She was a star beyond my reach,
So near, she seemed to me
I raised my hand to touch her,
She always remained elusive
But I know,
I know,
in the vast expanse of time a moment will come,
my dream will come true.
The uncertainty,
both tormenting and exciting,
like the game of glorious uncertainties…
Sometimes I hate it;
And at times I love it.
After all, what is life without this uncertainty.
Recently an internationally acclaimed literary figure bid farewell to us. She is a Keralite and our immense pride. A fountain of immense creativity, affection and also eccentricities.
Her seventy five years of existence was quite fabulous. She was a bundle of contradictions. Through her writings- short stories, poems, autobiography and novels, she could invite many admirers, critics and enemies. Her eccentricities often landed her in the midst of controversies. Her way of sending shockwaves down the spines of elite was unparalleled. The so-called champions of a bygone era, the archaic traditions, values, ethics and morals shivered with impotent rage, took up cudgels against her on behalf of the society against her. But she was not to be taken aback, crossed swords with them single-handedly, thus razed to the ground centuries of hitherto unquestioned beliefs held sacred by the male-chauvinists of a hated generation. The last remnants are still here but her single-handed fight paved the way for many in her line to take up the thread left behind by her.
This is not at all intended to make a critical study of her invaluable writings, I am aware, I am not at all fit to be a critic of her writings and I also know there are umpteen critics of calibre in Malayalam and other languages to evaluate her writings.
I was only an admirer of her writings and at times a critic.
I preferred to be an observer and still continue to be a observer.
I know while she was in Mumbai, she was there with her family. And I knew she had a wide friends’ circle. A few of them I knew in person but most of them I had not even heard of, didn’t cherish even a spark of hope in my heart to meet her because I was aware such desire would prove to be immaterial. But I knew her through her stories and poems and autobiography which created uproar in the society as a whole. To have an emotional rapport with a loved one you need not meet her/him in person. A colleague, who at that time, lived in her vicinity, once spoke to me about the then queen of Malayalam short story and English poems, and the way she led the life of a Queen on the banks of the occasionally calm but often turbulent sea with her beloved ones. But my colleague was not at all aware of the turbulent sea raging in the inner chambers of the Queen’s heart. Her neighbour - my colleague- mistook her as leading a life of grandeur with all pomp and pageantry in an ambience of serenity and inner calm. My colleague was and still is leading a life away from the men/women of letters, memories, imagination- the abode of a restless world. “A blessed one” in a sense.
After a few years in Mumbai, Queen of letters shifted residence to the capital of her native State, Kerala, with her life-partner. Writing was something inseparable to her, quite natural, continued to pen down her emotions both in Malayalam and English and alongwith it made admirers, detractors and a whole lot of controversies. Inviting controversies was something of a mania to her, thus inflaming the passions of a vast lot. A girl, a lady, an old woman- in all her incarnations she craved for love and affection from the society and was depressed whenever it was not forthcoming and complained to all her friends about the wretched society. The same person could not sit idle fearing the wrath of the establishment. So, no dearth of brick-bats from outside either.
While she was at Trivandrum, I was in Kerala after a brief stint in Mumbai. I had been to Trivandrum several times- by God, I couldn’t even dream about meeting her- for me she was a star beyond my reach. Though a writer in my own way I have no hesitation in disclosing before the world of men of letters, still I stand as an alien. I am not much personally acquainted with the established writers of our times, with no complaint I will continue to write in my own right, not to be taken in by the callous indifference of a senseless society. That indifference has not at all diminished my appreciation towards the writers whom I love and respect, once worshipped.
When I came to know of her decision to contest the electoral battle from Trivandrum to Loksabha, it was a news story something amusing to me. But the amount of appreciation I felt towards her still lingers in my mind. The determination and courage to tread a hitherto untrodden path facing the hostilities of a vast majority in the society with the support of only a minority.
Still she continued with her writings- it was the only elixir , safety-valve for her to escape from madness.
As the enmity towards her mounted from all directions she searched for an escape route, and found refuge at Ernakulam, my home district. As her acquaintance with the life in the district grew day by day, her new found friend-circle also got wider and wider. The controversies so characteristic of her writings and deeds opened a can of worms and adding fuel to fire she might have thought atleast for a moment besides various reasons, to send shockwaves through the society by embracing Islam religion and the declaration to get married again in the twilight of her life. Infact she was celebrating her right to exercise her freedom in the face of all hostilities
I couldn’t summon courage to meet her in person even while she was very much in my home-district. The only satisfaction being a complimentary copy of my first collection of short stories addressing Amy having sent to her, with prayers in my heart. No reply, no appreciation, no admonitions. And on my part no complaint also. After all what is the meaning of Amy in Bengali?
Still the place she occupied in my heart will be there unmoved and unhurt always. My kind of young and old writers must also have some satisfaction. So we go on with our mission.
PS : Within no time after her leaving this world I was amused and appalled at the shedding of tears by some of the established writers who were so attached to her till she breathed her last, writing with astonishing craftsmanship, aesthetic sense and clarity the moments each of them shared with her. Is this possible for everybody to scribble beautifully and with poise nearing perfection. Wonderful!
So near, she seemed to me
I raised my hand to touch her,
She always remained elusive
But I know,
I know,
in the vast expanse of time a moment will come,
my dream will come true.
The uncertainty,
both tormenting and exciting,
like the game of glorious uncertainties…
Sometimes I hate it;
And at times I love it.
After all, what is life without this uncertainty.
Recently an internationally acclaimed literary figure bid farewell to us. She is a Keralite and our immense pride. A fountain of immense creativity, affection and also eccentricities.
Her seventy five years of existence was quite fabulous. She was a bundle of contradictions. Through her writings- short stories, poems, autobiography and novels, she could invite many admirers, critics and enemies. Her eccentricities often landed her in the midst of controversies. Her way of sending shockwaves down the spines of elite was unparalleled. The so-called champions of a bygone era, the archaic traditions, values, ethics and morals shivered with impotent rage, took up cudgels against her on behalf of the society against her. But she was not to be taken aback, crossed swords with them single-handedly, thus razed to the ground centuries of hitherto unquestioned beliefs held sacred by the male-chauvinists of a hated generation. The last remnants are still here but her single-handed fight paved the way for many in her line to take up the thread left behind by her.
This is not at all intended to make a critical study of her invaluable writings, I am aware, I am not at all fit to be a critic of her writings and I also know there are umpteen critics of calibre in Malayalam and other languages to evaluate her writings.
I was only an admirer of her writings and at times a critic.
I preferred to be an observer and still continue to be a observer.
I know while she was in Mumbai, she was there with her family. And I knew she had a wide friends’ circle. A few of them I knew in person but most of them I had not even heard of, didn’t cherish even a spark of hope in my heart to meet her because I was aware such desire would prove to be immaterial. But I knew her through her stories and poems and autobiography which created uproar in the society as a whole. To have an emotional rapport with a loved one you need not meet her/him in person. A colleague, who at that time, lived in her vicinity, once spoke to me about the then queen of Malayalam short story and English poems, and the way she led the life of a Queen on the banks of the occasionally calm but often turbulent sea with her beloved ones. But my colleague was not at all aware of the turbulent sea raging in the inner chambers of the Queen’s heart. Her neighbour - my colleague- mistook her as leading a life of grandeur with all pomp and pageantry in an ambience of serenity and inner calm. My colleague was and still is leading a life away from the men/women of letters, memories, imagination- the abode of a restless world. “A blessed one” in a sense.
After a few years in Mumbai, Queen of letters shifted residence to the capital of her native State, Kerala, with her life-partner. Writing was something inseparable to her, quite natural, continued to pen down her emotions both in Malayalam and English and alongwith it made admirers, detractors and a whole lot of controversies. Inviting controversies was something of a mania to her, thus inflaming the passions of a vast lot. A girl, a lady, an old woman- in all her incarnations she craved for love and affection from the society and was depressed whenever it was not forthcoming and complained to all her friends about the wretched society. The same person could not sit idle fearing the wrath of the establishment. So, no dearth of brick-bats from outside either.
While she was at Trivandrum, I was in Kerala after a brief stint in Mumbai. I had been to Trivandrum several times- by God, I couldn’t even dream about meeting her- for me she was a star beyond my reach. Though a writer in my own way I have no hesitation in disclosing before the world of men of letters, still I stand as an alien. I am not much personally acquainted with the established writers of our times, with no complaint I will continue to write in my own right, not to be taken in by the callous indifference of a senseless society. That indifference has not at all diminished my appreciation towards the writers whom I love and respect, once worshipped.
When I came to know of her decision to contest the electoral battle from Trivandrum to Loksabha, it was a news story something amusing to me. But the amount of appreciation I felt towards her still lingers in my mind. The determination and courage to tread a hitherto untrodden path facing the hostilities of a vast majority in the society with the support of only a minority.
Still she continued with her writings- it was the only elixir , safety-valve for her to escape from madness.
As the enmity towards her mounted from all directions she searched for an escape route, and found refuge at Ernakulam, my home district. As her acquaintance with the life in the district grew day by day, her new found friend-circle also got wider and wider. The controversies so characteristic of her writings and deeds opened a can of worms and adding fuel to fire she might have thought atleast for a moment besides various reasons, to send shockwaves through the society by embracing Islam religion and the declaration to get married again in the twilight of her life. Infact she was celebrating her right to exercise her freedom in the face of all hostilities
I couldn’t summon courage to meet her in person even while she was very much in my home-district. The only satisfaction being a complimentary copy of my first collection of short stories addressing Amy having sent to her, with prayers in my heart. No reply, no appreciation, no admonitions. And on my part no complaint also. After all what is the meaning of Amy in Bengali?
Still the place she occupied in my heart will be there unmoved and unhurt always. My kind of young and old writers must also have some satisfaction. So we go on with our mission.
PS : Within no time after her leaving this world I was amused and appalled at the shedding of tears by some of the established writers who were so attached to her till she breathed her last, writing with astonishing craftsmanship, aesthetic sense and clarity the moments each of them shared with her. Is this possible for everybody to scribble beautifully and with poise nearing perfection. Wonderful!
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