RAMAKOTI: A KINDLY MAN

DR. D. V. GUNDAPPA

Ramakoti’s first care in any context was for quality. Quality for him was something more than utility. “Is it nice?” was his first question. Whether a piece of writing or a piece of furniture, a shawl or a dish, it must be ‘nice’, that is to say, it should be not only usable, but also pleasing to see and to feel and to remember. The thing should have an aesthetic appeal. So his love of culture. Culture was to him the quintessence of literature and art.

Ramakoti once opened an office for Triveni. It was in Malleswaram, the northern end of Bangalore, while I lived in Basavangudi, the southern end. He came to me that morning in great glee – just to announce the world-shaking event and invite me to go there to take a look at a piece of furniture he had acquired for his office. His enthusiasm was like that of a child with a new toy. The article was a carpenter’s complex–chair and desk and book-case all combined. He said (in Telugu): “How nice it will be to sit on that comfortable chair with gracefully sloping desk in front of you and reference books within easy reach! You can go on writing sheet after sheet and ream after ream! ...” He would have gone on, but for my calling a halt. I asked: “My dear Ramakoti, it is a mercy that we writers have only crude tables and rough chairs. With the luxury you are thinking of, how we should have flooded the world with our written rubbish!”

He opened his eyes wide and asked: “Why do you call it rubbish?”

I rejoined: “What else is it–apart from self-love?”

A smile came on his face. Then we laughed aloud together.

While Ramakoti had his independent view of anything, he was not slow to see the possibility of another view equally valid of the same matter. This was at once his strength and his weakness.

One day we chanced to speak of our common friend Khasa Subba Rau. Khasa had been his colleague on the Swarajya staff and a closer friend for many years. Ramakoti was full of admiration for Khasa’s independence of mind and courage. “Khasa was a well-read man and he took radical views; and when once he formed his conclusion, Khasa became relentless in pursuing his adversary.”

Khasa was of course a political writer, and he had his victims. He pursued his victims without compunction and with perseverance, like a huntsman after his beast.

Ramakoti said: “Khasa’s attitude was: ‘Povali, Povali, Povali’ (He must go, he must go, he must go). With this persistence, Khasa hounded people out. I somehow consider it cruel. I cannot bring myself to go so far in my dislike or disapproval of people.”

I said that that was my reading also of Ramakoti’s character. But Ramakoti was by no means a softy. He could be both vehement and pointed. But this was to him an effort. It did not come to him naturally. He would express his protest and condemnation once or twice and leave the matter there. Khasa was effective, because his hammer-strokes fell again and again and yet again. That is the secret of success in a political journalist. Ramakoti as a writing man could never hope to be effectual. He was not the man for turning out ministries or toppling over Governments.

Ramakoti walked into my room one morning, all smiles, and asking: “Where is poli?”

I: What poli?

R: Poli to eat. Today is a festival, isn’t it?

I: What festival? I do not know of any.

R: You had better ask your Ammayi (daughter).

I then called my daughter and queried. Ramakoti’s word was true. It was a day of some Gauri vratam, and they had prepared poli (sweet wheat-cake) for being offered in the pooja. He asked my daughter for his share of naivedyam. When she brought it, he took just a bit of two inches of it, and said he was satisfied. We pressed him much to eat some more of it. He said: I have promised S. that I would dine with him. I came here just for the joy of seeing Ammayi perform the pooja and sharing poli with you.”

This is Ramakoti: a kindly man with the mind hovering about things great and pure and fine. He was a dreamer, alien to the hard stuff of which our world is made. It was inevitable that he should sometimes bruise his limbs against the granite walls.

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