WHEN relatives leave after a short visit, it is customary for them to give some money to the children of the house. To immediately hand it over to amma is also customary. Once, my aunt, who was returning to Mumbai after spending a few days with us, gave me ten rupees. ‘Buy something,’ she said. Had this episode transpired at home, I would have had to hand over the money to amma. I had gone to drop her off, and just before the bus moved out of the stand, she had, in a hurry, stretched her hand out of the window and thrust that folded note into my palm. I went straight to a bookshop without the faintest idea of what book to buy.

As I stood there browsing through the glass shelf, I saw Bharathipura, its green title page covered with half sentences. The words left me shaken. Till then I had neither come across such language nor such thoughts. I was mesmerized. I have not yet forgotten the lines that I read that day at the shop: ‘…because of Manjunatha our lifestyle has stagnated. We are rotting. Once we destroy Manjunatha we’ll have to become responsible for our lives… What’s important right now is to prepare the Holeyaru for it. We’ll have to make them take their first step in history. Their first step across the threshold of the temple may change the reality of centuries...’ I handed over my ten rupees, bought the book and went straight home, not getting up till I had finished it. I was 15 years old at the time.

The kind of disturbance that Bharatipura created in me cannot be easily described. The way language had been deployed was itself new to me. I myself went through the turmoil of the protagonist.

After Bharatipura, I turned towards a different kind of reading. This was a major turn in my life. The magic of Ananthamurthy’s writings came from the fact that he could articulate complex issues with great clarity and connect them to everyday experiences. Using this magic, he reached every nook and corner of the reader’s mind to transform an idea into an experience. I feel that it was this talent of Ananthamurthy that angered fundamentalists. Ananthamurthy’s writings and the metaphors he used obviously disturbed them deeply. The fundamentalist brigade must have been astounded by the lucidity of his thoughts; I clearly recall the restlessness I went through after reading Bharatipura.

 

Two years after I read Bharatipura, I got a chance to meet URA. At the time I was studying in a small town called Ankola. I was thrilled by the fact that a major writer like Ananthamurthy was willing to come for the annual day of the Shetageri village high school. The famous critic G.H. Nayak was responsible for bringing Ananthamurthy, and when I learnt that Nayak was in Ankola, I went looking for him. Though I was a complete stranger, Nayak spoke affectionately. He told me that Ananthamurthy was arriving by the Bangalore bus the following morning and invited me to join them for breakfast at his house.

I had been asked to come at 7 am, but I was so restless that I reached the bus stand much earlier. I had, since Bharathipura, read all of Ananthmurthy’s books twice over. Meanwhile, my very first short story was awarded a prize. Therefore, I entertained few doubts about my importance as a writer! Indulging myself in such thoughts, I waited eagerly to see Ananthamurthy. There was only one bus that came from Bangalore. It had yet to arrive. G.H. Nayak and the principal of the Shetgeri High School were already there. We stood under a tree, chatting as we waited for the bus.

That day the bus came late, around 8 am. I spotted him sitting by the window, wearing a gray and yellow sweater. Nayak went ahead and received him. And I was right behind. Taking off his sweater, the first words he uttered are still etched in my mind. ‘There was a huge downpour in Bangalore. It was very difficult to find an auto to reach the bus stand.’ Nayak introduced me to him. At around 9 am, I went to their house for breakfast. I sat intently listening to their conversation. But in a few minutes, I was disappointed. Ananthamurthy spoke about everything in the world except literature. Farmer’s revolutions, the schools and colleges that had been set up by Dinakar Desai, social revolution and much else – he seemed more concerned about contemporary politics.

Now, as a result of the many years of my close relationship with him, this aspect of his doesn’t surprise me. It was inherent to his nature. Till his illness made it difficult for him to travel, he loved going to schools and colleges in small towns. He was extremely interested in what youngster’s wrote. Till his last days he never lost the enthusiasm to read new writing and would contact the authors. He wrote letters, and told everyone about it. Ananthamurthy could see the strengths and limitations in a piece of writing and was honest in offering his criticism – this was valued by new writers on the block.

 

In the days when I didn’t know him all that well, he had written a letter to me after reading one of my stories; it remains a cherished moment, and this is true of many Kannada writers. He would create an informal atmosphere making it possible for anyone to approach him, to hand over their manuscripts and ask him for an opinion. This kind of an interactive environment, especially for younger writers, seems now a distant memory. If someone were to put down some features of the Ananthamurthy era, this certainly would be an important one.

Since he was deeply interested in the world around him, no one that he came in contact with was allowed to slip away. It could have been the carpenter, the farm labourer Ramaiah, a computer engineer, or even the big and famous – he would talk to them with great interest, without being judgmental. It was this interest that made him such an active participant at the three-day science seminar at Heggodu. He raised key ethical questions, which were seriously discussed at the gathering.

Talking about questions, I remember that he never treated even the most ordinary question with disinterest. He genuinely believed that it was inner provocation that prompted a person to ask a question and so helped them to articulate it with greater clarity – a lesson in lucidity of thought, that also gave the person asking the question a boost in self-confidence. But, if the question was to merely test his integrity, he became immensely angry.

To share and to build together was an integral part of his personality and thought process. People came to meet him all through the day; he never rejected anyone. His thoughts, his writing plans, political responses were discussed with several friends even before they came to occupy public space. Irrespective of a person’s age and background, he would engage in a meaningful conversation with them and, most importantly, take their feedback seriously. If at all he could foresee a reader response and its repercussions, this was probably the reason. I feel his interactions with people of diverse backgrounds influenced the structure of his narratives, the manner in which his thoughts developed, and his ability to yoke together dissimilar elements.

 

His participation with the larger community had a bearing on his writing process. Everything was kept ready somewhere, and it was as if he was merely putting them on paper – he wrote his essays in one sitting. Of course, he made minor corrections here and there, but there wasn’t much of a difference between the first and final draft. Because of this ability, he could dictate when unable to spend long hours before the computer. Another Kannada writer who had this ability was Shivaram Karanth. Such an exercise is impossible unless one has total clarity of thought.

This was true of his speeches too. I never saw him make elaborate notes for any of his lectures. His talks, like his writing, were also an outcome of his imaginative fabric. The immediacy in his speeches came from here, I suppose. During the proceedings, he would put down a few words on the back of an envelope, or make some random jottings on the last page of a notepad – this was his preparation. He would start talking and thoughts would fall in place. I feel he loved to make speeches because of the creative pleasure he derived from the process, possibly also the reason why they were so tentative and charming. He spoke with a sense of wonderment as these creative impulses worked within him, and he had the ability to transfer it to his audience as well. ‘It occurred to me at that moment, just as I was speaking,’ was something I have heard him say so many times.

 

I watched him closely when he was translating Tao The Ching. For nearly a month and a half in Mysore, he worked for 10-12 hours a day. Night and day he would think of only this, making a minimum of four versions for each poem. It was not merely a translation, it was an excuse for a search within. If you read his Foreword to Tao The Ching, the point I am making will become clear. He could also create the solitude required for his writing wherever he was. It didn’t need a specific place or time. Once having started, the writing would flow continuously, the buzzing world around him proved no impediment. That is how, even when he was travelling continuously and actively engaged in public life, he could immerse himself in writing as well.

 

His views on contemporary politics, however, left me nervous, almost as if I did not want to believe that it could happen. I had a reason to feel so. In 1996, Ramakrishna Hegde and Deve Gowda were both part of the Janata Dal during the assembly elections in Karnataka. On the day of counting Ananthamurthy was staying with us. At seven in the morning, Deve Gowda came to our house with a friend, who now occupies a key position in the Congress. Deve Gowda’s confidence and political experience was so sound that he could accurately predict the number of seats a party would win. When the results were declared, there was a difference of a mere three seats.

Despite it being counting day, there was a reason for Deve Gowda to spend those three hours at our house. He wanted Ananthamurthy to convince Hegde not to come in the way of his becoming the chief minister. I have a hunch that he left only after extracting a promise from Ananthamurthy. After he left, Ananthamurthy wrote a letter to Hegde. In it, he discussed the entire political scenario of the country and also the forthcoming Lok Sabha elections. No party may win a majority, regional parties may become major players and would possibly come to power at the Centre, his letter predicted. And in such a scenario, he advised Hegde to move to national politics and let Deve Gowda take on the responsibility of the state. At that point this seemed impossible. I don’t know what Hegde took into account, what kinds of alliances took place, but Deve Gowda did become the chief minister. The rest is history and every-one knows how Deve Gowda expelled Hegde from the party! In retrospect, this letter appears like a prophecy to me. Hence, the intensity of his emotions and views on contemporary politics and Narendra Modi made me nervous.

Our last conversation was when he was in hospital. His book Hindutva and Hind Swaraj was ready for publishing. It was a book born from deep thought. He had revised it several times. The power of its language, the fiction-like narrative, and the progression of ideas that seem like incidents from a novel, will leave a lasting impact on the reader’s consciousness. That day, in the hospital, he spoke about the thoughts of Richard Rorty. ‘It could be history or sociology; if there is no faith that man can change, then all the work that’s happening in these fields is useless,’ he said. A little later he spoke about Shivaram Karanth, and recalling my comment, added, ‘It is time for us to reread Karanth again.’ Both these responses were typical of his nature.

 

Like everyone else who came into contact with him, I too was mesmerized by his persona, and experienced great happiness in his company. As a writer it was also inevitable that I would seek to break free from that influence. All these thoughts are a recollection of those moments of pleasure and anguish.

In these 25 years since I have been a part of his family and closely interacted with him in those thousands of meetings, I never returned empty-handed. He always had something new to share. There was always some new idea, new thought or a new book to talk about. This was true till the last meeting. It is indeed rare that someone who you are close to remains constantly new, even after all these years.

 

* Translated from Kannada by Deepa Ganesh.