Poetry Club

Poetry Club

KS, a friend from my High school days ( 1958 onwards), is a man of learning. He reads a lot and particularly in this context he is well read in English and Kannada Poetry.

Before I write about the Poetry club I should talk about my association with KS. He was my class mate in High school. He was the best educated in our class – particularly in languages, literary things. His father being a teacher would have helped. He came  from a lower middle class  and his father had many sisters ( spread over many years ) whose weddings  were  expensive and a great financial burden. They ( father,mother,sister,brother and KS ) lived in one room / hall house and electricity – on and off – was controlled by the owner ! His ( and his brother’s etc ) clothes would hang from a rope stretched across the room. As he said once – one set of dress would suffice from Monday through Friday.  In the class KS would write short articles, poems etc for ‘ private’ circulation. Paper that was required was supplied in a ingenious way by Kuppanna, one of our friends. He would borrow notebooks ( ‘ notes ‘ ) from many and carefully remove blank sheets ( just enough to evade detection ) to form the journal. We were enthusiastic readers even if we did not understand much of what was written. We felt  special in some  way. KS would whole heartedly help any one with grammar, last minute answers, brief summary for the exams etc

We – Sujatha and Subhash, Usha  and I – would meet generally at Subhash’s place every Sunday morning and wait for KS. This was in 1970’s. Though we called ourselves Poetry Club it was essentially KS reading and interpreting Poems. Over time the club had many more  visitors – I recall two  school teachers, a scientist  from IISc and one or two more. Hamlet, Eliot, Pound, Yeats, Hopkins, Auden, Shakespeare, Adiga, Bendre, KSNarasimha Swamy,  Kumaravyasa all visited us.  KS would actually study the whole week, collect relevant articles, sometimes criticisms from published books, make notes and bring them to  us on Sunday (sometimes even Xerox copies of poems too). For this he would visit Libraries, speak to people and collect articles. It went on for two or three years but collapsed after KS married and his wife had no interest in this. ‘ Poetry Club ‘  invited Adiga and Gokak ( on two different occasions ) and they came and talked to us. Looking back it is really amazing how such eminent men came to us ( self styled Poetry club ) and discussed literature with us. Hats off to them. It was essentially due to KS - because his learning and depth of understanding must have impressed them.

Personally I learnt a great deal. The Sunday morning meeting was an  important event for me. Eliot, Auden, Hopkins or Pound I would not have read at all but for KS. I still have notes of those days. It brings back very pleasant memories. Looking back I recall many fond memories  Usha and I had over the years.  The beauty and sensitivity in Poems and plays of great authors simply overwhelmed me. I believe that it introduced new ideas, broadened my out look, improved my sensitivity and most importantly brought immense joy.

For example, we studied  for several weeks Kumaravyasa’s Bharata. It instilled a great admiration for Kumaravyasa and so many episodes of Mahabharata came alive. Later I heard the entire epic recited by Keshava Murthy and have  been thrilled.  It was cassette days and it would be side A for onward  trip to Infosys and on return it would be side B  . I must have done it for about 7 – 8 months  . God help the driver !   I  heard it again and again- sometimes reading from a copy of Bharata my grand father possessed ( paid Rs 2 / in 1958  ). I have also wondered what my grand father liked in it. I have heard him read it aloud sitting on his bed in a loud and clear voice. I was too young at that time and in any case had never had any exposure to Kumaravyasa at that time. I wish I had talked to him on that.

The human response, although mouthed by heroes, Gods and others was particularly touching.

Poetry opened new perceptions for me. Its ability to evoke complex feelings, to evoke association of ideas across a spectrum and sheer magic of language spell binds me.  The flavor, touch, feel, breadth, intensity and depth of a person’s experience rooted in its nativity, characterized by its uniqueness-   when touched by creativity - transcends time and space. You feel the sadness of a young woman waiting for husband ( Pound ), anguish and anger of a woman wronged ( Draupadi ) , intense feeling of empathy of an evolved soul for the injustice meted out to her ( Krishna ), share anxiety and uncertainty and hope for a new born (Yeats ), rich and complex experience ( Shakespeare ), so many descriptions and characters  ( Dickens – even if not poetry ) --- all become ours. They speak to us across continents and across centuries. Truly, personal becomes universal.

Bheeshma taking a vow not to marry or become the king

ಆದರಿಲ್ಲಿಂ ಮೇಲೆ ನಾರಿಯರಾದರು ಭಾಗೀರಥಿಗೆ ಸರಿ

ಮೇದಿನಿಯ ಸಲಿಸುವೆನು ನಿನ್ನಯ ಮಗಳ ಮಕ್ಕಳಿಗೆ

ಈ ದಿವಿಜರೀ ಹರಿಹರ ಬ್ರಹ್ಮಾದಿ ದೇವರು ಸಾಕ್ಷಿ  ಹೋಗೆಂದ

Vidura cautioning Duryodhana not to insult Draupadi

ಸಿಡಿಲ ಪೊಟ್ಟಣಗಟ್ಟಿ ಸೇಕವ ಕೊಡುವರೇ

Draupadi in anguish

ಪತಿಗಳೆನ್ನನು ಮಾರಿ ಧರ್ಮಸ್ಥಿತಿಯ ಕೊಂಡರು

Bheema deciding to kill Keechaka – consequences be damned

ನಾವೀ ಭಂಡತನದಲಿ ಬದುಕಲರಿಯೆವು  ಧರ್ಮಗಿರ್ಮವನು ಕೊಂಡು ಕೊನರುವರಲ್ಲ

Krishna’s Tongue in cheek remark

ದೇವನೆಂದೇ ನೀವು ಬಗೆದಿರಿ, ದೇವತನ ನಮ್ಮಲ್ಲಿ ಲವವಿಲ್ಲ , ಆವು ಬಲ್ಲೆವು

Krishna’s recollection of Draupadi’s cry for help

ಕಮಲಮುಖಿ ಸುಲಿವಡೆದು ಲಕ್ಷೀರಮಣ,  ಲಕ್ಷೀರಮಣ,  ಲಕ್ಷೀರಮಣಯೆಂದೊರಲಿದೊಡೆ ಸಂಜಯ ನೊಂದೆ ನಾನೆಂದ

Draupadi taunting her husbands

ಗಂಡರೋ ನೀವ್ ಷಂಡರೋ ಹೇಳೆಂದಳಿಂದುಮುಖಿ

Somewhere else

ಸತ್ಯದ ನುಡಿಗೆ ಹಾದರವಿಲ್ಲ

  

These have held personal meanings to me. I recalled them when watching Pandavani by Tejan Bai  or a dance drama or reading Iravati Karve’s book. There is a universality – going beyond time and space of original story - that appeals to me enormously.

Or on an entirely different note, 

 Eliot :

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

….

  Unreal City,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

‘’’’

Then spoke the thunder

DA

Datta: what have we given?

…

DA

Dayadhvam: I have heard the key

…

DA

Damyata: The boat responded

Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar

The sea was calm, your heart would have responded

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient

To controlling hands

Pound :

…

At fourteen I married My Lord you.

I never laughed, being bashful.

Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.

Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

….

And you have been gone five months.

The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

…

Another poem of his :

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees

Is my destroyer.

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose

My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

…

The force that drives the water through the rocks

Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams

Turns mine to wax.

…

Hamlet

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” 

One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. ” 

“Conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?

Yeats

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid

Under this cradle-hood and coverlid

My child sleeps on.

…

May she become a flourishing hidden tree

That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,

…

ಕೂಪಮಂಡೂಕ

ನೀನೆಲ್ಲಿ ಈಗ : ಹೆಗಲಿಗೆ ಹೆಗಲ ಕೊಟ್ಟವನು,

ಹಾಯಿಯನ್ನುರುಟುರು

ಟು ಊದಿದವನು,

ದಾರಿಯುದ್ದಕ್ಕು ರಹದಾರಿ  ಗಿಟ್ಟಿಸಿ ದಿಳ್ಳಿ,

ದ್ವೀಪಾಂತರಕ್ಕೆ ಕೈ ಕೊಟ್ಟ ಸಖನು ?

ಪ್ರತಿ ನಿಮಿಷವೂ ಮಹಾಯಾತ್ರೆ : ತೇರಿನ ಮಿಣಿಗೆ

ನನ್ನದೇ ತೋಳು, ನಿನ್ನದೆ ಘೋಷಣೆ

ರಾಮನವಮಿಯ ದಿವಸ

ಶ್ರೀ ರಾಮನವಮಿಯ ದಿವಸ ರಾಮನಾಮಾಮೃತವೆ

ಪಾನಕ,ಪನಿವರ,ಕೋಸಂಬರಿ;

……..

ಹುತ್ತುಗಟ್ಟದೆ ಚಿತ್ತ ಮತ್ತೆ ಕೆತ್ತೀತೇನು

ಪುರುಷೋತ್ತಮನ ಆ ಅಂಥ ರೂಪ-ರೇಖೆ ?

ಮೋಹನ ಮುರಳಿ

ಯಾವ ಮೋಹನ ಮುರಳಿ ಕರೆಯಿತು ದೂರ ತೀರಕೆ ನಿನ್ನನು

ಯಾವ ಬೃಂದಾವನ ಸೆಲೆಯಿತು ನಿನ್ನ ಮಣ್ಣಿನ ಕಣ್ಣನು 

My life was enriched.

As I write this I have a very strong desire to read many of the poems again.

 ( Strangely I found KS not so sensitive to movies or plays. I have a vague theory that involving space, movement, background etc he was not so receptive. Words moved him more. That is why I have not heard him exclaiming with delight after watching  Pather Panchali or Jal sagar or Becket or Gopi Gaye.. , or Mandi or Hamsa Geethe or My Fair Lady etc . I am sure he liked many of them but the sparkle in his eyes while reciting a poem was not there. But music he is fond of and knowledgeable in it  too. )

K Srinivas – KS - :  Sri Gurubho Namah 

Struggle for Independence

Last 5 months my back is playing tantrums. X - ray revealed that the space between last two discs has reduced and in addition there is a growth of some bone like structure. Orthopedic doctor and Yoga expert agreed that it was due to some accident (or fall) in the past – distant past or recent past they were not clear. Orthopedic doctor declared that progressively it would limit some movement. Some degree of freedom (DOF), in structural mechanics language, has been constrained.  A talkative junior doctor eager to share his knowledge described with gusto the ‘If - Then - future ‘scenario. Exercise is a must. If it does not help, try deep tissue massaging and then ultimately fusing the last disc with its neighbor. He was pleased with himself after imparting me this knowledge. This authoritative pronouncement made me imagine the process of fusing, welding, sparks flying, red hot surfaces and even faults in welding such as porosity, cracking, penetration….  One of the doctors who saw this X ray exclaimed, ‘See how beautiful it is! It is nature’s way to limit damage ‘. Perhaps she said that out of sheer professional ecstasy or more probably to encourage me.  But I wondered,  

“I must have done something bad in my youth or childhood “

It is morning. Long back sage Vishwamitra woke up Rama saying:

kausalya supraja Rama purva sandhya pravarthathe
Uththishta narasardhula karthavyam daivamahnikam

,

Oh Rama, the great son of Kausalya, Twilight is approaching in the East.
Wake up, oh courageous man, its time to perform the daily divine rituals.

I do not have such onerous  or divine duties to perform but nevertheless have to wake up. Spirit is willing but flesh is not. Now a days  my morning starts with a heavy heart – nay – with a heavy leg. Some days I cannot put it down on to the ground – I mean the leg. Pull, pull is what is happening. Simple gravity. Universality at work - whether it is aluminum strut getting pulled apart or my leg.

I recall Dylan Thomas who in an entirely different context (with due apologies) said,

“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees

Is my destroyer.”

Sometimes it requires more than ordinary will power to get up and move around, dragging the reluctant and protesting leg. After some exercises and / or walking on tread mill for 15 – 20 minutes there is light at the end of the tunnel. Pain has reduced substantially. Suddenly the day appears much brighter, livelier and pleasant. A delightful coffee is ready. I mildly complain to Usha (it is a daily one and so one can do it in small doses only) about the state of affairs and feel relieved and even feel a little like a martyr. The intense pain is already a memory. Happiness is in the air! When did I say I had any problem?

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

I agree joyfully.

Day ends and night begins. My right leg makes it known that it cannot be forgotten so easily. It reappears with a smug.

ಹೋದ್ಯ ಕಿಂಡಿಲಿ ಅಂದರೆ ಬಂದ್ಯ ಗವಾಕ್ಷಿಲಿ ಅಂದ ಹಾಗೆ

Some hot water bag treatment helps.  Bless the soul who invented it. It is also the all-time favourite of Usha. She has unceasingly advocated it (but not heeded till now).

 ‘In my beginning is my end ‘.

So it repeats in the morning. While it rules I am sometimes (only?) irritable and cranky but Usha has to (and does) absorb it.

Between the two ends – morning and night – life is still beautiful.

While in pain I recall Yeats with great approval

What shall I do with this absurdity—

O heart, O troubled heart—this caricature,

Decrepit age that has been tied to me

As to a dog’s tail?

You feel like saying – praying –  like Drona prayed to Lord Narayana in Mahabharata -

vinAdainyena jIvanaM

anAyAsena maraNaM

विनादैन्येन जीवनं

अनायासेन मरणं

(Grant me:  life which is not abject, pitiable; Death which is easy and peaceful)

But I cannot pray as do not know to whom I should address it! In any case He (assuming exists) will have better things to do.

But I can hope; I can wish; 

If wishes were horses 

there would be no pain, 

Also 

If wishes were horses, 

The moon would be blue 

But...alas..

But wishes aren't horses, 

they rarely come true . 

Compounder Satyanarayana

        Compounder is a  person who mixes or combines ingredients in order to produce a medicine ;

Satyanarayana  was employed in ISRO clinic which  was a small one. Not many would even meet him normally as his job would  largely involve arranging medicines, helping doctor  etc

He used to work with a popular doctor Rama Rao in Chamarajpet and after doctor’s death joined ISRO as it was a government job. He used to board the bus at the same stop as I did and we would chat for a while.

He was an orthodox Brahmin with his caste mark on his face and  generally dressed in white. A pleasant man with little interest outside his immediate life. Over time he became more and more orthodox, grew a beard – to start with jet black and over time salt and pepper. It would be unwieldy and never trimmed. With his thick glasses, fearsome beard and caste mark ( now more than one ; a large kumkum circle on his forehead ) he looked formidable. With this transformation people talking to him became scarce. He was a kind person and I chatted almost everyday although it was more of a monologue from him.

One day he told me a recent happening. The bus that would drop him to the clinic  (some distance away from our office ) would have to negotiate some turns and take somewhat narrow road. Once a driver refused to drop him at the clinic  inspite of many entreats and he had to walk some distance with a bundle of medicines. It left him furious and helpless. A couple of days later the driver, a well built person, came to the clinic in his bus for some treatment. He had to be given an injection and as luck would have it , Satyanarayana was asked to do the honours. He wanted to know , taking out a large needle, how the driver  was able to drive down to the clinic now.  ‘Just wait’, he added. Driver was in tears and was frightened. He begged forgiveness !

That was an exception. Generally he was polite, kind and  soft spoken. He was building a temple in a far away place a few kms from Bangalore. He had a piece of land and he donated it to the trust managing the temple. He was seeking donations for the temple. I gave him a substantial amount in my mother’s name. Mother was happy and Satyanarayana was overjoyed. From that day a new twist happened to our chat. Everyday he would report  to me the progress of the temple, where he is getting the stone from, who is carving the idol, when the roof (‘ gopuram’ ) would be ready, architecture of the roof according to tradition ( eight sided ? ) , how divine the idol was, the financial problems, who has promised and what amount, unexpected crisis , rituals to be observed etc. He had the habit of covering his mouth by hand while speaking. His head bent, mouth covered and in a bus rattling along and I listening to episodes I could hardly hear  – it was really funny except that he was very serious about it and was happy that I was listening. I had no heart to tell him that I do not share his beliefs  or that I have no interest in it.

Some years later he had resigned ISRO  job and I had moved on to TCS in Bombay. I learnt later that he had settled in the land near the temple and had completed the temple  against all odds . He somehow traced me and went on insisting that I visit his place. I gave in and on one weekend we reached his place- so far away from Bangalore. He was very happy to see us ( Usha and I ) . He made me go around the corridor surrounding the main deity  in the temple  ( ‘ prakara ‘ ) three times with a ‘ chamara’ in my hand and waving and he chanting phrases like  ‘ Datta Datta  ; Sri Datta , Guru Datta ‘. Strangely I was not put off ;  basically because he was so sincere and so ill suited to logic and most importantly  he would have not taken No for an answer. I liked him for living according to his beliefs and not harming any one.

I tried my level best to invite him for Lakshmi’s wedding but could not trace him.

Dr Phadke Retires

Dr. Phadke Retires

Yesterday I attended a small intimate gathering which met to say     ' bye ' to Dr Phadke. He is a well known Pediatric Nephrologist in St Johns. The small crowd, about 100, consisted of administrators, management, fellow doctors, nurses, students, a couple of patients and oddly I representing ( self proclaimed ) a trust – SDF - which has been donating money to take care of poor patients (children ).

I was the first to arrive, a full 20 minutes ahead of 4 pm. There was some Hindi film song being played. The meeting was being held in a covered terrace open on all sides and arrangements were like that of a lecture  (not very popular one at that ) with a table and 4 chairs for dais and several chairs in front. If you are seated at the back even by a few rows you could not see people on the dais. Slowly people started coming in and the meeting started almost on time.

There were many tributes ; many as expected on such occasions but some different;  and all of them  appeared sincere. Dr Phadke is a man of many words, simple, clear, calm, assured , kind and patient. He listens and can take criticism easily. He came from US and worked for a few years at Manipal, a corporate  hospital. He did not like the ethos of Manipal and joined St Johns foregoing a fat salary. He was for several years head of Pediatric Nephrology and later Pediatric department. He is highly respected in his field.

My association with him over last 10 years or so has left a deep impression on me. I have discussed many things – corporate culture of hospitals, preventive care, training of pediatrics, importance of documentation, novels like Yayati, music, social security, improving presentations, children’s hospital , poverty of patients etc etc. I have met a few children undergoing treatment. I have sat in his new office – a big cubicle really -  and shared his enthusiasm about getting that office; had tea or coffee - at once simple and tasteless.

I have always felt buoyed up and felt I became a little better person, a little more caring, a little more humble, a little more humane. He would induce optimism in spite of so many negatives  surrounding us.

We went around the ward once . The children were undergoing various treatments. He explained a few cases to me. In one corner there was a small portion of a wall covered with coloured drawings – bright and original. It was the creation of children with the help of an NGO. He had a dream of building a children’s hospital in St Johns. It would be child friendly, colorful, vibrant, funny. Music would be there and so also play things. There would be books to read and games to play. Everyone including staff would be dressed colourfully . He explained that we do not need ( can not afford ) swanky corporate hospitals- imposing, aloof and frightening. Instead it would be simple, colorful and with kind and efficient staff. It did not materialize but would happen one day at St Johns.

The venue, decor, people all represented to me what a good hospital should be. Even the speeches were straight forward and precise. He spoke hesitatingly and praised his team. He said we should dream big. There were no catchy phrases, raising of voice, no nostalgia , no melodrama ; instead it was simple, from the heart and poorly articulated.

The poignant moment for me was when a mother – Nagina – of a patient – a young boy called Moin -  was invited to say a few words about Dr. Phadke. She came, stood and wept.

There is a saying in Kannada – one should remember such noble souls in the evening before one lights up the lamp in the altar (ಸಂಜೆ ದೀಪ ಹಚ್ಚುವ ಮುನ್ನ ನೆನಸಿಕೋ ಬೇಕಾದ ಪುಣ್ಯಾತ್ಮರು ).

 Dr Phadke fits that very well.