Glimpses of a private person

I WAS a seven-year-old, when my mother introduced me to a middle- aged man at a chamber music soiree, "My daughter loves your book." This was Swami and Friends, in its Tamil translation. At that time I thought R.K. Narayan wrote in Tamil, and for children.

Unlike the other Madras mamas I knew (though he looked like one himself) Narayan proceeded to speak to me in a normal voice, quite without that repellent heartiness adults adopt for children. "Kalki's grand daughter, and My fan?" he beamed, referring to my grandfather, a prolific Tamil writer. He added in sotto voce, with that naughty twinkle I was to become familiar with over the years, "Well, you are an intelligent girl!" (I found out later that he thought Kalki wasted his talent on causes and movements instead of concentrating on the actual business of writing).

Narayan, known as Kunjappa to intimates, visited our joint-family home whenever he came to Madras. By the time I learnt enough English to read his novels we had become friends. Age difference? He never gave it a thought and so you didn't either. He was one of the few adults in my ken to whom I could speak my mind without being told that it was immodest or "unmaidenly" to argue.

One lazy afternoon, when the others were asleep, he found me reading under the staircase. He told me I should stop reading romantic nonsense. (Fortunately, he didn't know that I had shed delicious tears over his English Teacher considering it highly romantic). Why don't you go in for better stuff, he said. I did read the books he named because he called them interesting - not edifying.

And perhaps because he had nothing else to do he also described at length the misguided mauling of his The Guide in the filmed version. He almost revised his original opinion of my grey cells when I insisted that Waheeda Rehman made a gorgeous Rosie and the songs were simply lovely! When I hummed one of them in what I believed was Lata Mangeshkar's high-pitched alto, he told me to stop because it sounded too much like trapped mouse for comfort.

Having lost track of Narayan for a decade I was surprised by a sudden summons during one of his annual visits to Madras for the music season. He had read my first attempt at writing, a profile of Carnatic vocalist D.K. Pattammal. That was when he said with an impish smile, "You have an interest in trivia. Don't lose it." It is the only piece of advice he gave me.

Soon after that, when I called him in Mysore to say hello, he came straight to my hotel, cane in hand, and took charge of my schedule, introducing his own variations into it. One of them was a visit to C.D. Narasimhaiah's Dhvanyaloka where the scholar held literary seminars.

"If you wake up C.D. Narasimhaiah in the middle of the night, he can teach "Hamlet" like the turning of a tap," Narayan chuckled, and went on to describe with affection the professor's personal ardour which kept his institute going.

This was one of Narayan's endearing qualities. He could be, and often was, very generous in praising others. But he was never guilty of sentimental effusions. He kept in touch with Indian writing in English, and had good things to say about several writers, particularly Vikram Seth (whose travelogue he insisted on lending me and, when I took my time over it, called up to growl, "Do you intend to keep the book?")

But I have heard him trounce pretension. One wildly successful writer roused so much ire that Narayan declared he wanted to shred the book, make it into balls and jump on them! Then, fixing a suspicious eye on me he asked, "Do You like that book? It may appeal to your modern taste." He was satisfied only when I promised I would join the jumping exercise. I was surprised by that heat. Later I thought that it was natural that a person so sincere and genuine - in life and writings - should be able to tolerate mediocrity at a pinch, but not sham. Once he said that modern writers mistook documentation for writing.

It was easier to keep in touch with Narayan when he moved to Madras. My irregular late morning visits found him on a chair on the ground floor verandah ready to talk with undimmed insouciance, especially about yesteryear musicians. He had known them all personally, many of them had been house-guests in his Mysore home. He had an irreverent way of talking about people. There was mischief, but no malice.

Once he showed me an erudite paper on his works, and was happy when I hurriedly disclaimed all understanding of jargon. Thereupon he launched into a denunciation of our current teaching methods, which snuffed out any lingering taste for literature. This was the signal for his favourite story about his own teaching experience in Austin, Texas, where both he and his students had enjoyed the course in Indian English writing, because he had refused to thrust "knowledge" down their gullets, and did away with examinations. At such moments I tried to appear as much like a school dropout as possible.

He didn't like discussing his work unless he initiated the subject himself. I remember how once he told me a whole chunk of Grandmother's Tale that he was writing (by hand, on an old pad). The oral narrative was far more spicy than the written could ever be, sprinkled as it was with digressions and "unwritable" jokes.

I knew that Narayan was happy his books were read the world over ("They have actually drawn up a map of Malgudi in an American university!" he said with childish glee). But he had no awe of the Westerner.

Essentially a private person, he hated being viewed as a celebrity. He was prickly about meeting strangers and being bored by their quizzing. When an eminent British litterateur asked me to arrange a meeting with Narayan, he agreed, but called twice to cancel it as he had nothing left to say to foreigners. However, when the guest entered his home, Narayan was all charm and geniality, full of genuine pleasure at being able to recall old memories and older acquaintances in England.

Narayan did not look like a likely partner in what we call a "love marriage". And I always wondered how, when his beloved Rajam died after a mere five years of togetherness, he managed to bring up his daughter without the all-too-common second marriage. Once I asked him why he never remarried. Instead of brushing the question aside as I half thought he would do, he said very slowly that he had no choice in the matter. "Once you are married, it is for life. The death of the partner cannot alter the bond, can it?" The words were commonplace, spoken without drama, or even any modulation. But how can I forget the look on his face when he said that? There was a glow in it, a quietness I had never seen in our lively exchanges. I felt a prickling sensation all over, and a lump in the throat. The speaker was then well past 80.

We all know that Narayan had a healthy respect for women, some of his women are strong, wise and pragmatic, often in contrast to the dreamy ne'er-do-well men around them. He was as adept as his brother R.K. Laxman, in caricaturing male befuddlement when face- to-face with strong-willed women. His raconteuring had the same bold strokes, as also the distance of ironic humour, which made him both an amused and empathic viewer of human illusions and foibles. His ire was reserved for men who exploited docile women. And as he talked about two such women he knew in life I could not help recall that in his The Dark Room, Narayan had denounced male brutality with uncharacteristic ruthlesslessness, quite without the drollery which leavens even his sombre passages. When I mentioned that to him he reacted with a grin. "Always good to surprise people," he said.

I have often thought that Narayan's simplicity came from intuition. When you heard him or read him, you were not aware of the language, it could be Swahili or Serbian. No cleverness, no verbal jugglery. The words flowed evenly over surfaces shallow and deep, mesmerising you as only the speech of a born storyteller can.

His social concern is as profound as those who take more overt stances. When we read his short story where the poor old villager believes he is selling his mangy goats to the American tourist, and the tourist thinks he has a bargain in getting a terra cotta horse standing beside the villager on the desolate ruins, we have an insight into essential India, where time stands still, and the happenings of millennia barely cause a ripple. What moves you is not the humour, or the irony, but the pathos which can never be overcome. Is this why Narayan is loved across the world?

GOWRI RAMNARAYAN

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