……he that laboureth right for
love of Me
Shall finally attain! But, if in
this
Thy faint heart fails, bring Me
thy failure!
–THE SONG CELESTIAL
In
a corner of Bangalore, away from the tangled web of Madras politics, I do the
work I love. The monthly Triveni absorbs my time and devotion. But, in
the brief intervals when I am not editing manuscripts or reading proofs, I get
into a reminiscent mood. I think of the men who have shaped my life and
outlook. Gandhiji is decidedly the most notable among, them. But he is distant,
and like a star in the high heavens. Sri C. Jinarajadasa–‘C. J.’ to those who
know him intimately–wrote the first article for the first issue of Triveni in
December 1927. These twenty years and more, he has been my ‘Esteemed Brother’,
watching over me and giving me the strength to overcome the many crises in my
life. But, at the moment, my, thoughts are with three leading politicians of
South India–Sri Prakasam, Dr. Pattabhi, and Sri C. Rajagopalachari–each of whom
I have owned as ‘Chief’ at different periods since 1921, the year in which the
Gandhian movement cut me off from the profession of law and the modest rewards
it brought in the shape of money, a settled existence, and reasonable comfort.
One
evening at Bezwada stands-out in my memory. It was in 1922, soon after C. R.
served his first term of imprisonment in Vellore. The Andhra Provincial
Congress Committee met in the afternoon and C. R. had consultations with the
Andhra leaders. Late in the evening, Sri Prakasam presided over the anniversary
celebrations of the local National School. The Headmaster, Sri Kuruganti
Sitaramayya, M.A.–a scholar with vision requested C. R. and Dr. Pattabhi to
address the gathering. That was a great occasion when the Big Three of the
South spoke from a cultural, as distinguished from a political, platform.
Kopalle Hanumantha Rao, founder and first Principal of the Andhra Jateeya
Kalasala (National College) Masulipatam, had passed away at the early age of
42, a few months prior to that day. Dr. Pattabhi, his life-long friend and
co-worker, naturally referred to the noble pioneer of national education in
Andhra. He spoke of their return journey together from Surat after the stormy
Congress session of 1907 and of Hanumantha Rao’s resolve to give up his
practice as a lawyer and to devote his life to the cause of national education.
And as the Doctor proceeded with his speech, his voice grew husky, a tear
glistened in his eye, and for a minute there was utter silence. I had heard
Doctor Pattabhi scores of times and admired his eloquence in English and in
Telugu. But this was the first time I saw him overcome by emotion on a public
platform. To me who had developed great personal affection for the ‘Trinity’ of
Masulipatam–Hanumantha Rao, Pattabhi, and Krishna Rao (of the Krishna
Patrika)–from my boyhood, it was a solemn moment. The thought finally
shaped itself that I should do my humble bit for the Kalasala. That meant, of
course, my leaving Swarajya and the friends who had grown dear to
me–Krupanidhi, Khasa Subba Rau, K. Srinivasan and the rest of the goodly band
that served Prakasam. It was a wrench, but my heart was in Masulipatam, and
that evening at Bezwada decided me. I had joined Swarajya in October
1921with a letter of recommendation from Dr. Pattabhi to Sri Prakasam; and in
July 1923, Sri Prakasam very kindly agreed to ‘transfer’ my services to Dr.
Pattabhi and to the Kalasala, which sheltered me for four years till I got back
to Madras and started Triveni. But, that is another story.
Sri
Prakasam, Editor and Managing Director, Swarajya, was the first of the
Big Three to become my ‘Chief’. Strangely enough, it happened that I saw him
slightly earlier than I saw Dr. Pattabhi, and very much earlier than I saw C.
R. But it was only ‘seeing’ and not ‘meeting’. In 1907, as a schoolboy at
Guntur, I was witnessing a Telugu play, the late Krishnamacharlu’s
‘Chandrahasa’. In an interval between two scenes, Sri Prakasam stepped onto the
stage, dressed in faultless Bond Street clothes and with a fur cap on his head.
He looked very handsome. He had just returned from England as a full-fledged
barrister. He had been an actor in his early years, but his ‘entrances and
exits’ as Arjuna, Damayanti, or Chandramati were over before I was born. But he
continued to love the Telugu stage and especially the men of Guntur–Hari
Prasada Rao, Hanumantha Rao, Lakshmikantam and Boddupalli Sastrulu–who shed
lustre on it. They were all amateurs who took to the stage out of pure love of
art. So they greeted Sri Prakasam as a fellow-artiste and staged the play in
his honour. Now it was his turn to render thanks, to compliment the actors, and
to present a gold medal to “Dushtabuddhi’. He spoke in English, beginning in a
low tone, and uttering the words with great deliberation. But he gathered
momentum as he warmed up, and gave his impressions of the theatres in London
and Paris. He ended with an eloquent exhortation to the Andhra public to honour
their actors. I liked the speaker as well as the speech. To my boyish
imagination, he was definitely a ‘great man’.
A
few years later came his spirited defence of the accused in the Ashe Murder
Trial, and his phenomenal rise to the front-rank of Madras lawyers. But he was
not prominent in the Indian National Congress. In those days it had become too
‘moderate’ for him. We youngsters at college had neither ears nor eyes for
anyone who was not a leading Congressman. Striking success at the Bar, we
argued, was a mere personal achievement. A little more or less by way of a
bank-balance was of no consequence. In the atmosphere of heroic sacrifice
created by the Home Rule and Non-co-operation movements, this outlook was
emphasised by old and young. So it was only when Sri Prakasam re-entered active
public life after the Amritsar Congress and gave up his career as a lawyer
after the Nagpur Congress of 1920, that he was acclaimed a hero and a leader of
South India in general and of Andhradesa in particular. His name was mentioned
along with those of Motilal Nehru of the U. P. Chittaranjan Das of Bengal, and
Rajendra Prasad of Bihar. He was, without doubt, Gandhiji’s biggest catch in
the South. To be in his presence, to work with him, to win his approval, was
the reward eagerly sought by high-spirited youth in the early twenties of this
century. The first and the most distinguished of these was Krupanidhi, Sri
Prakasam’s own apprentice-at-Law, who became Manager-cum-de facto Editor
of Swarajya, the brilliantest freak in Indian journalism. During Sri
Prakasam’s long absences on political tours, we members of the editorial staff
trained ourselves in ‘subbing’, proof-reading, interviewing reporting and
leader-writing. We became ‘all-rounders’ in journalism. Though we drew arrears
of salaries in driblets–Krupanidhi naively called them ‘advances’ and got us to
sign ‘debit slips’–we fell very heroic and very brave, and ran the paper as an
organ of militant nationalism. We loved to think that no other daily could come
up to the Swarajya level!
But
Swarajya was not a financial success, any more than Motilal Nehru’s Independent.
Within a few years, Sri Prakasam ran through his immense fortune and the
fortunes of his friends, the share-holders of the Company. The paper
languished, and even Krupanidhi, who stayed at the helm Casabianca–like, had
eventually to migrate to Delhi. Other ‘old boys’ of Swarajya–and it is a long
list–are scattered all over India, occupying important position in daily
journalism or in charge of independent periodicals like Swatantra and Triveni.
The ancestral kingdom is only a memory, but the princes have gone out and
established small principalities.
Though
Sri Prakasam was the ‘Chief’, we saw very little of him. At irregular
intervals, he used to call us together and tell us what happened during his
journeyings from Lahore right down to Palghat. If people found fault with
Swarajya, he would make a note of it and convey the criticism to” us. Very
often, it was the complaint of some local boss that the news from his place had
not been properly featured. Occasionally, there were humorous interludes. One
afternoon, I noticed, while going through the proofs, that the late Sir S.
Subrahmania Aiyar was incorrectly referred to as “twice President of the
Congress”. To prevent this error creeping into the evening’s paper, I ran up to
Sri Prakasam and told him, “Sir S as never President.” “How are you sure,” he
retorted, “you were not born then!” But after a little argument and explanation
he yielded. “Possibly you are correct. Now go down and instruct the foreman to
omit the phrase.” That was characteristic of him–to being stubborn at the
outset but to yield readily, once he was convinced.
My
stay in Swarajya was soon cut short and I migrated to Masulipatam. In
later years, my erstwhile Chief and myself came together on rare occasions. But
whenever we did meet, there was’ a great outpouring of genuine respect on my
side and of affectionate solicitude on his. Fate threw us into closer
association in Trichinopoly prison in 1941. It was a new Prakasam that was
revealed to my gaze. The years had made a great difference. He was very
composed, studious and philosophic. He listened with great interest to the Mahabharata
in Telugu, and the Ramayana in Sanskrit. He worked his way, at first
slowly and with faltering steps, through the Gita, the Upanishads and
the Brahmasutras. Tenneti Viswanatham was with him constantly and read
to him from the Bible, the Koran, and other classics of the great
religions. To juniors like me he was exceedingly tender, making kind enquiries
about home and family. One morning after the reading of the Ramayana was
over, and the gong summoning us prisoners to the midday meal was not yet
sounded, we fell to comparing notes. He seemed to feel that Triveni was
to me what Swarajya had been to him, But, have you any property left?”
he asked me gently. “Nothing much; I have the house my father built.” “Ah! now
that is good. And how about debts?” “Well, I have discharged all debts by
selling the rest of the property.” “That is splendid! I must congratulate you!
To own a house, and have no debts!” He was obviously thinking of his own
condition,–penniless, homeless, and harassed by creditors. He was a wanderer on
earth. The memory of those few moments of intimate converse, I shall always
cherish.
This
great man with a great heart, simple and trustful as a child, goes about the
country incessantly, covers hundreds of miles a day, and addresses scores of
audiences, bringing comfort, bringing hope, to the millions who adore him. As
Revenue Minister and as Premier, he championed the cause if the common man
against powerful vested interests. It was these very interests, leagued with
neo-Justicites sailing under Congress colours, that pulled him down. Today, the
people of the Province of Madras are like sheep without a shepherd. Torn by
dissensions and broken up into cliques, the Congress is verily ‘a house divided
against itself’. The story is told how, in the crucial days of March 1946, when
the election of a leader for the Madras Congress Legislature Party engaged the
attention of the Congress High Command, Gandhiji suggested that Sri Prakasam,
C. R. and Dr. Pattabhi should all work together in the provincial Cabinet, with
one of them as Premier. It is not profitable, at this distance of time, to
apportion blame for the failure of the leaders to act on that suggestion. But
the experience of nearly two years must convince everyone that South India
suffered a severe reverse and lost her primacy in all India politics, solely
because these esteemed leaders worked at cross-purposes, instead of pulling
together. One remembers with acute pain that legislators and leaders of public
opinion were labeled as ‘Prakasam’s men’, ‘Pattabhi’s men’, or ‘C. R.’s men’.
To one like myself who loves and admires all three of them, this labeling seems
a major scandal of our public life. After all, one has to be true to one’s
self. If a child is asked to choose between the father and the mother, or
between the father and the elder brother, the correct answer–if the child is
wise–would be, “I belong to myself. Neither of these can own me.” Or, if
it is irritable, it might, adapting Mercutio’s words in Romeo and Juliet,
burst out “A pox on both of you!”
The
first of my Chiefs is today verging on eighty. But he seems to be growing
younger. His zest for work and for study is unabated. His overwhelming love for
the lowly and the disinherited is the prime motive-power behind all that he
says and does. Whether in office or out of it, he is a ‘Tribune of the People’,
working early and late, without haste and without rest–the kind of public man
who, in ancient India, might have been an Asoka or a Janaka. On the fateful
afternoon in February last, when an irregular vote of ‘no confidence’ was
passed by his fellow-legislators, he came down the steps of the Banqueting Hall
of Government House. Watching him and his steady step and gracious smile, I
thought of the monarchs of the Solar or Lunar race coming down the steps of
their thrones, after granting audience to ministers and military chieftains,
and to the vast populace thronging the spacious courtyards of Indian palaces.
It
was also in a theatre that I first saw and heard–without meeting–Dr. Pattabhi,
the second of my Chiefs. Dr. Pattabhi, unlike Sri Prakasam, does not care for
the stage. Believe it or not, he never voluntarily attends a drama or a cinema.
On the rare occasions on which he did sit through a play, he faced the ordeal
just because the money went to the Andhra Jateeya Kalasala, of which he was
Secretary, or to some flood-relief or famine-relief, and he was asked to be
present and render thanks. But the National Theatre, Buttiahpet, Masulipatam,
provided him a platform for some of his most important speeches. It was an
occasional alternative to the open Square in Robertsonpet during the hectic
days of the nationalist movement in Andhra, following the anti-Partition
agitation in Bengal. It was also a period of Genuine constructive effort in
Masulipatam, culminating in the foundation of the Kalasala. That evening, the
Doctor lectured in English on “The Web of Indian National Life”. As the speaker
developed his argument and spread before the mind’s eye the vast panorama of
Indian history and culture, I marveled at the beauty of the theme and the
vigour and spontaneity of his eloquence. Admiration soon led to personal
loyalty–and even affection for one who was nearly fifteen years my senior. I
was studying with avidity the history of Greece in the local college, and I
used to fancy that the Masulipatam of Dr. Pattabhi the publicist, Krishna Rao
the savant, and Venkata Sastri the poet, was very much like the Athens of
Periclean times. I was one of a group of students intent on arranging lectures
on political and cultural topics. We approached Dr. Pattabhi.
Characteristically he wanted us to suggest a theme. When I mentioned ‘India and
Federal Union’, he accepted it with pleasure. But that lecture never came off,
for the Ulsterite-Irish Principal forbade it: he suspected we were fast
developing into seditionists! I took this disappointment with a sore heart. But
the Doctor and I came closer and he reciprocated my affection. Time has its
revenges. The Doctor is now a leading light of Free India’s Constituent
Assembly; he is actively engaged, with other constitutional experts, in
drafting a federal constitution for India.
That
constitution will make provision for the re-distribution of Provinces on the
basis of language. The Doctor was among the earliest in India to sponsor the
movement for Linguistic Provinces. He was mainly responsible for winning
acceptance for that principle by the Home Rule League and the National
Congress. By his powerful advocacy he raised the movement to an all-India
level, and at the Nagpur session of the Congress (1920) he sat on a
sub-committee and carved out ‘Congress Provinces’ everywhere. The other members
of the committee were Gandhiji and the late A. Rangaswami Iyengar.
As
with Linguistic Provinces, so with the Gandhian movement. The Doctor’s speeches
and his writings in his brilliant English weekly, Janmabhumi, made
converts of the intelligentsia in Andhra to the cult of Non-co-operation. The
young lawyers who came into the struggle were influenced by the personal
example of Sri Prakasam in Madras and of Sri G. Sitarama Sastri in Guntur; but
the implications of Gandhian ideology and its potency as a weapon of peaceful
revolution were brought home to us by the Doctor in Andhra and by C. R. in
Tamilnad.
As
Secretary of the Andhra Jateeya Kalasala, the Doctor became my Chief. I had
known the Kalasala since its inception; its cultural atmosphere and its wide
lawns carpeted emerald green always held me in thrall. And yet, it was the
desire to associate with the Doctor and to get trained by him in unselfish
public work, that drew me to the institution in 1923. For four years crowded
with study and teaching, and enlivened by the comradeship of the poets and
artists of Andhra, I led a happy, sheltered life. But when the Non-co-operation
movement waned, and funds ceased to flow in, a proposal was mooted that the
Kalasala might apply to the Provincial Government for a grant-in-aid. I made no
distinction between service in an ‘aided’ institution and practice in a
British-controlled court of law. The Doctor and his friends withdrew from the
management, and, with a heavy heart, I left the Kalasala. That was the moment
when, if I had chosen, I could have gone back to the paternal home and the
paternal profession of law. But some power beyond me impelled me to launch the Triveni,
and to keep it afloat through frequent storms and a few brief bursts of sunshine.
Like a wise and tender-hearted elder, the Doctor has continually sought to make
life a little easier for me; but Fate and my own stubborn nature have proved
too strong even for him.
Between him and me, there are marked differences of taste and temperament. He is keen on banking and insurance; I swear by art and literature. His emphasis is on the useful in life, mine on the beautiful. I like quiet and leisure; he is often in a hurry, and always too loud in speech. He is punctilious about accounts; to me, accounting is an insufferable nuisance. We are like two brothers in a family who go their different ways. But, have any brothers loved each other more intensely than we have? Of my three Cheifs–Prakasam, Pattabhi and C. R.–the Doctor is closest to me. In his presence I am frank and free. I do not stand in awe of him, as I do of the other two.