BY Prof. A. SRINIVAS RAGHAVAN, M.A.
We were nearing Ettayapuram.
The dark rain-clouds hung low over the flat land
that stretched away, dull and dark, to the horizon. A thorn tree had thrown itself
out of the sombre earth into a stunted interrogation mark. A few bedraggled
crows sat on the scraggy branches keeping up a hoarse endless chant–the song of
the spirit of flatness.
So this is the birthplace of a poet, I thought.
There was something symbolic in that to me. Even so flat and spiritless was the
world of Tamil letters into which Bharati was born; and when the Poet spoke,
the iridescent contours of song came into being, making that world shapely and
fruitful. For nearly seven hundred years after the great epic poet, Kamban,
Tamil poetry had remained practically barren. Large numbers of works were
written in verse, no doubt, during the period, but most of them were idle
panegyrics of petty chieftains and Zamindars or clever artificial elaborations
of erotic formulae. The few that were touched with sincerity and purpose were
the works of Saints like Pattinathar and Thayumanavar, and these had breathed a
chilling otherworldliness alien to Tamil or had lost clarity and vigour in the
vagueness of mystical symbolism. Tamil poetry had cut itself off from life and
buried itself in ornate inanities, Sthala Puranas, and theological
hair-splittings, that is to say, it had ceased to be poetry. It was in this
flat, spiritless world, this Ettayapuram of literature, that Bharati was born,
and when he died he had accomplished a miracle. He had freed Tamil from the
affectation and pedantry of the Pundits of Zamindars’ courts, the religiosity
of the Sthala Puranas and the obscurities of arid, theological posing.
He had it planted firmly on this earth, had fed it with the joys and sorrows of
men and, by securing for it sincerity and truth, had enabled it, in the only
manner possible, to reach out in its large, life-embracing sweep from realism
towards reality. He had substituted experience for formulae, expression for
ornamentation, vision for catch-phrases, and the spirit of poetry, alert and
aware, was reborn in the Tamil land……
The road curved and then ran straight towards a
cluster of nondescript grey and brown houses and we were in Naduvvirpatti, a
hamlet of Ettayapuram. Were we? If we were, it was no longer the sleepy little
outpost to an old-world townlet. Our car had to slow down because of the crowds
in the streets. There were flags and festoons everywhere and small batches of
white-capped volunteers bustled about or marched to the tune of ‘Kavi
Chakravarti Bharatiki Jai!’ As we crawled into Ettayapuram, the crowds
increased in volume and variety. White Khaddar-jubbaed cameramen, reporters and
journalists jostled merrily with sturdy bare-bodied Naik and Marava peasants.
The Editor of a well-known Tamil fortnightly grinned at us from within a fort
of toy balloons and a swarm of half-clad children making a determined attempt
to carry it. Who would have believed it? Bharati’s dream had come true. The
barriers set up by English education were down and the Tamils, to whatever
class they belonged, had learnt to fraternise as of old.
When we reached our lodging (we realised later that
we were fortunate in having one) we were told that we should hasten at once to
the Pandal if we did not want to miss Srimati Subbalakshmi’s concert. Someone
said that we had still an hour and half before us, as the concert was to
commence only at 5-30 p.m. Derisive laughter greeted him. Was he not aware of
the hugeness of the crowd and how the Pandal was already full?
We started at once and, picking our way through the
crowd, reached the spacious Pandal erected in front of the Bharati Memorial
Building. Entrance was not easy and even our special tickets were not the
talismans we thought they would be. After trying to storm a few of the
entrances, we gave it up.
“Come along, I’ll take you,” said a cheerful voice
behind us in rich colloquial Tamil.
We turned and saw the burly smiling figure of Sri
Somayajulu. Sri Somayajulu was in charge of the local reception arrangements at
Ettayapuram. He was well qualified for the task. He had been an intrepid
nationalist, had endured prison and had spent his life in organising meetings
and conferences and in addressing them. A Telugu Brahmin by birth, he is a
great lover of Tamil and a distinguished student of Tamil literature. His
mastery of spoken Tamil is something remarkable. He can hold an audience of
thousands for hours with his rich humour, his never ending anecdotes, his
sterling good sense and sincerity. We were happy to meet him. But he looked
tired. The rains that had fallen the previous day had disturbed many of the
arrangements, and he knew that even otherwise the arrangements were hardly
adequate for the large crowd that had gathered. Just a few days before the
function, the organisers had sent out a short press note warning the public
that those who came to Ettayapuram should make their own arrangements for food
and lodging. But Sri Somayajulu was not saved by the press note. The crowds
came (that was inevitable) and swirled round the Reception Committee office
clamouring for lodging and meal tickets. Sri Somayajulu bore visible marks of
anxiety and strain on his broad face.
But he smiled and took us in and left us. More he
could not do. The rules assigning the enclosures to the several orders of
visitors were “more honoured in the breach than in the observance”. Everybody
was important. The sprit of Bharati’s famous line, “The time has come when all
are equal” held the Pandal, and all were equal and all suffered Sri Saw
Ganesan’s stentorian voice rose like a storm-wind from the microphone
commanding order and silence, but the waves of men heaved and rolled and broke
over the ropes.
Srimati Subbalakshmi came on to the dais. The
flashlights danced, the cameras clicked and the crowd went frantic. But when
the concert began and the rich golden voice of the talented singer filled the
vast Pandal, quiet settled on the audience. The words of Bharati came to them
on the wings of melody, and they forgot the sodden ground, the crowding and the
discomfort, and were in a glorious dream-world where all ideals are within
reach and all the sorrows of life grow into a triumph through their very intensity.
Srimati Subbalakshmi’s concert was followed by that
of Isai Arasu Dandapani Desigar. His performance began rather late and he came
to the dais after a great public favourite. These were disadvantages that would
have disconcerted the stoutest artist. But Dandapani Desigar rose to the
occasion. His renderings were easy and flawless and the catchery, like
that of Srimati Subbalakshmi, was in every way worthy of the celebrations. But
lovers of Bharati felt that it would have been more appropriate if both the
singers had chosen only the Poet’s songs for musical rendering. It was strange
that they did not do it.
It was very late when the crowd dispersed for the
night. All the same, at dawn, the Pandal was full again. Thirty thousand Tamils
awaited the coming of their revered leader, Rajaji. At 7 a.m. the leaders
arrived and Rajaji declared open the Bharati Memorial Building. Drums beat,
conches blared, pipes and timbrels broke into joyous music, and thousands of
hearts were lifted with pride and enthusiasm as a nation’s mark of honour for
its Poet came formally into being. Two silver lamps presented by the Pandara
Sannidhi of Tiruvavaduthurai Mutt were lighted and symbolised the kindling by
Bharati of the light of poetry in the nation’s life.
It was not merely a large but a distinguished
gathering that turned to listen as Sri C. Rajagopalachari, Governor of West
Bengal, rose to speak. Many persons of importance in the world of Tamil letters
and public life were there, and those who could not come had sent spirited
messages. Rajaji’s speech was, as was expected, both original and thought
provoking. He pointed out that the greatness of Bharati lay in that he was the
truest embodiment of our cultural traditions, and that our recognition of
Bharati’s originality and his interest in the nationalist movement should not
blind to the fact that he was a brilliant exponent, in poetry, of our
philosophy and religion. Other speakers followed and it was significant that
all communities and all political groups were represented among them. Janab
Moulana Saheb of Madura, the Hon. Mr. Daniel Thomas and the Communist leader,
Sri P. Jeevanandam, paid homage to the Poet’s memory in stirring words. Tamil
scholarship found its representative on the dais in Prof. Somasundara Bharati.
The Premier of Madras, Sri Omandur Ramaswami Reddiar, unveiled the portrait of
Bharati with a characteristically quiet speech. But most of the speakers failed
to take the hint that Rajaji had thrown out about the undesirability of emphasising
too much the nationalist in Bharati and of forgetting the cardinal fact that
Bharati was a poet.
Sri R. Krjshnamurti, the brilliant novelist and
essayist, master of graceful, living Tamil and the talented Editor of the
popular Tamil weekly Kalki, proposed the vote of thanks. As he went on
cataloguing the names of those who had helped to make the celebrations
successful, the gathering realised what a stupendous thing the function had
been and how countless numbers of people had worked for days in a true spirit
of devotion and service to make it worthy of a great poet’s memory. Sri R.
Krishnamurti left himself out, but everyone was gratefully aware of how, but
for him and his able colleague, Sri Sadasivam, the memorial might not have been
erected so quickly and opened in such a splendid manner.
It was a great function. All the organisers deserve
the warmest praise. But as we turned away from Ettayapuram in the afternoon,
our hearts full of Bharati and the celebrations, we could not help feeling that
greater emphasis could have been laid on Bharati, the man of letters, and that
the function could have been enriched if an organised attempt had been made to
interpret Bharati through drama and dance and tableaux, and if the enthusiasm
kindled by the name of Bharati had been fed at Ettayapuram with the greatness
of his songs and of Tamil literature. With a little thought, these splendid
organisers who were responsible for the celebrations could have carved a great
literary festival out of the occasion. But this is not a complaint; it is only
one of the ‘might have beens’ that always accompany a great event. And it was a
great event, an unforgettable one. A nation gathered to honour a poet, and
everyone was elated with the realisation that the spirit of Bharati was abroad
and that Tamil had come to life again.