Jnanpith Award for Tamil – Some Reflections by Jeyamohan

 

This is an English Translation of the article “Ki. Ravukku Gnanabeedam- Indraiya Thevai” written by famous writer Jeyamohan. This article is available in his website www.jeyamohan.in.  Though the title of this article is about Jnanpith award for Ki.Rajanarayanan, (This article was written when Ki. Rajanarayan was alive. He is no more now), the concerns raised by the author are still valid even today. Jeyamohan has offered an elaborate account on Jnanpith award, politics around it, why Tamil writers are not considered for this coveted literary award after Akilan and Jeyakanthan and what ought to be done in this regard.  This article has been translated and published in this blog with the permission of Mr Jeyamohan. This is 2nd English Translation in prose series published in this blog.

I have written comprehensively in my earlier two articles on why Tamil hasn’t been given its due place, at any point of time, in the collective dialogues witnessed in modern classic literature namely Indian Literature. (Sevviyalum Indhiya Ilakkiyamum and Kaalkal paathaigal). One of the major reasons for this indifference is that none of our famous writers has ever won national level recognitions like Jnanpith award.

Of late, in the recent years three prominent writers, Ashokamithran, Ki. RajaNarayanan and Indira Parthasarathy are being considered for Jnanpith Awards. However, it gets postponed repeatedly due to our inadequate efforts to bring them to the fore and the internal petty squabbles of some populist writers having political back ground. It is a very big loss for Tamil. We need to ensure that required remedial measures are undertaken at this juncture so as to bring Jnanpith award to Tamil.

Why Jnanpith?

Jnanpith Award is a non-governmental award instituted by Jain Charitable Trust. But all the writers who have been awarded Jnanpith till date, are indeed, very renowned, main stream writers. Thus, the Indian intellectual arena generally accepts the total population of these writers as the embodiment of Indian Literature. Just because of not winning this Jnanpith award, most of our prominent writers were not given national level attention. Resultantly, the due place of Tamil in the array of classic works in Indian Literature remains still non-existent.

Classic literature is a robust resultant appeal of continuous dialogues on individual preferences and selections placed in a public domain. We can term it an external assessment stemming from the internal preferences and selections. It is this making of classic literature constitutes the continuous intellectual existence in every phase of literature.

“A classic” compiles the accomplishments of a culture till a period of validation, explains its crux, gives a clarion call to the next generation to raise above the standards set by it and makes assessment of the works thus coming out of it. We can understand this from the fact that ‘the classics’ associated with the ancient literary works in all the languages of India were nothing but the robust result of literary dialogues engaged for centuries. In Tamil too, we have such a huge body of classic literary works. We all know that Kamban, Valluvar and Ilango are sitting at the top in the list.

There had been such collective dialogues in the modern Indian literary milieu during the last centuries and as a result of it, a ‘modern Indian classicism’ has come to the fore now. Tara Shankar Banerjee, Manik Bandobadhyay, Bibhuti Bhushan Bandobadhyay, Prem Chand, Yashpal, Amrita Pritam, Ismat Chuktai, Sivaramakaranth, Byrappa, Anandamurthy, M.T. Vasudevan Nair, Basheer and Thagazhi are holding their due place in this array. No one from Tamil has a place in it. Jeyakanthan is remembered for name sake.

It can be assertively said that subtle and refined works of art, different types of creative spaces of Tamil literature are not found in other languages in the Modern Indian Literature. But Tamil hasn’t received even a trace of recognition that Bengali literature, Malayalam literature and Kannada literature have managed to get today. There is no any visible contribution of Tamil to the dialogues on Modern Indian Classic literatures as well.  

The important reason for this gap is that our worthy literary works have not been placed in the foreground at the national level. The ones which were brought to the foreground were all just commercial and education department trashes commanding no literary merit. In this manner, we have had prescribed ourselves our own recipe for disaster during the last centuries. Thus, when a Tamil writer finds no place for him in a national level forum and his language is not respected in any manner there, he would feel that the treatment meted out to him is nothing but a part of that insult. But at the same time, he knows very well that his stature is taller than anyone else who have assembled there. A modern writer keeps on registering this mental discomfort consistently.

Only at this juncture, recognitions like Jnanpith awards assume critical importance.

The mistakes not made and the mistakes made     

There are people here, saying that awards are denied to Tamil by North Indians easily  without understanding the manner with which dialogues originate in literature and counter action witnessed in the making of classic literature. We approach everything with an element of inferiority complex. This makes us imagine that the entire world is conspiring against us. The question of others respecting our writers can have a space for introspection only when we respect our writers and celebrate them. It is a truth that the writers who should have been taken by us to the international forum had actually lived their life without respect and died without recognition. Only from here, they can raise to the national level and then to the international level. The platform where they have set their foot strong is our cultural milieu. We have failed them, not offering them an exclusive space in it.

Ka. Na.Su, Sundara Ramasamy and Venkat Swaminathan had kept on insisting this point for more than last fifty years. Now we have come to a critical juncture where we need to tell it with much more force in the present literary milieu. Because, when they told this, it was just a warning. Today it is a big loss, orchestrated in front of our eyes.

This biggest betrayal to Tamil has been executed in two ways. Firstly, it is our Education department. Be it Tamil Departments in the universities or the whole of our Education department. They have just become a gang which has lost something called intellectual integrity, knowing nothing other than corruption. No place for anything other than power politics, caste politics and corruption there.

So, the one who is adept in utilising these negative aspects in his favour and uses the Education Department to bring himself to the foreground becomes successful. Due to this reason, the chances of our Education Department getting near to our literary geniuses have become pathetically bleak. Perhaps, there could be some people having taste and intellectual appeal towards literature. But they exist either without voice or power.

Secondly, for more than sixty years, the Government of Tami Nadu hadn’t come forward in any manner either to respect the true champions of literature or encourage them or recognise the modern literature as a whole. They have just been bringing the persons who actually align with their political ideology to the fore as litterateurs. Not only the Dravidian Government encouraged this ignominious trend; it was evident even in the earlier Congress period too.

There is an academy known as Kerala Sahitya Academy in Malayalam, run by the government of Kerala. But it has been running as an autonomous literary body for more than last sixty years. The awards given by this academy have the innate principles to guide the awards given by Kendriya Sahitya academy. The honour and importance accorded by the Government of Kerala, play some inherent vital role in bringing the writers to the foreground at the national level.

Tamil doesn’t have such Government sponsored literary body or award. All that we have here for literature are just awards instituted by the individual associations working for the development of Tamil. They also have the dubious status of being auctioned. The creative writers feel it insulting to receive those awards given to the political sycophants who don’t know anything about books.

Even a cursory glance of the list of Tamil Development Association awardees in the recent past will show you the absurdity involved in the awards. We can understand where we stand at present and where the core of our wretched existence lies when we look at what those who shout for the Tamil literature and those who receive crores of rupees as donation for the development of classic language have done and who they have promoted.

Thirdly, the mass media here. All through the yester years, we had only been repeating the stupidity of promoting commercial writers writing in popular media as literary writers. Malayalam, Bangla and Kannada languages had more powerful and influential commercial writers than those found in Tamil. But even the magazines in which they wrote, gave importance to M.T Vasudevan Nair, U.R Ananda Murthy or Adin Bandobadhyay. Even Malayala Manorama, the most influential popular Malayalam weekly which stands top in India in terms of commercial turn over would never publish its populist writers on its cover. They published either M.T. Vasudevan Nair or O.V.Vijayan. As our media is not sensitive enough to assess even this tiny difference, we had been celebrating commercial writings repeatedly as literary works. We insulted ourselves by introducing them in the Indian literary arena.

What should be done?

What should be done to make the Tamil Literature hold its due place in national level literary discussions and Indian Classic literatures? Winning the national awards is the only way to bring our writers to the foreground. How to go about it?

It is important that a literary genius becomes a moderately known figure in his society. His popularity among his readers is not just enough. Even those who don’t read him in that society must be aware of him. That society must create a collective consciousness about those writers. Only in this manner, a writer becomes a symbol of its cultural identity; he becomes the flag bearer of his language. Only after that, he gets accorded with national level importance. His stature of representing Tamil language in Indian literary dialogues thus grows. He then attracts the awards like Jnanpith.

If we examine how many intellectually oriented persons working in departments dealing with knowledge society are aware of the names of literary geniuses of Tamil Nadu, we will be left grossly disappointed. How many of our younger generation are aware of Ashokamithran, Ki.Rajanarayanan and Indira Parthasarathy?

I have seen the pictures of Literary masterminds painted on the walls of elementary school in a small village in Karnataka. One may ask what purpose those pictures could serve. The elementary school children are not going to read the books of those literary figures. The number of direct readers of those literary writers is also relatively less there because a serious literary works shall be read only by the readers who are equipped with the required precocity, training, patience and importantly quest. But, what do those paintings mean? They mean that a society, as whole, recognises those writers as an embodiment of their culture and voice.        

Once they are identified in this manner, their stature cannot be belittled in any national level literary discussions. Their names will occupy an indelible place both in Indian cultural milieu and Indian Classic literary works.

We have failed to do this. Putting in other way, it seems to be extremely difficult to explain even the educated and informative people that such things do exist and need to be taken care of. There is a flock of stupid people which keeps arguing that Ki.Ra, Ashokamithran, India Soundara Rajan and Rajesh Kumar write in their own styles. After all they belong to a genre called “writing”. Let the reader choose what matters to him, makes him interested. We are in a critical situation where we ought to establish a state of mind recognised worldwide by subduing this herd of ignoramuses.

A regal path called Jnanpith

When a writer gets Jnanpith award and his works are available both in English and Hindi, they enter the dialogues known as Indian literature. Their due place is ascertained through these dialogues. The place of Tamil in Indian Classic literary canon can be conquered only through such mode. However, such thing will happen only if the awardee is worth the prize. With his Jnanpith award, Akilan became a subject of lasting ignominy, got insulted in other languages and eventually he brought the same ignominy to Tamil. If all the efforts are capable of winning, amidst bringing further ignominy, Vairamuthu might prove that the selection of Akilan was excusable. Such things do happen even in Jnanpith awards, very rarely though. Another notable example is Assamese novelist Indira Goswamy. She is just like our local writer Sivasankari.      

It is a general perception till date that reading in Tamil is confined either with popular writings or Marxist ideology oriented writings when it comes to dialogues in Modern Indian Classic literature and further said that there is nothing called modern Tamil literature beyond this line. A Bengali critic, after reading one of my short stories exclaimed, “It is wonderful. Even in Tamil, there are writers writing like this!” I asked him, “Who have you read?”. He replied, “Akilan, Sivasankari, Naa. Parthasarathy”.

Had La.Sa. Ramamirtham, Sundara Ramasamy, Ashokamithran, Ki.Rajanarayanan and Indira parthasarathy won Jnanpith award, this question wouldn’t have arisen. It would have been established irrefutably that diverse literary traditions are existing in Tamil. We have missed so many rare opportunities. The most important opportunity in our hand at present is Ki. Rajanarayanan*. Next comes Indira Parthasarathy.

Why Ki.Rajanarayanan?

It is extremely important task for all of us that we must try our best to bring Ki. Rajanarayanan to the foreground at this juncture. If Ki. Rajanarayanan is introduced properly, he will win Jnanpith award easily. Below are the reasons for it:

1.      His writings are purely Tamil in its essence. It combines both Nattaar dialects and modern literature. This individuality shall be taken into consideration.

2.      His simple and straight narrative style will have far reaching effect as they will not cause much of compromises in translations. Since he has a technique of narrative called “story inside stories”, it can withstand the vagaries of translations.

3.      A concept called “progressive” is considered important at national level dialogues. Ki.Ra’s stories have this innate “Progressive” aspects in it.

4.      As Ki.Ra’s stories have the finite form of “Nattar Story”, they have a tendency to become immortal. Unlike the stories written, aligning with intellectual movements, his stories are wary of being archaic.

What are the advantages if Ki.Rajanarayanan is given Jnapith award?

Ki. Rajanarayanan won’t be benefitted much with this award. Even the amount of the award won’t be of much help for him today. For an old man like him, these recognitions and fame would have become meaningless long ago. He might accept it with the loving smile. That is it.

By awarding him, we place Tamil in front of a national debate. His unique style of writing would reach there as an identity of Tamil. When Ki. Rajanarayanan is discussed in Indian literary debates, we would be able to establish that a new genre of writing is present in Tamil.

If the writings of Ki.Rajanarayan reach the literary circles throughout India through Jnanpith award, the type of aesthetics employed by him in his writings shall be established as the identity of Tamil language. It is a link road connecting modern literature with Nattar culture. It will be completely a modern literary work and at the same time completely deep rooted in the ancient Indian tradition of Nattar culture.

His “Gopalla Kiramam” approached modern history by standing at its roots in Nattar traditions. It is a work of art in which all the cultural upheavals of India are being assessed by the people of Gopalla village in the background of their rustic life. His powerful short stories are capable of taking both our Nattar traditions and the life force which the modern literature derived from that traditions, to the national level platforms. When there is a discussion to prepare a list of writers writing aligning with Nattar traditions, Ki.Rajanarayanan’s name will have an unavoidable place in it, just like Chandra sekhara Kambar of Kannada.

Guiding directives

Jnanpith award is not something that one needs to beg or demand. The eligibility of the awardee must be established beyond doubt by the people who are associated with him. As a person who had tried his best to bring this award to Ashokamithran, I think it is pertinent to elucidate those requirements here now.

Firstly: On behalf of our Education Department, at least five or six seminars must be organised for debating Ki. Rajanarayanan’s works. It will be an added advantage if they are organised at the national level. A seminar, in which most prominent writers from Kannada, Malayalam, Bengali and Hindi participate, shall easily bring Ki. Rajanarayanan to the fore at national level.

Secondly: Three or four exclusive journals must be published in his name. The articles about him written by other writers must be published in those journals. The articles written by those from different cultural back ground may also be published in it. These journals must be brought in English as well.

Thirdly: The accurate English translations of his works must be made available. Articles about these translations must be published continually in English newspapers. Articles about him must come out in Hindi also. Putting shortly, within a year, at least ten or twenty articles must have been written about him and his works.

It is an extremely difficult proposition indeed. The English newspapers, The Hindu and The Indian Express published from Tamil Nadu, look down upon the Tamil writers as unworthy. The ones who just dump the fourth rate English commercial stuff on our head will never help us out in any manner to bring our creative writers to lime light. Despite their attitude, we need to beseech them by hook or crook, and make them publish a considerable number of articles on Ki. Rajanarayanan.

It is a well-known fact that The Hindu will never cooperate in this enterprise. But the newspapers published from the North India such as The Times of India and The Pioneer offer an exclusive space of literature. Long ago, Venkat Swaminathan consistently wrote articles in English about Tamil writers in newspapers like The Pioneer and could manage establishing an image that a different genre of writing was thriving in Tamil. We are in need of writers who can write like that.

The ones who went from here and spoke about us at the national level in the previous generation were all none but some empty heads having no tinge of literary taste and the politically cunning, opportunistic educationists. Nothing mattered to them other than their personal successes. In the present younger generation, there are writers who could write in English with depth. They must write about Ki. Rajanarayanan and other Tamil literary geniuses as frequently as possible in English.

If all this happens, we can easily take Ki. Rajanarayanan to Jnanpith award. Once the name of Ki. Rajanarayanan is given an irrefutable place in the Modern Indian literature, it will become obligatory that he must be given Jnanpith award.

Still we are not late. Ki. Rajanarayanan is with us.* It is our duty that we must win Jnanpith for Ki. Rajanarayanan. Our educationists and the writers writing in English must pay some attention to it. Still I have a hope that there must be some in this group having basic taste for literature, minimum amount of conscience and penchant for Tamil culture and traditions even now. These words are just an outcome of that hope.

***End***

Translated from Tamil by K. Saravanan

Source: Jeyamohan’s article “Ki.Raavukku Gnanabeedam- Indraiya thevai”.                 

Notes:     

 

*Jeyamohan wrote this article when Ki.Rajanarayanan was alive. Now he (Ki. Ra) is no more.

Rectitude (Aram) by Jeya Mohan

                                                         

Jeya Mohan

This is an English Translation of "Aram", a short Story written by Jeya Mohan.  Translated by by  Saravanan Karmegam.  

 The person who was standing at the door said to me “Please come in…he is there”. I didn’t know who he was. I just greeted him with ‘Vanakkam’ and removed my sandals out. He picked up my sandals in his hands. “If you leave them outside, dogs would take them away sir…he reasoned, told me “Please get in". 

The fore-noon sunlight was falling across the central yard, just beyond the veranda found fostered with broader stones, like a white drape. On the other side, there was a room that looked similar to the long veranda. An elderly man was sitting on a low-lying swing chair in that room with brass betel leaves casket on his lap. He was slicing off betel nuts with a nut cutter. With his spectacle sitting on his nose just below its usual place, his face bore a deep attentiveness of children playing a serious game.  

The one who greeted was coming behind me, informed him “Writer Jeya Mohan has come”. He had to articulate my name several times aloud quaking the air around there. The elderly man looked up and said, “Please come in…Please come”. He gestured to the man who welcomed me in to bring a chair, stretched it out and placed it near him.  “He is Saminathan…a retired teacher”…he told. I greeted him with ‘Vanakkam’ once again. “He is very close to Janaki Raman” the elderly man said and asked me be seated. His grin proved that he had not yet recognized me. 

One of the legs of the chair got stuck in the dent on the cement floor and lurched a little. I adjusted it a little to avoid the crack without getting up and then sat. There were a lot of holes in the bamboo planks that were lying underneath the thatch interwoven with the beams. A dark beetle emerged from one of the holes, revolved with the sound of a Tambura. His areca nut cutter was slicing away areca nuts smoothly with an ease of experience gained over the years. He collected areca nut peels that were falling like crushed rice pieces and kept in a small box.

When he asked me whether I was still staying at my native place, I could understand what he had assumed. I replied with a smile “I am in Nagercoil”. Once I noticed that he was watching my lips, I wrote ‘Nagercoil, Jeya Mohan’ at the edge of Dina Malar lying on the hands of the easy chair. He caught hold of my hands with gleaming eyes. “I am happy….I am so happy. It is a big honour for me”, he uttered.  I wrote back honour was mine. He bobbed his head with a smile.

“Did you meet Ravi Subramaniyam?”

 “Yet to meet him” I replied.

 “Dei Saminathu, bring that…that thing…see how he is blinking”

 He understood what he meant and took out a collection of short stories, gave it to me.

 “Paavai has published it. He is a very good guy. He has paid me the royalty in advance. See…lots of medical expenses. I have to pay them money anyway. Right?”  

 I smiled at him and said “he could have paid them directly”. He burst into laughter. It just seemed that he needed no ears but only eyes to understand jokes.

As he was chewing betel leaves, a smile kept blooming across his face. “Isn’t betel an intoxication? Is it?,I asked. He nodded his head and said “there ought to be an affinity among betel leaves, lime and areca nuts. Like Raaga, Thaala and Bhava. Even for God, there is a role in it. It has to be there.” 

“Like a good poem”, I said.  “Why? Can’t it be said like a good indulgence? You may say so. I have not yet become that old.” he laughed. “What is the third aspect in it? It is only Raaga and Thaala”. He nodded his head in denial and said, “The third one is also there. It is place. Has any love poem ever been written without mentioning the place? he asked.

Saminathan went out, brought coffee in a jar from the shop at the corner. He poured it out half a glass for me and half a glass for the elderly man. 

“Has it become cold?” he asked. 

"Yes..a little”. I said. 

“I like drinking coffee when it gets cold. When drinking it hot, only its heat is felt. It becomes void of its sweetness and aroma. Can we relish the beauty of a women when she is running fast? What do you say?” he asked. 

"We can enjoy the beauty of a horse only when it runs”. I retorted.

He again smiled at it “It is alright anyway. Only poetry has the answers for everything. Strictly as a rule, I should not drink coffee. But the desire doesn't desert me, though. That's why I take half a glass at times”. “This half a glass becomes four or five times”, Saminathan intervened. 

“You get lost!!”, he endearingly admonished him. I set the coffee tumbler down and asked him, “What about royalty in those days?” 

“Royalty? It was a bad word at that time. Wasn’t it?, he sneered.

 “I came to understand that you had lived your life off by writing alone”, I said.

"I didn’t live. I just existed. I kept writing. All I lived was only up to thirty-three years. I never ventured out without having at least hundred rupees in hand. Ten guys used to be with me all the time. All were well trained in Music and concerts. We used to talk day and night. There would be Kumbakonam Seeval betel leaves at hand and a very good quality degree coffee in a jar. They would keep on filling in the food box with Pakkoda, Murukku and Seedai every time it got emptied. At the dusk, we used to go to the river side. Then, singing session sitting on sand!. Some discourse on literature in between!. What sort of literature was it? Only just a gossip. Mouni used to come there very frequently. He was such a matchless gossip...one can match his gossiping skills only when a writer was born anew. Right, Saminathu?” 

“If someone is afraid of gossiping, he has to take birth like him” Saminathan told. The elderly man burst into laughter, slapping his thighs.  He then turned to me and said, “This guy knows about the affairs of Janaki Raman. But he won’t tell”. “Kumbakonam, in those days was different altogether. It was the town where Music and literature were flowing like river. Many a famous persons are only from this town. Do you know that?”. I gave him a smile. “However, along with it came cheating, deceit and all. If they start with their loose tongue with betel leaves stuffed in mouth and puckering their lips, even Lord Shiva would divorce his wife Umaiyaal for sure.”

I could notice that he was getting ready for another roll of betel leaves. This time he opened the Betel Seeval packet.

“what are you looking at? Here everything is only seeval. One heavy intake of betel leaves for every four or five times of intake of Seeval….what I was talking about?”

“Chit chat by the riverside…”

“Yes…from there, we would have Adai at Rayar Club. Or else Poori. Then coffee made of cow milk. We used to take coffee even at midnight. There would always be a concert at some temple. No matter where you were in, you could hear Nathaswaram. Almost like a wandering group that was let loose. There were four or five looms running. Embroidery…it was drawn from Nagpur in North. It was very good quality embroidery. Other weavers did not know how to weave it properly. If we made it, Goddess Mahalakshmi would blossom to life in embroidery”.

He fell silent, with areca nuts stuffed aside in his mouth. With heave of sigh he said, “All were gone. Handloom machines came in the North. Fake embroidery came into existence. Quality embroidery means weaving Silk thread fused with Gold and Silver. Now everything has become imitations. All business came down just like a crumbling temporary shed. After paying off all debts, I was left with nothing in my hand. I had four children. I didn’t know any other profession. I didn’t know any other persons either. You can very well conclude that I was standing on the street. Is that right da?”

“Yes…anna” Saminathan acceded.

“We would have died that day itself had this mother fucker not been around. He used to bring rice or wheat and keep it at my place without my knowledge. I am immensely indebted to this dog…How could I repay?! Next birth is there any way. I will take birth as a good breed of bull in his cow shed and pull the cart he drives till my neck breaks. Is that ok da?” asked the elderly man. Saminathan turned his face other side. A lump in his throat moved up and down. It appeared that he was about to weep.

“I started my writing career around that time. Whatever the form it was! It was just writing anyway. Wasn’t it? That was the only thing I knew. If I had taken birth as a girl, I would have become a prostitute. Since I was destined to be a writer, I could do only that. Publishing industry was also started and became a hot business around that time. After independence, schools and colleges were set up in every town during fifties. Government libraries also came into existence. The Chettiar community which came from Burma with lots of wealth entered publishing business. All were related to one another, either as Uncle or Brother in law! My publisher was in Trichy. They were siblings. Their name was Meyyappan Brothers. Even in Pudhumai Pithan stories, a reference about them could be found. They had published a book by collaborating with their relatives in Chennai. What was the name of the story Saminathu?”

“Truth and Contemplations” (Nijamum Ninaippum)”, Saminathan replied instantly. “Yes…one says that instead of doing book business, one could sell snake gourd. The elder fellow says, ‘You fool! Snake gourd will get rotten’. Just see the deep-rooted differences of opinions in the matters of book publishing between brothers. He spat out in the spittoon and told, “However, I would say they were good people in general. They started their business in Trichy and were successfully running it. Other than money, nothing could enter their mind. Pure business minded people. It should be like that anyway. Only then they sustain here. Or else, he would also close down his business and come down to street like us. Every life has been created by God for certain role anyway. Isn’t it da?” 

“Yes…anna” Saminathan agreed. 

“If I am right, I'd say only this fellow took me there. They told, ‘So you are writing books!!…We will pay you for per page’. If someone had given money and asked to suck their penis, I would have kneeled down right there. That was the condition I was in. I said O.K. It was agreed that specified amount would be given as wage for every page written. There was nothing called royalty. Writing alone wasn't enough. I had to go to the press to do proof reading as well. There was a considerable demand for adopted stories. Topics like Suspense, love, terror and all were in great demand. Someone called Methavi used to write a lot about these topics. Elder Chettiar asked me, “Oi, can you write like Methavi?”. “I, Myself, am a Methavi” (extra-ordinarily gifted, jack of all trade), I replied. He could not understand what I said. But he was type of a person who had some vague idea that a writer would be an eccentric.

“During my young age, I had read many of your novels. One man goes to London for studies to become a Barrister. A very handsome man and a very ugly man ...being together always..."

He dismissed it nonchalantly. “see…you read something and reproduce it with different stuff…is it that difficult or what? I used to complete two novels per month”

“Two?”

 “Then what? Sometimes I used to complete three or four a month”

 “How much would they pay?” 

 “The agreement was about payment per page. But in reality, they would give whatever they felt like. From ten rupees to thirty rupees…You wouldn’t even get it in one go. If you asked them, they would give one rupee or Eight anas and make entries in the big ledger. Pudhumai Pithan has written about these Big ledger entries in his stories.”

 Getting stunned, I asked him, “Just thirty rupees!!…was it for the complete novel?”

 “Yes…We did not have any right beyond it. We had to give our acceptance in writing”, he said.

 “The novel you have just mentioned, I received twenty rupees for that.”

 “It was paltry sum even by the standards of those days. Wasn’t it?”

 “Of course…even a peon used to get a salary of hundred rupees per month. But I would get beleaguered to earn even thirty rupees for a month. Everything is written here”…he drew a line running his fingers across his forehead.

 “Those books are still in circulation. Aren't they?” I said.

 “They have been in the market for the last thirty-five years. Its value could have crossed twenty rupees”.

 “Didn’t they pay any money?”

Saminathan laughed out and said, “It is a good story anyway…that man has been telling that only he fed him with proper food”. A moment later, he told “There is big story behind it. Is it not na? Tell that story”

 “What is the use of it”, the elderly person said.

 “See…he is a present generation writer. Let him know about it. What is harm in it? Please go on." 

The elderly man once again started another roll of chewing betel leaves. He could not slice off the areca nut as his fingers were shivering. The areca nut fell off his hand and rolled away in the yard. He opened the Seeval Packet. He fell silent for a moment, with his head bent downwards. I was sitting in such a state of mind where I wanted to say it was alright.

Heaving a big sigh, the elderly man resumed “I told you there was a great demand for school books. Congress party formed the government. They demanded that there must be booklets on freedom fighters in every school. Then there was demand for the life histories of scientists, historical figures like King Ashoka, Akbar and others. They had agreed to publish hundred books….but there was no one to write…They summoned me and asked how many books I could write….a day before that day, there was a big fight in the family. My life was moving on miserably with just curd rice and pickle. Individual family. Condition was such that I had to stitch the rice bags to cover my body. Worn out Dhoti, Torn shirt….I had a Khaki over-coat. You may consider Lord Krishna had come in the form of coat to save my honour. The argument resumed after dinner. My wife chided me how we could make arrangements for our girl child if the condition remained same like that…..I kept on writing without paying attention…she snatched it from my hands angrily and threw it away. I got up, frenzied and gave a tight slap on her cheek. I went out of the house and was sitting in front of Bhoodha Nathar temple throughout the icy night. When Chettiyar asked me that question that morning, it just came spontaneously through my tongue…I told him that I would write all the hundred books.

I wondered, “All the hundred!”

The elderly man laughed, “If a dog chases you, what is wrong in running? Yes…all hundred books. Per book fifty rupees. For hundred books, five thousand rupees. Chettiyar got bewildered and asked “are you playing? Ain’t you?”. “No…I can write all hundred books”, I told him. They know about my speed of writing. Will you be able to give all the books in a year?”, they asked. “Certainly…”, I replied. 

“It means one book in three days!!”, I wondered.  

“I just wrote…Now, it looks incredible. I have to send a letter to my son. It has been seven days now. I wrote four lines in an inland letter and still lying there. But that time, I wrote as if I was possessed by spirit. I used to write throughout the night. There were days I used to complete even hundred pages a day. Hand would pain and give up. Next day morning, the exterior of palm would have swollen like a soft Vada. In such condition, my son and daughter used to write as I dictated. I used to submit one book every three days. Going to the press in the morning to do proof reading and then a brief siesta… Then walking straight towards library to pick up a source book for the next book and sitting for writing after a coffee. Reading and writing would take place simultaneously. Sometime I would stop only in dawn to take a break.

“It might sound presumptuous…I completed all in a year…When the last book comes out, the third edition of the first book would be ready for sale…”

“I have read all those books…Even now, they have been reprinted .” I said.

“Yes…It keeps coming out anyway. Doesn’t it?”, he chuckled.

“Nonetheless, we have done everything as much as possible for our children as a tutor. With a heave of sigh, he told, “I have stopped writing stories. Literature has lost itself somewhere. I am not meeting anyone. By chance, if Karichan Kunju happens to meet me, he would shout, “hei…mother fucker! Stop!”. If he stood at the distance, I would escape with an excuse of some work. If he was near, he would catch hold of my shirt collar and abuse me with all explicit expletives. He was lucky anyway. Wasn’t he? His monthly salary directly went to his house just for yelling out alphabets. He could afford talk literature…But for me…everything is gone. Now, two novels and five six stories are ready. Somebody must read it. I guess he would.”

Saminathan intervened as if he has memorized these lines, “Pudhumai Pithan has already explained this. There is no darkness without light . Till the lights appears we can do nothing but wait. The elderly man gave a smile. I have not seen such a heavy smile filled with misery ever in my life. Saminathan concluded, “How long do we have to wait? We need to be alive when the light comes?”. It must be from the story “Letter” by Pudhumai Pithan." I thought. 

“Go on anna...still you have not come to the crux of the story”, Saminathan insisted.

 “What is the need of telling all those things? When the dead body gets burnt, everything gets burnt along with it including lust, enmity and all…There is no meaning for all these things in life da”

 “No…na. He must know this”, Saminathan reiterated.

 The elderly man looked at me, smiled and said “This man is different type. For such people, the door would open on its own. If not, he would break it open. Horoscopes of some people are like that.”

There was a silence once again. Other than the amount I received at times, I kept all the balance amount only with them. If I had it in my hands, I would have spent it for Puja and Naivedyam (ghee anoints) in the name of Goddess Indignant Lakshmi. Other than whatever I received, the balance amount of three thousand rupees was with the Chettiyar. Having that money in mind, I had arranged marriage for my daughter. I went to Chettiyar with the Tambulam Plate. I told him about the auspicious event and requested to give me that amount. He started yelling, “Three Thousand!! What the heck!  Are you in your senses? Three Thousand for writing books!!”, Initially I thought he was playing prank. After that, I could understand he was speaking his mind. Till then, he was accustomed with only giving five or ten rupees. He could not digest the idea of giving three Thousand rupees to a writer at once.”

“But he has sold hundred books. Hasn’t he?”

“Yes…he had developed his shop double and triple with the profit from that money. A big house in Trichy was already built. He had purchased lands at his native place. But all those things did not come to his attention. ” He kept on telling that he had a debt of one lakh rupees. It was a debt he borrowed to expand his business. He printed all the books in different colours like Palm Sugar moulds and kept them in stacks in his Go-down. All were money. But in business, the capital would always remain a debt anyway. He could see only that. He could not see anything which he earned out of that money. “Don’t ever talk about three Thousand. If you like, I will give you seven hundred rupees”, he told. 

“Sami…please don’t ruin my life” I begged him. All at once, tears started welled up in my eyes. “Master, please don’t spoil the life of my daughter”, I beseeched him and I bent down beneath the table and to touch his legs. He shook his legs and yelled at me maniacally, “Do you think I am a fool? Do you expect me to give that amount if you hold my legs? It is the amount which I earned four anas by five anas with my hard work. What the heck did you write? You just copied books written by others and reproduced the same. You demand four thousand for that!! Is the task of writing a colossal one like plucking pubic hair or what? Even school children write throughout the day. Mind it was my money that kept your hearth alive . You ungrateful dog! It was my mistake that I believed you as a human being”

“A crowd gathered there. Someone said, “It is just what the master says. Is it not? No matter what it could be, he was his God who had fed him with food for seven years. Sooner, his brother also came there and abused me. I started screaming at them hysterically. “You got rich by cheating me. You will never prosper ever in your life”. Suddenly, he hit me. The people nearby caught hold of him. “Get lost! You curse the hand that fed you. Don't you?”, the elder one shouted. I was standing in the middle of the road. Became immobile. It was evening. I didn’t know where to go. How to go home? All the arrangements were on full swing. I needed money. Gold Jewellery and Sarees were to be purchased. Advance amount for making temporary shed to be given….I stood there still. After dusk, I went to the master and prostrated in front of him and cried. They pushed me out, “Get out ...get out”

“They closed the shop at eight. I was standing there throughout the night. How I was standing! Why I was standing! I could understand nothing. I heard a shallow sound in my ears. That sound had become a very serious issue later. You must have read Saththangal (Sounds)”. 

I said, “Yes…”. He didn’t say anything for a while. That silence seems to be as heavy as black stone. He continued with a sigh, “When he came in the morning to open the shop, I was still sitting there in veranda. Tears started sliding down my cheeks after seeing him. I could only fold my hands in obeisance. Not even a single word came out of my mouth. I felt as if sand had got struck in my throat pit. He stared at me for some time- A look as if he was repulsively looking at human shit...He opened the shop, went in and sat by the cash counter for a while. I didn’t know what had happened, he came out and abused me, “You mother fucker! Are you eating rice and shit? Are you a human being? Are you born to one man? I knew well about his loud mouth of expletives which would peel our skin off if used. I begged him with tears in my eyes, “I don’t have no other refuge other than dying”. He threw out a rupee coin at my face and screamed, “Go and die! You dog! Take it and get some poison”.

“I sat there in trance as if being under the spell of something. Deeply contemplating something, I strode fast and reached Chettiyar’s house. It was about ten in the morning. The Periya Achi (Senior Aunt), the wife of the elder one was sitting in the Veranda and was feeding a neighbour's child some idli. I went to her, folded my hands and stood right in front of her.  “How everything else, bard?” she asked. 

She didn’t know anything much. She could only read word by word. Bare illiterate. I explained everything with my hands folded. I went to her just to explain her everything so she could explain it to Chettiyar. But when I was narrating my ordeal, from somewhere some sort of rapid anxiety came over!...As if the whole body was under fire! As if all my limps were writhing like flames! When I uttered “I am a blessed soul by Goddess Saraswati”. A divinely possession came upon me. The tenor of my voice went up…Even today, I still recount those days, wonder at the things I did after that, how I did them all. ‘Will you and your children be able to live peacefully after ruining my whole life? If you all have a peaceful life, it just means goddess Saraswati is none but a whore’, I shouted in frenzy, took out a pen and wrote a Venba, mushing up some Idli on the paper, pasted it on the door of her house and came back.”

“As I walked, I began to slow down. I could not walk further. It was more than a day since I ate. But if I thought about food, I felt disgusting. Then I walked straight, sold my old wrist watch and had liquor as much as my breath could take. I didn’t know when I came home and where I slept. I came to know that my wife had attempted suicide by jumping into the well. Since it was day time and people were moving around, they stopped her. I lay like a corpse. Unknown persons were trying to wake me up. Abused me. Some kicked me with their legs.  But all seemed to me as if I was watching everything that were happening above by burying myself inside the Kaveri River bed. I thought I was dead. When I thought I was dead, what a peaceful thought it was. I lost all my weight. How it would be when a debt of one lakh rupees that had been haunting for forty years was paid off in a single day!. It was like that…the peace was such that…Like air…like sponge…Only at that time, I could hear a sound in my ear…Like someone kept on telling my name. Just that my own mother calling me softly…I could realize how beautiful death was. Now I am not afraid of death. I am waiting for it with grace.”

“What was that Venba?” I asked. I could guess what it was. “It was Aram. (Song of Dharma)…there was a custom like that. Wasn’t it? Truly speaking, I just forgot it after I had heard about it.  Karichan Kunju and I have discussed prosody a bit. Otherwise, I am not well versed in even in Tamil. That was the first and last poem I ever wrote. I could not remember that verse. I have been trying to forget if for the last twenty five years. However, the last two lines of that verse are still in my memory. 

“Chetti kulamaruththu semmannin 

medaakki etti ezhuga vendraram 

(By perishing the lineage of Chettiyar, 

piling it up in the red sand, 

let the virtue be raised!)

 “Then what happened?” I asked impatiently.

“I came to know about what happened only after I was told about it. Achi left everything as it was, with loosened locks of hair and saree dishevelled, went to the shop, stood in front of it. She told Chettiyar to settle all the amount of the poet immediately without leaving a penny remaining. Even now i get goosebumps at a very thought of it. How she could have looked? In earlier days, one Achi burnt the whole of Madurai. Was it she? All such people were in same mould! Weren’t they? Chettiyar was shivering and promised her, ‘I will give him his money…I will give it by tomorrow’. ‘No…You have to give today itself…You must give right now. Only after that, I’ll get up’, she moved and sat down on the tar road. She was very dark in complexion. Fully endowed figure. She was a size of four persons. A thick layer of turmeric on face. A vermillion of quarter size of an ana that looked burning on forehead. The sacred thread that had been jeweled magnificently was fully occupying her neck like Fry wood buds sprouting itself with its fullness. She was looking like Goddess Amman herself descended on at the Tri-junction. Wasn’t she? No one could speak a single word. She would bite the throat pit and drink the blood!!…Chetti got up and ran. There was no sufficient money in the bank….he ran out for borrowing…He fell on the foot of his known people…He could collect the amount only by evening. Till then she was sitting at the middle of the road like a statue made of black stone with her eyes closed. The Chithirai month’s summer was harsh like fire. It was a good Agni Natchathiram. The bitumen road was just melting. Chetti arranged a taxi, came to my house. I was just lying like a dead body. He emptied all the money he brought at the feet of my wife and implored her, ‘Mother…please tell your husband not to destroy my family. The light of my lineage is now sitting on the road. Here is all his money with interest’. He ran back by the same car. He went straight to her, tied his towel in his waist and begged her, ‘Goddess of my family! Please get up. Whatever I had to do, I have done it’, he cried. Four persons lifted her, I guess. People told that when she was lifted, the burnt skin and flesh got stuck and came along with her saree”.

I could visualize that scene that unravelled clearly in my mind in many folds. He was sitting as if he had gone to that era. Someone passed by selling ‘Kolam powder’ outside. I could not even figure out for a while where actually I was.

The elder man continued, “Marriage took place perfectly. Chettiyar and his brother had sent one sovereign gold ring. After ten days, Achi asked them to invite me. I went there. I went there thinking of falling on her feet. My mind started changing its course from the day my daughter’s marriage was over. I kept pondering over why I got unduly angry. I thought demanding the whole money from a person who was running his business on debt was actually wrong.

“Sooner I entered the house, Achi came received me with her hands folded in respect. She politely said, ‘Dear poet! You should sing a verse to bless my family. You must forgive the wrongs we have done to you. It is said that Goddess Lakshmi may come and go. But Goddess Sarawati will open her eyes once in after seven births. You are a magnificent soul. You shed tears standing at my house yard. Let your word save us from that sin from getting it into our family.’ 

“What a word it was! Like the way one counts gold coins carefully! Like a pearl circlet!  We used to write four or five times even to complete a paragraph. Don’t we? Even after that, it remains incomplete. What does blessing of Goddess Saraswati Mean? If you have fire in your mind, she would come and sit anyway. Wouldn’t she? That was only her destiny. Other things are just immaterial…... What was I talking? My hand and legs went limp. My tongue withdrew. I was sitting on the chair, my head hung down. I dared not see her. I was simply staring at her feet. There was a ring on her toe! There was a beauty in it. It was the beauty that dwells with the women who stay at home. Who said Dharma is something meant only for people who rule the country? Righteousness dwells at home man!!… People praise chaste woman for a sound reason. Don’t they? Suddenly a verse came over my mind. I wrote eight verses spontaneously. I gave it to Achi. She held it in her hands and touched her eyes with it.”

 “What was surprising is that I could remember only the first two lines of the first verse. ‘metti oli sithara meyyaallaam pon viriya chetti kula vilakku seitha thavam’  (The light from her toe ring gets scattered, the gold gets scattered throughout her body, the good deed done by the light of Chetti family). I have tried remembering the remaining lines many times. It is alright. It was all about I could do. Remaining was the play of Goddess Saraswati, I had thought. She asked me to sit inside her house on a silk spread and served food on a silver plate with her own hands. She gave me a small Thamabalam Plate with a gold coin and five hundred rupees. She called upon her children to seek my blessings. When I came out, I could realize that it was not me I had been. I was dead once and came alive again. That day I realized what was meant by a ‘Word’. It was Arjuna’ bow…While holding it, it would be one. While shooting, it would be hundred. When it hit, it would be thousand….Is that right Saminathu?”

 “People consider righteousness supreme, of course, with a strong logic. Don’t they?” he said.

“The poet Elango says that rectitude can assume the role of the God of Death”. The elderly man was looking at Saminathan as if he was looking at someone new. Then he muttered as if he was talking to himself, “Yes…it was righteousness that prevailed at the end. But it was that lady who had it ”.

 

                                                                     ***End***

Translated from Tamil by Saravanan Karmegam.   

Source: www.jeyamohan.in