Changampuzha: A Sweet Voice of Kerala

BY PROF. S. GUPTAN NAIR, M.A.

(University College, Trivandrum)

THAT these high-strung poets should die young seems to be the inexorable law of nature. And when Changampuzha Krishna Pillai, that inimitable bard of Kerala, took to his bed a few months ago, his admirers whispered in agony, that here was one more poet withering away in the prime of youth. He was only thirty-five. But they would not speak it out, lest it should hurt him. But the dear poet bade them farewell as they feared, and a gloom spread through the length and breadth of Kerala.

Strange as it may seem, this poet who spread such gloom in the evening of his life made his debut by spreading no less gloom. His first antho1ogy–Bashpanjali (Garland of Tears)–was a gospel of gloom. That work startled the public of Kerala thirteen years ago as the bold attempt of a strange genius who was in the depths of adversity. He wept profusely, he was almost feminine, but the ring of sincerity in the work secured for it due recognition and many admirers. The very announcement on the cover page of the work was a pitiable cry. He complained that his failure in life was because he alone had fidelity in a world of hypocrites. There he was outspoken, but outspoken to the limit of foolishness. But he never flung it as a challenge on the face of the public, as he had not then turned a rebel. The public, with its proverbial shallow memory, failed to give succour to the poet even when it enjoyed his exquisite lyrics. The lovers on their part learned those charming lines by heart, and perhaps made proper use of them when they taunted their sweethearts. He was himself a lover, too sensitive and, one may say, sensuous. I remember in one of his earlier letter-papers he inscribed the famous lines of Shelley: “Love’s very pain is sweet…”

That period of adolescence, however, Soon passed and people no longer saw him with his Shelleyan curls. He was growing into manhood. The external changes were almost symbolic of the change in his inner personality. He realised the futility of mourning and took a firm resolve to fight. Then occurred an event of far-reaching significance. His bosom friend, another precocious poet who had been hailed as one of the twin ‘Edappalli Poets’ (both came from the same village) took his own life at the young age of twenty-seven. His grievances were almost similar but more accentuated. This incident upset the poet. It was Kerala’s loss in general, but to Changampuzha it was a personal calamity. Luckily he soon recovered from the shock and collected his thoughts in tranquility to write one of the greatest elegies in Malayalam: Ramanan. That was even a greater event than the death of the poet itself. He gave the elegy a new form, it was in the shape of a pastoral drama. Ramanan and Madanan are two shepherds who were ‘virtually two bodies in one soul.’ Ramanan was meek and handsome. And his rustic songs, which he rendered with profound charm as he led the flock to the pastures green, attracted the attention of a wealthy maiden–Chandrika. She fell for Ramanan but the aristocratic arrogance of her father would not allow such friendships to grow. He gave his daughter in marriage to an equally arrogant and affluent youth. The rest of the story has little novelty; it culminates in the suicide of Ramanan. Quite a hackneyed theme, of course. But the poem, since it symbolised the life of one of their beloved poets, and since it came from another of their equally beloved poets, went straight to the hearts of the people. Lines passed from lip to lip, and the work almost became a testament of romantic love. There is hardly any youth in Kerala who has not got a couplet from Ramanan at his tongue’s tip.

It was from the sale proceeds of Ramanan that Changampuzha pursued his studies and steadily worked his way to the B.A. (Hons.) degree. While at college, he published two of his mature collections, Sankalpa Kanti (Beauties of Imagination) and Raktapushpangal (Crimson Flowers). In these he shows a better grasp of the sorry scheme of things mundane, a greater balance, and a loftier imagination. Some of these odes possess an irresistible charm; the one on Kalidasa is a fine instance.

These two collections announced that Changampuzha was no longer a submissive fatalist but an aggressive thinker, with a zest for revolution. He became aggressive with a vengeance, and dealt steamhammer blows on the existing social institutions. One thought, sometimes, that he was doing it with a callousness bordering on insanity. It is evident that some of his revolutionary poems lack the level-headedness of an intellectual. Often he declared that he had no morals to preach. He flung his anarchistic ideals with a take-it-if-you-want attitude.

His sympathies were definitely with the downtrodden. His Vazhakkula, which became popular in an instant due to its anti-capitalistic ring, showed that he could sternly raise his fist against the exploiters.

But with all his progressive vehemence, his steps were shaky when it came to a question of personal sorrows. He could never conquer passion. Passion always conquered him, nay overwhelmed him. The two works next in importance to the above, Onakkazhcha (Onam Offerings)¹ and Spandikkunna Asthimadom (Throbbing Sepulchre), are full of gloom and despair. Though he was married and comfortably settled in life, love came to him from another direction and tore his heart to pieces. He was too weak to resist passion. Critics, as usual, found fault with his unnerving pessimism and rebuked him. With a scornful smile on his face, he looked at them and asked them in a defiant tone: “Should I laugh an empty laugh to please your blinking selves when I have got a thousand things to weep over? Should I laugh because laughing is the sign of health? Oh, my dear fellows, if I cry, it is because I have got to do it. You please don’t worry about me and my tears.”

Critics gave him up as incorrigible, muttering ‘hopeless,’ and Changampuzha continued in the same strain. Latterly, however, he was tossed between the call of pure poetry and didacticism. But, till the end, the lightning spirit never waned, and it found joy in the limitless regions of unadulterated fancy. The last poem which he wrote was a vision of pure poetry dancing to the tune of his heart.

We adore Changampuzha, the poet. He was a rare phenomenon. But let us also learn a lesson from Changampuzha, the man, His was a tempestuous life. Extremely sensitive to environment, a sense of frustration always tormented him. And success, when it came, drove him mad. Pure peace in this life was not to be his.

Nevertheless, he was a miracle in the realm of Malayalam literature. He came and vanished with the speed and brilliance of a meteor. Endowed with a diction that was the dream of our mighty minstrels, this poet, when he opened his lips, sent a thrill through the hearts of Kerala’s thousands. When others strained to produce a single note of merit, he sang a hundred tunes with angelic ease and splendour. No other real poet has reached the commoner with such speed and ability. It was because he was direct and simple. Though he read and digested much, he never had the mere intellectual’s bent. His was the magic wand that set stones to music. He wept through art, and made weeping a fine art.

¹ Onam: a national festival of Malabar commemorating the glorious reign of Maha Bali.

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