about the film.
(Thoughts shared with a couple of friends via whatsapp text on 02 Aug 2023)
Only Living Can Heal Us From Life
In a class with the ongoing batch, while discussing a particular script on the subject of organ donation, a student whose mother- a health professional- had closely worked with organ donors, shared an important piece of information.
When organ donation happens, he said, the donor also goes through risks as much as the receiver, and the donor’s healing and recovery requires as much care, attention, assistance, and support as the receiver requires.
It means, the donors, like the ones receiving the organ, are at a risk in the absence of proper care, and the path to recovery of donors is equally tedious, tiring and long, like that of receivers.
It doesn’t take much of an imagination to extend this learning and arrive to an understanding on how it is the same with emotional labor too.
If those providing support, care and comfort to people at an emotional and (non-religious) spiritual level, do not find sufficient support and care, eventually they will become deflated at the level of human life-spirit.
Life is not easy, and living is the only solution for the question, the puzzle that life is. Only living can heal us from life. Living is not and cannot be an individual work. It is a collective work. At an emotional and (non-religious) spiritual level, we all have to become the donors and none of us can escape being receivers.
To make this easy for all, the least we have to do is offer each other sufficient assistance, attention, support and care. Also, ensure some do not become permanent receivers and some do not remain perpetual donors. More importantly, by being there for each other at the deepest emotional and spiritual level, and making sure our (in)actions do not damage people, and does not interrupt their living and healing, while they receive and donate as a part of this collective exercise called living.
The Lost Child
At 3:45 hrs this morning, I woke up from sleep feeling uneasy.
I don’t know where I was until a few seconds ago. It was a place I have never been to. I was walking on the roads of that unknown land, looking at the architecture of the city. I was so absorbed wondering what place it was and wondering what life there was like, without me realizing it, a dog began to follow me. I, who is scared of dogs, instinctually tried chasing the dog away, but did not succeed. I tried walking fast to escape the dog, but it caught pace and continued to follow me. It kept coming close and rubbing its body against my leg. I kept pushing it away, but it kept returning. When I pushed it for the nth time, the dog turned into a child! The child was around 3-4 year old and was crying non-stop. Saying something in a language that I couldn’t follow, the child kept coming towards me. Ached to see the child weep, ached by not understanding what it was saying, moved by its attempt to say something to me, and coming towards me, I thought the least I could do was hold the child. But the child turned away when I tried to pick it up. When I still went ahead and tried to hold it, the child twisted itself and slipped from my hands. When I took two steps back wondering what did the child want, it again walked towards me saying something in a language that I do not follow. I stood motionless wondering what to do and the child just kept crying and repeating what it was saying. Unfortunately I couldn’t console this child. I tried leaving it behind and moving ahead, since I couldn’t do anything.
But the child kept following me. I stopped, turned around and tried asking people passing by us, what the child was saying. Someone stopped by and told me something in a language which sounded familiar, but still I couldn’t understand what they said about the child. I stopped another person and requested them to translate the child’s words for me. Again, the language they spoke in was familiar but still I couldn’t understand what they spoke about the child. While I kept trying to converse with random people and bridge the gap between this child and me, the child kept crying endlessly and continuing to repeat what it was saying from the moment we met accidentally. It kept extending its hand towards me, but refused to be picked up by me. Strangely, none of the people around us tried consoling this child or even asked the child what was the matter. They all went their way, went on with their lives. Maybe I too would have done the same had the child not followed me. Since the child was crying and saying something to me, it was not possible for me to ignore it.
Distressed by not finding a key to this locked moment, I woke up. Even after I had escaped that dream, in my heart, I could still hear the child weeping and its words, spoken in an alien language, kept echoing in all the chambers of my heart. I wondered who the child could be speaking to when I snapped out of the dreamscape. The fact that the child followed only me, and the fact that nobody else bothered about the weeping child, made my heart ache. Despite all my concerns, I couldn’t go back to the same dream, to try and console the child or/ and try and understand what it was saying.
I hope this child finds someone else in their dream who it can weep to, and hope that in that someone’s dream its words will be understood, and in that someone’s dream it will not refuse to be held by that someone, and hopefully then the child will stop weeping.
I hope that child will forgive me for failing to understand what it had to say, for failing to console it and forgive me also for abandoning it by snapping out of the dream. I hope that child is safe till it finds the path into someone else’s dreamscape.
The Real Lokamanya
“To combat a deadly disease, drastic remedies are required,” said Dr. Ambedkar when some around him wondered if the decision to go to Mahad and drink the water from the Chowdar lake was an “impatient” one. Following the act of Babasahaeb and his comrades of concern, the upper-caste people of Mahad had not just beaten up the Dalits of the village but also performed a ritual to ‘purify’ the Chowdar lake, which according to them had been polluted by the untouchables. Mere education, creation of awareness and exposing the truth of scriptures wouldn’t be sufficient to battle untouchability, opined Ambedkar and decided to launch another Satyagraha at Mahad.
This decision was welcomed and supported by the non-Brahmin leaders Dinkarrao Javalkar and Keshavrao Jede. But the two leaders had a condition for Dr. Ambedkar. They wanted no Brahmin to participate in the proposed conference at Mahad or in the whole of the second phase of Mahad satyagraha. The bitter memory of what had happened in Mahad earlier was probably what prompted Javalkar and Jede to make such a request, and it was not unjustified. Babasaheb strictly said no to the condition put forth by Javalkar and Jede saying “the view that all Brahmins were the enemies of Untouchables was erroneous,” and explained that what he hated was the men who were possessed with the spirit of Brahminism. He added that “a non-Brahmin filled with such ideas of highness and lowness was a repellent” to him as a “Brahmin free from this spirit and sense of these privileges and unjust power” was welcome to him.
The stand taken by Ambedkar, so different from the position of Javalkar and Jede, reflects the worldview of his. In addition, it is possible, it is a glimpse also of his own experiences- shaped by some true allies of anti-caste struggle coming from the Brahmin community. One among them, a close associate of Ambedkar and his fight against Untouchability was Shridhar Balwant Tilak alias Shridharpanth!
Shridharpanth who founded the Pune branch of Samata Samaaj Sangh, an organization started by Ambedkar, and also served as its Vice-President, was the son of Balgangadhar Tilak. “It is a miracle that an Ambedkarite was born in an extremely brahminical set-up,” says Shatrughn Jadhav, author of a book on Shridharpanth and his close association with Ambedkar.
Though it shouldn’t be expected of the children that they always follow the footpath of the parent, the overpowering influence the family environment has on individuals, especially during their formative years, is undeniable. An Ambedkaraite coming out from the Tilak family appears like a miracle, not just because of the influence parental figures have on children, but also because the battle of ideology, and the social-political and legal fights that were happening between the two camps, the conservative Brahmin nationalists, whose idea of a nation was based on a castist idea of a society, and the non-Brahmin warriors of social justice, who envisioned political independence through the lens of social justice.
The intensity of the battle between these two streams can be better understood by having a closer look at the saarvajanik ganeshotsav (collective celebration of Ganesha festival) in Pune.
At the end of the 19th century Sardar Krishanji Kashinath alias Nanasaheb Khajgiwale witnessed the public celebration of Ganesha festival in Gwalior and replicated the same in Pune the next year. Though there was only three public celebrations of Ganesha that year in Pune, the idea captured the imagination of Balagangadhar Tilak who in his Kesari editorial wrote great words of appreciation about the new culture. As a result of this and the calculated and concentrated effort of Tilak around 150 public celebration of Ganesh were held in Pune the next year.
Sarvajanik Ganeshotsav popularized by Tilak has been hailed as a master stroke since it played a role in mobilizing people against the colonial rule. But along with creating a political awareness against the colonial regime, these public celebrations were also used as political tools or weapons against the majority of Indians. This needs a bit of an elaboration. Those days with the blessings of Balagangadhar Tilak a music troupe named Sanmitra Mela, who sang during the Ganesha festival. The songs of the Sanmitra Mel would ridicule and belittle the political opponents of Tilak, namely Gopalkrishna Gokhale, Firoze Shah Mehta, Rajaram Shastri Bhagawat and the song package of Sanmitra Mela also had songs that were anti Dalits and spat venom on girls going to school, and upholding the views of Tilak against girl education. These songs were harming beyond the public celebrations, when children listening to these songs would go to school and repeat them before girls and Dalits. Many of the girls and Dalits finding it humiliating, in addition to other humiliations caused by caste discriminations, opted out of school! This condescending and dehumanizing music culture continued for many years with the blessings of Tilak.
Some years later, as a response to the Sanmitra Mela, under the guidance and leadership of Jede and Javalkar a new music troupe came into existence. The new troupe was called Chatrapati Mela. The songs churned out by the Chatrapati Mela sang the glory of Shivaji, Shahu Maharaj and mainly Phule. The songs also took on themselves to spread the values lived and upheld by these icons and leaders. Also, the songs of Chatrapati Mela critiqued the vision and action of the Tilakites. Javalkar collected these songs and published them as a book under the title Chatrapati Padya Sangrah.
The fight between these two forces got so intense that from mere battle of bands, it got physical when to combat Tilakites formed a vigilante group to tame the Chatrapati Mela. In response to this move by the Tilakites, another group of vigilantes was formed by Jede and Javalkar.
If one is to observe this battle of titans closely, it does seem like a miracle that an Ambedkarite emerged from the house of Tilak!
Shridharpanth, unlike his father Balagangadhar Tilak, held views against untouchability, girl child marriage, shaving the heads of widows, and also worked towards their abolition. This shows how his views and understanding came very close to that of Babasaheb, who in his writings had shown how these very elements – girl child marriage, enforced widowhood, degradation of widows- were at the heart of caste system’s formation. Hence fighting against these matters were essential to the politics of Ambedkar and preaching superficially against untouchability alone wasn’t sufficient to annihilate caste. Shridharpanth shared this dream, and also worked with Ambedkar on the same lines.
Even before coming into contact with Ambedkar, Shridharpanth held progressive opinion and anti-caste views. He would argue with his father saying political freedom and social justice are both important, while his father largely believed that the matters of social justice were a mark of ‘loss of nationality’ and it ‘denationalized’ persons. This deviation of Shridharpanth from the path of his father caused a lot of discomfort among the colleagues and followers of Balagangadhar Tilak.
The discomfort of Tilakites reached its peak because of three reasons. One, the political views of Shridharpanth became sharp after him coming to contact with Ambedkar. After the Dalit students’ conclave in Pune, the young Tilak not just took Ambedkar to Gaikwad-waada of Tilak, this and him starting the Pune branch of Samataa Samaaj Sangh made this friendship and camaraderie very clear and loud. To make it worse, outside the Gaikwad-wada he put a board that read ‘chaturvarnya vidhwamsak samiti’. These became the second reason. To top it all, Shridharpanth organized an inter-caste dining at Gaikwad-wada and invited nearly 200 people from the Untouchable communities, which included many singers and instrumentalists from the Chatrapati Mela. The main guest of this inter-caste dining was none other than Babasaheb Ambedkar. This became an unbearable matter for the Tilakites, majorly those from the Kesari-Marhatta Trust. They sweated quite a bit to stop this inter-caste dining from happening. When all their efforts failed they broke the electric wire and cut the power connection from Gaikwad-wada when the guests were about to arrive. Though this created a small commotion, Shridharpanth handled it calmly. He requested the members and allies of Samaaj Samtaa Sangh to bring in lanterns and lamps from their homes, which they did, and finally the inter-caste dining happened with hundreds of lamps and lanterns providing the necessary illumination.
What followed this was tragic!
The members of the Keasri-Marhatta Trust who were against the property being handed over to Shridharpanth, sketched conspiracy against him and his brother Rambhavu who too was a progressive minded person, and began torturing them psychologically by making a legal move with regard to the ownership of Kesari and Marhatta newspapers and the Trust. The brothers faced a lot of humiliation, ridiculing and harassment from the Trustees who were being supported even by the extended family of Tilak, after Shridharpanth organized the inter-caste dining at Gaikwad-wada. They began speaking lowly of him in public, tarnishing his image and thus creating a public opinion against him. Some relatives of Shridharpanth, the well-meaning ones, unable to see the targetting of brothers, requested them to reconcile with the Tilakites and give up their ideological beliefs. But both the brothers refused to do so.Â
Probably striking a balance between a tender heart and a sharp mind became difficult for Shridharpanth. Unable to bear the torture of the conservatives, he jumped under a running train and killed himself on the 25th of May in the year 1928. He was just 32 then.
Just before killing himself by suicide, Shridharpanth wrote three letters. One to the the then Collector of Pune, one to the newspapers and one to his friend B.R. Ambedkar. In his letter to Babasaheb he wishes best to the anti-caste struggle, expresses his solidarity with the movement and Samaaj Samtaa Sangh, and in a moving line says he is going ahead in time to let the Almight know about the grievances of his Dalit brothers and sisters.
The day this letter reached him home, Ambedkar was in Jalgao where he first got the news of Shridharpanth’s untimely death. Ambedkar in his obituary to Shridharpanth wrote about how he kept wishing that the news was a false one. But since the news came from the Pune members of the Samaaj Samta Sangh, of which Shridharpanth was the vice-president, the chances of it being a lie was less and Ambedkar had to believe the news and this, he says in his obituary, made his heart heavy with pain. He also speaks about how he immediately saw that it could not be a natural death and was restless to know what had caused the death. On reaching home Babasaheb went to pick up the newspaper to read the details of Shridharpanth’s death and along with newspaper he also found a letter written to him by Shridharpanth. It is said that Ambekar wept on reading the letter by Shridharpanth. In the same obituary Ambedkar holds the conservatives of Pune and the Tilakites responsible for the death of Shridharpanth and also calls his untimely death a great loss not just to Maharashtra but to the whole of India.
Later in the obituary, recollecting how Balagangadhar Tilak spoke dismissively about his paper Mookanaayak, and also about the Dalits, Ambedkar declares that a man like Tilak is not worthy of the title Lokamanya. He says that the ‘loka’ (world) of the so called Lokamanya was casteist and non-inclisive. This was not the case with his son Shridharpanth, says Ambedkar, and declares that Shridharpanth is the real Lokamanya.
(Originally written in Kannada for my fortnightly column daarihoka for the webportal ee-dina)
Ibrahim, the maverick
“Hello. Would you have the contact details of Ibrahim Rayintakath?” asked a stranger via DM on Facebook. When I told the stranger I was not in touch with Ibrahim and did not have his contact details, the person said, “I am impressed by his illustration featured as today’s google doodle. So I wanted to contact him”. What?- I exclaimed! I had not seen that day’s google doodle. So Immediately I checked and it was an illustration whose style, though brilliant, did not seem like that of Ibrahim. I checked if it was actually by him and yes, it was by him. A smile appeared on my face- ear to ear! I kept looking at the google doodle for a while and then just lifted my head a bit to look up at a painting hanging on the wall of my room; a painting of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, which Ibrahim had painted for me when we were still students at the film institute (FTII). Looking at both- Faiz and the google doodle of that day- I realized how his style had changed quite significantly, and I was happy that he, unlike many including me, was not stagnating, and was growing as an artist. The smile on my face was still in place and the stretched smile relaxed only when unconsciously a voice from my heart took wings through the lips- Kutty!
Kutty- that is how Ibrahim was referred to and popularly known on campus.
A decade ago… Few months had passed since we entered the campus and our batch of screenwriting was at a crucial junction in developing our first screenplay for submissions. My writing had kept me awake even at an hour when the hostel had gone silent, which wouldn’t happen a couple of hours past midnight. Unable to fight sleep anymore, I decided to shut my laptop and hit the bed. Just when I was about to switch off the light, I saw the water bottle on my table was almost empty. Picking it up from the table, I walked out of the room, to get the bottle filled from the water cooler placed on the floor below ours. As I got down the stairs and reached the floor below, there, next to the lift, stood a lean guy, with sandpaper beard, sketching on the wall. The sketch was a portrait of the maverick filmmaker Ritwik Ghatak! Who is this fellow?- I asked myself in silence, with jaws dropped. Though tempted to ask the man himself, his unwavering focus on his work made it not just difficult but impossible. I stood for a while admiring Ritwik Ghatak being brought to life telling myself, “If God exists and s/he really ‘makes’ us and sends us to earth, maybe this is how s/he worked in the time of Ghatak’s creation”. I filled the water, got back to the same spot, stood for a while more till Ghatak’s painting was completed, and then went back to my room.
Next day I narrated all of this to my roommate Lohit. Incidentally, our friend Maisam, from the Direction dept, was visiting our room then. He said, “That is Kutty. He is from the Art Direction department”. The Direction and Art Direction students had some common classes during the first module and that is how Maisam knew of Kutty, who largely remained silent and recluse from things happening on campus. “Do you know him?” I asked and Maisam answered in the positive. I requested Maisam to take me to Kutty’s room and introduce me to him. Maisam agreed and we went to Kutty’s room. In my mind, I had decided to request Kutty make a painting of Gulzar on the walls of our room. I had shared it with Lohit and taken his consent as well. While discussing this, Maisam had spoken about how Kutty has done paintings of his fav filmmakers on his room wall! When we knocked at the door and Kutty’s roommate opened the door, I could immediately see on the wall a huge painting of my fav filmmaker G. Aravindan! I was floored by how Kutty in his painting of Aravindan had not just done the face of the man but also captured the serenity and calmness of his personality, which was starkly different from the restless personality of Ghatak, which he had captured in his painting of Ghatak too, which I had witnessed just the previous night! Now realizing the extraordinariness of Kutty, I hesitated to ask him if he would do a painting of Gulzar in our room. While I was tossing a coin in my mind, Kutty, who was not visible until then came forward. Maisam introduced me to him. Kutty smiled and said nothing. The smile was welcoming. The coin I had flipped in my mind was still mid-air, Maisam told Kutty why I wanted to meet Kutty. I got a bit uncomfortable and irritatedly turned towards Maisam, almost asking- why did you have to say it? But before I could say anything, I heard someone in the other direction say, “Okay. Will do”. That was Kutty! Now I was smiling ear to ear, which did not end even when the joyful ‘thank you’ came out of my mouth! I immediately asked Kutty, “Please tell me how much you charge for a painting?” Kutty shook his head to say he doesn’t charge. I said, “No, that is not done”, and Kutty interrupted to say, “No, its okay”. It is hard to argue or negotiate with people who are largely silent and keep to themselves. I asked if I could at least get the paints that would be required, and Kutty said no, this time not by shaking his head but by gesturing the same with his hands. We then decided on a day and time for Kutty to come to 404, New Hostel, and do a painting of Gulzar.
Kutty came casually carrying the essentials- pencil, paint, and brush! We moved the bed, cots, and tables in the room and made space for the magic to begin. Kutty stared at the blank wall, made a mental assessment, and took out the image of Gulzar I had given him. Rahul, my classmate, immediately ran to his room and got his camera. “Let me capture the entire process,” he said. Kutty was moving his fingers in the air, staring at the wall from a distance, making an invisible draft of the painting. After a while, Kutty slowly moved closer to the wall. Rahul began to set the focus of his camera. Kutty raised his hand which held a pencil and drew the first line. Click came the sound from where Rahul stood. Magic had begun to unfold.
In the next couple of hours, Kutty brought Gulzar to life in our room. It was like Gulzar had slowly emerged out of the wall. Rahul had captured every stage of the painting on his camera. We proudly said- Now Gulzar is also our roommate! In the end, Kutty posed with the painting for the camera, and Kutty and I together also posed with Gulzar for the camera. These pictures, in a day, went on Facebook. The whole of campus got to know about the painting Kutty did in our room. Some friends visited the room to see the painting and if we ever kept the room door half-open, passersby would peep in and say a word or two admiring the painting. Above all the room’s atmosphere changed with Gulzar coming in, through Kutty. The space which through our living there had already become personal, became even more personal, and our attachment to the room got a bit more intense! Because of Kutty!
Life went on and whenever Kutty and I crossed paths we just exchanged smiles and travelled in our own orbits. But that simple, unpretentious smile of Kutty would recharge my soul. We never met for coffee/ tea. We never sat and discussed cinema or art or even our own lives. But we developed fondness for each other in silence. Some months later, on realizing that I would have to vacate the hostel at the end of the course and with that my relation with the Gulzar painting would come to an end, I requested Kutty to do a painting on canvas which I can carry home with me. He suggested this time we do something other than Gulzar. I had to decide and after much thought, I decided to request Kutty to do a painting of Faiz. I went and bought a good canvas, some paints and brushes in the next few days and informed Kutty about it. One fine afternoon Kutty came to 404 and brought Faiz to life on canvas. Though he had not read Faiz, he almost gave the painting a touch that captured the mood of Faiz’s aesthetics. The strokes of the Faiz painting were different from that of Gulzar, both captured their essence. How did Kutty grasp this? – I still do not know. The magical and mystical nature of creative energy is such, perhaps!
I again took a photo of the painting made by Kutty and posted it on Facebook. Several weeks later one night while sitting and chatting under the Wisdom Tree, fellow student Shwetabh Singh asked, “How do you convince Kutty to do paintings after paintings for you?” and I very casually said, “It requires no convincing. Make a request and he will just do it. He doesn’t throw weight.” Shwetabh expressed disbelief by staring at me with raised eyebrows for a moment. He then told me how some of them had requested Kutty to do a painting for them in their room and Kutty made some excuse! It just made me feel very very special, though I couldn’t understand why he had not agreed to do painting for others. Kutty is a man who follows his heart, his intuition- I realized, and I was glad his intuitive feeling had not come in the way between him and me.
Recollecting all of this, when a stranger on Facebook asked me about Kutty after seeing the google doodle made by him, I wondered where Kutty was! I had not kept in touch with him after I left the campus. We had hardly spoken, so keeping in touch via email or texts made no sense to me, or rather felt very artificial for our silent friendship. But after all those years now I just wanted to know where Kutty is and wished to get in touch with him. I immediately rang Lohit, my former classmate and roommate at the film institute, who had taken admission in the Direction course and was back on campus. He told me how Kutty discontinued his schooling at the film institute after the first year and never got back to complete it! He also told me that Kutty did not keep in touch with anyone from the batch and so nobody knows where he is! I was shocked. But on reflecting the kind of person and artist Kutty as I had seen him, I realized it isn’t surprising that Kutty did not complete the course, discontinued schooling and did not keep in touch with anyone. He was his own master and will always be- I told myself.
That evening Lohit called to tell me Shahi is in touch with Kutty and said he had collected Kutty’s number from Shahi for me. I was overjoyed when he said this and promptly sent me the number soon after disconnecting the call. Once the number landed in my inbox, I wasn’t sure if I should contact Kutty, because we had hardly spoken and also because he had consciously not remained in touch with many from the institute. Contemplating on whether to get in touch with Kutty or not, I took two days to finally drop a text to Kutty. “Hi, this is Samvartha,” I texted. After a few hours, when Kutty saw the text, he immediately replied, “Man! So good to hear from you” and followed it up with, “It has been long,” and then immediately with something that I did not expect coming. He said, “Did you make any films? If you are making films, I will do the posters for all your films.” Kutty had again brought a broad smile on my face and tears into my eyes! “I haven’t done any films yet. I don’t see myself doing one either. But, in case some miracle happens and I end up doing a film, you can do the posters!” The conversation, as expected, did not last long. But it did not feel abrupt, awkward or anything. Even in its brevity it was complete and fulfilling.
For over a year we occasionally texted each other- never asking how the other person is- but sharing some work which we thought/ felt the other person would be interested in engaging with. Then there was a long period of silence. It is during this phase that I had started working on translation of Nagraj Manjule’s poetry collection unhaachya kataaviruddh to Kannada.
After four drafts when I finally met Nagraj Manjule, had an elaborate discussion with him about his poems and my translation, I had decided to rework on the translation one last time and that would be my final draft. Soon after my return from Pune I began reworking on the final draft and also getting ready to go to Trivandrum for the International Film Festival of Kerala, a yearly ritual friend Rachita and I had put into place. Since it was the final draft I was working on and because my translation had been approved by Nagraj, I had started dreaming about the book coming out soon. I had happily communicated to the publisher Kishore that the final version of the translation will be ready soon and suggested he gets ready to publish the book. Kishore was happy and got into the logistics of it. He said, “Once your manuscript is ready we need to do pagination, get an ISBN, and we also need to get the cover page designed”.
After the conversation with Kishore, I was telling Rachita how nice it is to have her by me when these developments are taking place because she was by me when the whole act of translation began. I was also updating her about the journey the translation work has made and how now we are discussing the final stages. Maybe because I was in Kerala or maybe because I was with a friend from the film institute, or maybe because of both combined, or maybe because of destiny, while being preoccupied with the cover design, about which I was discussing with Rachita, I suddenly remembered Kutty! I jumped in the middle of our walk back to the room after dinner, stopped Rachita then and there and asked, “How about asking Kutty to do the cover design?” Of course it had been years and Rachita couldn’t immediately recollect Kutty. “Who Kutty?” she asked. “arrey!” I exclaimed and said, “Ibrahim Kutty, the one who painted Gulzar on the hostel wall”, I said. “Wonderful!” said Rachita in her signature style. Once we got back to the room, I kept typing messages, editing it, rephrasing it etc to send Kutty, to check if he could do the cover design for my book. I was unhappy with every text I had typed, so I decided to give it time and do it the following day.
Next morning while having breakfast, I decided to send a voice note to Kutty instead of a written text. “You once told me you would do the posters for my film. I don’t see myself doing films. But now I have a book ready to be published. Will you do the cover page for it?” I asked in a long voice note where I also explained about the collection unhaachya kaTaaviruddh and the poet Nagraj Manjule. In no time Kutty replied saying he would happily do the cover page. I was overjoyed. Kutty then said to do an appropriate cover design he wanted me to send him the translation of the poems because he did not understand Marathi! Damn! With a sad face I replied to him saying my translation was in Kannada and not in English. “I understand neither of them,” said Kutty and before I could process it, he said, “But I want to do this”. Kutty and I then got on to a call… I was hearing the voice of Kutty after so long! I was happy that he wanted to do the cover page and that I was hearing his voice after so long. In that joyful conversation without me realizing the coffee on the table got cold. But Kutty and I had made a breakthrough. Kutty asked me if I could do an English translation of the poems and also suggested that I could come up with two books simultaneously. I laughed aloud and told Kutty that I am not confident about my English. Kutty asked me to forget about publishing the English translation, but asked if I could do an English translation of these poems just for him to get a sense of the poems. I wasn’t confident even to do that. So I suggested doing a prosaic English translation of the poems and give explanations for the same. Kutty agreed to it. I told Kutty that I would not do a prosaic translation of each poem but only a few, the ones which I think are important and capture the mood of the collection, sufficient enough to hint Kutty on the kind of cover page he could design.
In the next few days I did a prosaic translation of six to seven poems of Nagraj Manjule into English. All for Kutty. On returning home I added Kutty to the chain mail that was being exchanged between Kishore, the publisher, Prajna who was doing the proofreading of all the drafts and me. Introducing Kutty to Kishore and Prajna, I announced that Kutty would be doing the cover-page and also shared with them his earlier works- of Gulzar and Faiz- for them to get an understanding of Kutty and his works. The two of them happily applauded the decision of bringing in Kutty. In a couple of weeks Kutty sent a design for the cover page, an absolutely new style from Kutty! In a few lines he had explained how he did not want to illustrate any poem’s content but wanted to create, through his art, an emotional atmosphere that tunes the readers to the poems. As much as I liked the idea and the thought behind it, I somehow wasn’t convinced entirely by the cover he had prepared. Maybe it was my own bias which was looking for a certain style of Kutty which I associated him with. But Kutty, being the maverik artist that he is, continuously redefining himself and growing in style, had reached newer horizons. Since my relation with Kutty hasnt been either intimate nor just transactional, I could just sit and write a mail to Kutty explaining what about Nagraj’s poems speaks to me, why I find that voice important, why this collection, this translation means so much to me and where I personally stand in my life, what my worldview is and how this project is a reflection of all that. Kutty, the aloof and silent, did not reply to the mail. But in a few days he sent me a rough sketch of the gulmohar flowers, and in a line responded to my mail which showed how he had grasped the essence of my thoughts just perfectly. The cover design by itself spoke for it too! Kutty again made me smile ear to ear… But it was not for too long. Now, Kutty shared his vision of not wanting to use any available font for the cover. “A handwritten text of the title will go well with this,” he said. I agreed with his vision but how were we to make it happen? Kutty doesn’t know Kannada, and I don’t know how to use technology, software etc. Years ago when Kutty had to write a couplet of Faiz on canvas, to accompany the painting, I had written the text in Devnagri script. It was possible also because Kutty and I were in the same physical space and it was manual. Now we were not in the same space and the writing involved technology! There was a knot which had to be disentangled. Kutty then came up with an idea. He said, “Write the text in Kannada and send it to me. I will replicate it here and then you can check if I have got it right.” The idea appealed to me. But now the problem was this- over the years, unused to writing after making a shift to typing, my handwriting had turned worse than what it originally was. So, I made my parents write on a sheet of paper ‘bisilina shaDyantrada viruddha‘- Kannada title of the book, took an image of it and sent it to Kutty. I had used arrow marks to show how the strokes move while writing. Following the cue, Kutty recreated the Kannada alphabets and sketched the title which looked ragefully blossomed- like the central image of the title poem! With that the cover page was almost final. Kutty shared it on the chain mail and Kishore and Prajna also welcomed it.
The time and effort that went into translating unhachya kaTaaviruddh is a story in itself. It took over 6 drafts and the story spans between 2016 and 2022. The process of translation which began in full force in the 2018 monsoon, reached a final stage at the end of 2019 Dec. The plan then was to release the book in 2020 April. When the pandemic hit and the planned release of bisilina shaDyantrada viruddha had to be postponed indefinitely, it ached my heart very much. In those days I have just watched the cover page designed by Kutty and felt better.
In the time between 2020 and 2022 when the release got delayed, I narrated to all my students, batch after batch, the story of translating Nagraj’s poetry collection and also showed them the cover page designed by Kutty. When the world was moving at a different pace and life was flipping between the real and the unreal, and the journey of translation began seeming distant and hence a bit unreal, the cover page made the entire journey seem real. I held on to it.
During this phase, I did get frustrated several times and expressed it before Nagraj Manjule. At times I urged him to agree for an online release event. But Nagraj Manjule convinced me in return to be patient, wait for things to get back to normal. “When you have put so much of effort, why not have the book released in a celebratory manner?” he would ask. Then one day he said, “Even my film has not released because of the pandemic. So I understand your frustration. Let Jhund release first and then after a month of its release, let us release your book”. Those words convinced me entirely.
In Feb 2022 when the release dates of Jhund was announced, I could slowly see my book also coming to life. A conversation with Nagraj enabled us to decide on a tentative date for the release. I immediately dropped a text to Kishore and Kutty to get ready for the final lap of the journey. My enthusiasm was out of control and in consultation with Rajaram Tallur, the preparation began. But there was no response from Kutty. Weeks passed and Kutty hadn’t responded. I sent reminders. No response. Knowing Kutty’s elusive and maverick swabhaava, his sudden disappearance wasn’t surprising. But then, I was getting worried about both- Kutty and the book. So finally I sent a melodramatic text saying it was urgent and Kutty replied saying he has been unwell and has moved to his hometown and his laptop, in which all the works are there, is not with him! My concern about both reached next level. But it is not possbible for me to prioritize anything over human life. Hence, I decided to ask Kutty to not worry and take care of himself. But by then Kutty said its possible that the raw files of the page are on his mail which he can access. He asked for some time to look for it. In a couple of hours the raw files landed in my inbox. On the other hand, by then, the inner pages of the books were designed and ready. Now the cover page was wedded to the inside pages and made ready for print. And in a day, the book was sent to the press.
Few days later Kishore sent some images of the published book. People from the press had clicked photos and sent it to Kishore, which he had forwarded it to me. The quality of the image wasn’t that great and as a result the book cover looked a bit weak. My heart became heavy. But I did not know what to do but hope that the books in real look much different from what it looks in the photograph. That night when Kishore and I spoke, we decided that it would be better if the books are sent to Udupi directly where the book launch event is happening rather than sending them to Bangalore where Kishore lives and then him bringing them to Udupi. Two days later the books were sent to Udupi from Bombay where the book was printed. With my friend Vivek I went to the bus-stop to collect the cartons that carried the books. I was keeping my fingers crossed while driving back home with a carton of books before me, and Vivek sitting behind me on the scooter holding one carton of books.
On reaching home, very anxiously I opened the carton and against all my fears, the book cover had come out extremely beautiful. I held the book in my hand like a young girl holding her birthday gift- a frock that she had desired for long! After checking if the print of the inside pages are fine, and showing my parents the copy, I immediately rang Kutty. It was a video call for I wanted to show him the book. I wasn’t sure if he had recovered, and if he would answer. To my luck Kutty answered and I saw Kutty’s face after almost 9 years! He was smiling, as he always did, ear to ear, and on seeing his face, I too was smiling ear to ear. I showed him the book, with twinkle in my eyes. He got super excited and said, “Oh! Finally!” and I joined him in repeating, “yes, finally!”
Unfortunately Kutty couldn’t attend the book launch event. Few days after the launch, I sent Kutty a copy of the book. When it reached him, Kutty sent an image of it via whatsapp. I could imagine him smiling ear to ear. I texted back asking if he is happy with the outcome. “Definitely am!” he said and added, “Its the first book cover I’ve made.” It was followed with a “Haha” which made me first go “Oh” out of surprise and then laugh with Kutty hahahaha.
I secretly want to believe that many might have approached him for a book cover, but he refused to do it. Maybe some day some Shwetabh will ask me, “How did you convince Kutty to do the cover page?” I wouldn’t have an answer for that. But I would have this long story of my strangely beautiful association with Kutty to share, and a beautiful cover-page to flaunt!
Crazy Mind's Eye 