ISWARA DUTT: AS I KNOW HIM
D.
ANJANEYULU
Was
it J. B. Priestley, who advised the admiring reader
not to meet “your favourite writer”? As a voracious
reader himself, long before he became a celebrated writer, he had gathered
enough experience in this matter to make bold to offer this negative advice
(almost Punch-like in its finality) to those less experienced and more
optimistic than himself. It was, in a way, lucky for me that I had not yet read
that thoughtful essay of Priestley’s (may be it was
not yet written, as a matter of fact), when I happened to meet one of my own favourite writers, for the first time. It was over two
decades ago, when I had just finished writing my B. L. Examination in Madras,
and was spending the summer in Tenali (not a change for
the better from Madras in the matter of weather, by any means!) scouring the
local library for the books of Shaw, Wilde, Chesterton and Belloc
who were my favourite reading at that time. I could
only say this, without any more ado about the subject–that I was happy to have
met him and known him ever since and claimed his friendship till his death in
June 1968. Far from being disappointed or disillusioned, as one very well
might, after a personal encounter with someone whom you had been admiring from
a safe distance, I was only the more enthused by an
association, which I had no occasion to regret, which had not only survived
these twenty odd years but become closer and stronger and happier with the
lapse of time.
That
favourite writer is K. Iswara Dutt,
who had written nothing, in my memory, which I preferred willingly to skip,
where I had the chance to read. Before I met him in the summer of 1946, I had
already read his two little books–Sparks and Fumes and And All that! The
first presenting a gallery of brilliant pen-portraits of Andhra political
leaders from Sir B. N. Sharma to Sir A. P. Patro; and
the second an engaging collection of personal essays in the lighter vein on all
things from Congress Presidents to cups of coffee and such other tremendous trifles
including a tuft of hair (on male head) the sight of which always set him on
the edge. There could, of course, be many (indeed there were some, and there
are a few) other writers, more widely read, more deeply learned, more full of
ideas and more subtle in their understanding or exposition of them, than Mr.
Iswara Dutt, but hardly any who could, or did, write
with a greater zest for the subject of their choice, or with a greater lucidity
of expression or a greater sense of personal style. He was among the most
readable of Indian writers in the English language–who
had left their mark on political and literary journalism in recent times.
As
a stylist, he had modelled himself on the English
masters of his early days–who had made their names immoral in British
journalism. The most striking of them who had influenced him in the formative
years of his writing career was, of course, A. G. Gardner, whose volumes of
profiles (like Pillars of Society, Prophets, Priests and Kings, Certain
people of Importance etc.,) he knew almost by heart, as also the books of
personal essays (of Alpha of the Plough) like Windfalls, Many Furrows
and Leaves in the Wind. T. P. O’Connor (founder-editor of the
famous T. P’s Weekly) was another, whose parliamentary sketches must have
inspired him to do for the leading figures of the Indian Parliament what the
former did for those of the British Parliament in the Eighties and Nineties of
the last century. A certain spontaneous symmetry (not a fashionable virtue of
modern English style), characterised by balance and
antithesis, which came to be recognised as the
hallmark of his style, became almost a habit with Iswara Dutt,
the writer, that he could not easily give up even if he wanted to.
Another
remarkable feature of Mr. Iswara Dutt’s personality
was that the literary quality was no less evident in his personal
correspondence than in his professional writing. He was, indeed, one of the
most delightful letter-writers that I had directly come across in my life. He
would often make a joke of it and say that he was “ a
man of letters” in more senses than one–because he wrote more letters and
received more letters than many of his professional contemporaries. And what
enjoyable letters he wrote! So heart-warming in their intimate and personal
tone, so vivid in their minute detail, so genuinely interested in the fortunes
of the person at the other end, as to encourage him to keep on a real and
lively dialogue. There was nothing to suggest the impatience of a hard-worked
journalist, who must needs give of his best to other forms of writing, nothing
to betray the apathy of a seasoned man of the world, who can be expected to be
full to the brim with his own personal commitments and family responsibilities
to be able to spare the time or writing space to satisfy a distant
correspondent. And the hand-writing too! Those even, bold and
well-formed characters, which seemed to flow out of the age of caligraphy, skipping the age of the typewriters that had
intervened in recent decades, to the detriment of the former. He would
always write with a steel pen and a relief nib, (and never a fountain-pen or
its cheap and glossy successors like the ball-point and such other newfangled
contraptions), reminiscent of the forgotten graces of the quill-pen. It was his
belief and experience that the ceremony of dipping of the pen in the bottle and
the flow of the ink from the nib gave the writer the time and the mood for the
flow of ideas.
Like
many young men, who read too well, or may be only too desultorily (but
certainly not too wisely, for making the most of what one reads), I nursed the
fancy of taking to journalism, encouraged by the vague notion that a specialisation in the study of English literature at
college could be one of the qualifications for taking up a career in
journalism. Before deciding to do something, which seemed a leap in the dark,
to all the well-wishers in the family, I made bold to write to a few
experienced journalists, who hailed from Andhra and made good in the different
parts of the world. Some wrote in a casual, evasive, or cryptic manner, in view
of the pressing demands on their time and the awkward necessity of having to
interfere in somebody else’s personal choice. I do not remember anyone had
written to me on the subject, with the same degree of refreshing candour, personal interest and discreet encouragement as
Mr. Iswara Dutt. The very first letter was aglow with
a characteristic animation–full of horse-sense and home-truths, as well as the
boyish puns and bright witticisms, of ideas to think about, of wisecracks to
chuckle over, of a personality to cherish and a friendship to nourish.
When
children spoke of journalism as a career, wrote Mr. Iswara Dutt
(whom I paraphraze, not being able to quote, at this
point) parents shook their heads dismally. For, in this country, journalism was
not yet comfortable as a profession, let alone its being attractive as a
career. But it had its thrills and compensations (for all the kicks and lack of
half-pence) for those who felt the call for it and had the urge. But there was
no escape from the fact that some would take to ink as others to drink and, as
in hanging and wiving, it all went by destiny!
Sensing the truth about me that my craze for journalism had passed well beyond
the stage of boyish infatuation or even juvenile delinquency, he offered me the
benefit of a personal discussion and hospitality beneath his roof, if I could
manage to proceed to Jaipur, where he was publicity
officer, officially speaking, but actually cultural attache,
private secretary and personal friend, all rolled into one, to Sir Mirza Ismail, then Dewan of that princely State. He was still able to bring
out the Twentieth Century, with the help of his brother, Ananda Mohan, and friends in Allahabad, though it was
becoming more and more difficult to bring it out, let alone keep up its
original standard, what with the official duties in Jaipur
and cultural activities including the conduct of the Athenaeum. For some reason
or another, I was not able to make the journey to Jaipur,
but I got a letter from him, date-lined
Despite
the appetising descriptions of the Lake View annexe, with its beautiful situation, where he moved in for
a short-lived stay in the august vicinity of the palatial residences of Sir Mirza Ismail and Sir Walter Moncton, I could not meet him in Hyderabad during the time
he was there in that troubled State, bringing out New Hyderabad in the
old. Soon after freedom and the changed set-up in Hyderabad, under the military
governor’s rule before the integration, Mr. Iswara Dutt
shifted to Delhi and switched back to daily journalism, as a columnist and
Sunday magazine editor of The Hindusthan Times. I
was then on the editorial staff of an English daily in Madras as a sub-editor,
none too happy with the daily grind of routine work. The year 1949 was drawing to
a close (by which time I had done regular subbing for a year and a half, after
the training under Mr. K. Rama Rao, for a like period, all of which seemed
enough for the disillusionment of a young man dreaming about the glories of a
writing career in journalism!) and I was already wondering how best to get away
from all this to something else more bearable. In reply to my letter written in
December that year, which must have given him more than an inkling of my mood
at that moment, he wrote back (24 December 1949), ending thus:
“….I
won’t make this letter longer as you will be coming here shortly, though next
year. But, I would like to hear from you promptly and have evidence of more
cheerful spirits. May 1950 make amends for the dying and unlamented year!”
I
did make the pilgrimage to Delhi, as expected, and while nothing came of the
interview, for which I appeared, I remember to have returned home and to the
job in Madras, distinctly improved in my spirits. More than once had he written
to me that the most effective antidote he knew of for the low spirits of
friends was his own company! And he was as good as his word, his optimism was
infectious and his concern for the welfare of friends, especially if they
happened to be journalists or writers, was more than formal.
A
year or two passed, before there was something specific to talk about.
Meanwhile, there were bound to be personal problems for everyone to worry
about, which left little time for letters written for the pleasure of it, as
well as those written on business. In explaining his own longish silence, he
wrote back sometime in June 1952:
“…..The
season’s lack of mercy apart, I have too much on my hands these days–the
magazine, the overseas weekly, special supplements and my own
column–and feature. I am afraid I have ceased to be a letter-writer–or a man of
letters!
“...The
leaderette on Poetry in Parliament is a brilliant
performance. There is so little of literary craftsmanship in our daily press
that I must heartily congratulate you on your effort. At this rate, the day is
perhaps not far off when the hungry North will consume you to fill an
aching void. I am an optimist–and not a bad prophet either!”
“We
have now an excellent, though expensive, flat in Karol Bagh–not
even a Cabinet Minister perhaps pays a monthly rent of Rs.
300 minus electricity and other bills. But, I believe
in living well, having always drawn a distinction between living and existing.”
The
New Year Day of 1954 was one of the proudest days in the journalistic career of
Mr. Dutt. For it was on that day that he took charge
as Chief Editor of Leader, a paper he had served over twenty years
earlier as Chintamani’s assistant. He was now happy
to be in Chintamani’s chair. He did his very best to
put some life into a paper that he loved so well. But the paper had not many
years to live, nor the chair many months to hold him. After 15 months or more,
may be 18, he resigned from the Leader and returned to
Delhi. The detailed letter he wrote in November 1955 told me, more than somewhat,
of his mind and his mood:
“….
It is now over six months, since I left the Leader out of concern for a
certain editorial tradition and journalistic values. I returned to Delhi
(having no other place to go to) but not to….., part of the ‘chains’ which I
refused to wear. Having courted wilderness and martyrdom, I have–temporarily –
gone into literary retirement at considerable personal sacrifice. Perhaps you
know–otherwise you should know–that I have no ancestral property of any kind,
no roof over my head, no land (unless Vinobaji gives
me!) no pension or provident fund, no insurance policy, and on the top of it
all, no bank balance or savings and that I am thus in utter readiness to
conform to the socialistic pattern of society.”
That
he was factual in saying all these things was easily admitted. But he was also
being witty and mock-serious at the same time. If the unwary reader were to
think he was in the streets, he would be mistaken, for it was during this
period that Mr. Dutt found the time and the peace of
mind for working on The Street of Ink, his substantial autobiography, on
which light is thrown in the next paragraph:
“While
it is so, I have, however, made the best use of my time and converted an ordeal
into an opportunity by working on a book. It is now ready for the press. It has
two aspects–chronicle and memoirs. It consists of 15 chapters or 95 sections
and comes to over 250 pages in print. It is the only book of its kind ever
written by an Indian journalist….”
In
connection with the production of this book (printed in Madras), Mr. Dutt stayed for a fortnight or so in Madras. Having much to
do with this book, by way of going through the manuscript and passing some of
the proofs, I was meeting him almost daily, while he was in Madras, combining
the pleasures of listening to music recital and poetry recitation with the less
exciting business of revising proofs. Soon after finishing the book and going
back to Delhi, Mr. Dutt was in high spirits. New
opportunities came his way–like the ‘Parliament Today’ assignment on A. I. R.,
and the Secretaryship of the National Book Trust
under the chairmanship of Dr. C. D. Deshmukh. After
relinquishing this job, he started the New India weekly in 1961 and
struggled hard to keep it going for a few years, but had finally to wind it up.
All the while, he was doing quite a bit of freelancing, whatever be the regular
job on hand, for the time being might be. The Andhra Pradesh and other
supplements of New India were useful as reference material. The last four
to five years of his life were devoted to the two volume of Congress Cyclopaedia, which was a commendable work, by any
account, when done by a team of writers, but a remarkable achievement, as it
was virtually done by a single man.
From
personal friends, it did not take long for us to become family friends. My stay
with him in Delhi was a period of unqualified pleasure. My late wife (Audilakshmi) was welcomed into the inner circle of his
family as one of their own members. Referring to her visit, he wrote in 1959:
“You
must have by now heard from the lady in Leningrad. Her stay here was to us a
joy–and we were happy that she felt so much at home under our roof.”
“Don’t
hesitate to come to Delhi, if there is a chance….”
In
fact, it is hard to think of any friend of his on a visit to Delhi who had not
stayed with him for a day or two, or at least had not had his dinner or tea
with him. This is a point that can hardly be over-emphasised
in outlining his personality, as it is a feature conspicuous by its absence in
most others, not excluding journalists. It may be argued for some journalists,
the less privileged variety of them, that the struggle for existence is so much
on them, that the question of hospitality becomes irrelevant to their basic
economy. But even those on whom Dame Fortune has deigned to smile cultivate a
flair for playing the charming guest rather than the generous host! Some there
are who have the fear of their lives to play the host of any description. Mr.
Iswara Dutt was less eager to be the guest than the
host. Of few others could this be said, in all conscience!
Conversation,
like letter-writing, was another of the vanishing graces in which Mr. Dutt revelled with no
reservations. He did not cultivate it so much as an artful diplomat, as he lost
himself in it in the company of like-minded friends. He was fond of the pun and
the alliteration, as well as the brilliant epigram and the striking paradox and
the ‘quotable’ quote. The pun may not be among the higher forms of wit, but Mr.
Dutt could never quite get rid of it, in the written
word or the spoken word. As a student, who did not do too well in his paper, he
is known to have accosted, the lecturer in the class: “You have given me no
mark, Sir only a remark!” He was hard on “the posters and the imposters of the
Indian Press.” He was fond of T. C. among journals and M. C. among
journalists. “Windbags” was his retort to a Madras orator, who went for the
‘Moneybags’, hammer and tongs.
Not
that Iswara Dutt had no defects, as a writer or as a
man. It is possible to find his writing wanting in depth and subtlety, if you
are a learned scholar or a fastidious intellectual. But, none can deny him the
merit of being vivid, lucid and readable. As a man, he might have paid court to
those who strode the corridors of power. But he did that with a modicum of
loyalty and was not eager to change his patrons, all too easily, according to
the changing politics of power. He might have looked up to the high and the
mighty, all too often. (He might have dropped names, but he did not drop
friends!) But he did not look down on the humble and the deserving. He was a
good companion, as well as an impressive “courtier.” He was a lively man and a
loyal friend, for all that. We can’t boast of too many like him.