Stains on Greatness

 

One of the most interesting articles I read yesterday is from a Malayalam monthly, Bhashaposhini. The article is a glorious tribute to a Malayalam writer named V B C Nair. What I loved about the article are the profound insights it gives into the lives of some great writers of Kerala. When we read the works of these writers, we admire them. We admire the stories they weave, the characters they etch into our memories, the themes they leave us thinking about, and so on. We would imagine these writers as superhuman entities living beyond the normal human follies and foibles that punctuate the lives of silly people like me and the guy next door. This Bhashaposhini article reveals – rather unwittingly, I feel –the very human side of some great Malayalam writers.

Let me take only one example. The motive is not to highlight the dark side of this eminent personality. I have been fascinated by a thought that recurs these days to me like a motif in a novel. The great writers know so much about life and people that they appear like deities who hover above the rank and file. Do they make the same kind of mistakes that I make? Is their greatness stained by normal human imperfections that would appear silly to an onlooker?

Out of the many that appear in the article, I would like to take the example of the bilingual writer Kamala Das who wrote in Malayalam under the name of Madhavikutty and ended her life with a fourth name, Kamala Suraiyya. Fourth, did I say? Yeah, she had another name among people who were close to her: Aami. Too many names are a not-so-subtle indication of an identity problem, I said to my students a few weeks back while introducing a prescribed poem by Kamala Das to them. The above-mentioned article reveals a more obvious part of the poet’s clay feet.

Kamala Das was in a Mumbai hospital facing a serious medical problem. The editor of a prominent Malayalam magazine, S K Nair, rushed to Mumbai with monetary assistance as soon as he came to know from another writer about Kamala’s situation. The surgery was conducted and Kamala recovered. When she was healthy enough, she decided to visit S K Nair in his office. Nair made elaborate arrangements to welcome her. She was highly impressed by the royal hospitality rendered to her. “What can I do in return for all the favours showered on me?” She asked. “Enrich Malayalanadu with words,” Nair replied. Malayalanadu was the name of his magazine.

Kamala Das agreed readily. Soon after she returned to Mumbai, Nair received the first chapter of her autobiography, My Story. The autobiography was serialised in Nair’s magazine and it became an instant hit. It was an exceptionally bold writing from a woman in those days. No one would imagine a Malayali young woman from an orthodox family to write openly about her extramarital affairs and her raging sexual libido. Kerala was not ready yet for that sort of unorthodoxy and candour. The serialisation of the autobiography had to be stopped. 

Some time after that the magazine started serialising a novel titled Bhranth [Insanity] written by Pamman. Kamala Das (Madhavikutty) identified herself with the protagonist, Ammukutty, and demanded withdrawal of the novel altogether. In spite of a legal notice and many angry letters from Kamala Das, the novel continued to reach the readers of Malayalanadu just because Ammukutty was not Madhavikutty.

Then one day Kamala Das appeared personally at the office of the magazine along with her son, M D Nalapat who eventually became a famous journalist. She created a ruckus. She showered the choicest abuses on Nair. Not contented with all that, on walking out she picked up a fistful of sand from the courtyard and flung it at the office uttering a fiendish curse on it and the people who worked there. A curse on the man who rushed financial help to her when she lay helplessly in a hospital in a distant city!

I was stunned when I read about that curse part. I could accept all the rest, the anger and the abuses. But curse? That too, curse the very man who rushed with help when you needed it most though he didn’t even know you personally!

Kamala Das became Kamala Suraiyya

Well, writers aren’t as godly as I imagined them to be. They are very ordinary people with some extraordinary gifts. So are other great people. Every Einstein has his own very ordinary human side, too human in fact. Even the saint has his share of dark hues.

Let me end this on an optimistic note. [These days I’m making an extra effort to look at the brighter shades of life.] Another great personality mentioned in the same article cited above is P N Menon, Malayalam film director. S K Nair wanted to produce a movie. Menon was counselled not to accept the drinks offered by Nair during the discussion because Menon had a Mr Hyde in his psyche who would overpower the Dr Jekyll when he drank. The discussion started. As usual, Nair offered drinks. Nair and Vayalar (famous Malayalam poet) had whisky while the third glass remained empty as Menon refused to drink. But Menon couldn’t hold himself for too long. After about ten or fifteen minutes, Menon grabbed the whisky bottle, poured himself a large drink, gulped it down, then another, yet again, and then blurted out shocking expletives which suggested that he had painful inferiority complexes lying dormant below the self-assured exterior. He staggered out refusing to collaborate with the film direction.

When he came to his senses the next morning, he was oppressed by guilt-feelings. He had thrown away an exceptionally good opportunity. But then comes the pleasant twist in the tale. Nair sent a car to call Menon once again. Suppressing his shame, Menon went to Nair and apologised to him. “You’re the kind of director I was looking for,” Nair said with a grin. And Menon smiled. A deep friendship was born then and there. The movie that they made, Chemparathy (1972), became a superhit in Kerala.