REMINISCENCES
K.
SAMPATHGIRI RAO
[On
Yugadi Day (April 4, 1973) friends and admirers of Sri Sampathgiri Rao
felicitated him on his completing 76 years and presented him with a Souvenir.
Very eminent persons not only of Karnataka but from other parts of India paid
glowing tributes to him. The following article by Sri Sampathgiri Rao is
reproduced from the Souvenir. –EDITOR]
At
the beginning of 1921, Gandhiji had given the call for non-co-operation with
the British Government. A new life appeared to pulsate through the country; a
new spirit of self-denial and of self-reliance. Some of us who were in
Government service resigned and joined the band of teachers who were intent on
rehabilitating the National High School, which, started in 1917, seemed to be
tottering to a fall in the summer vacation of 1921, owing to serious disharmony
among the staff, and between the staff and students. Some teachers had also
resigned and left.
Some
members of the staff of the Central College, among whom I was one, stepped in
at this time to take measure to ensure the continuance of the school.
It
was decided to call for new recruits, each of whom was to provide a list of
teachers, with whom they would work in harmony, keeping the academic needs of
the school in view.
To
ensure some leadership, it was also proposed that the Head-master was to be
selected once in two years by the members of the staff, who were all to be of
equal status. The Poona Fergusson College tradition was also to be adopted,
that all members of staff were expected to devote their whole time to the work
of the school, not engage themselves in private tuition, etc., and the salary
was limited to a maximum of Rs. 100.
Unlike
Gandhian National Schools in British India, we were recognised by the
Department of Public Instruction and did not shrink from taking grant (it was a
meagre Rs. 70 per month). This exposed us to uncomplementary comments from
orthodox Gandhians, many of whom put on self-righteous airs and were censorious
to a degree. This applies mostly to the Congress workers from British India,
who occasionally dropped in, and “openly” ridiculed our claim to call ourselves
National School. Of course, such ridicule caused us pain. On the other side,
there were our own officers in the Educational Department, who looked on as
rebels. We teachers wore what was called the national dress, not coat and
turban, according to the accepted conventions. Possibly, they imagined we were
doing Congress propaganda in the classroom. This, of course, was far from true.
We went through the course of studies dutifully, but of course supplemented it
by other lessons not prescribed–like Civics, Hindi, Moral and Religious
Instruction. In this way, we tried to build up an atmosphere of patriotism and
celebrated the days of great men, introducing our young pupils to the thought
of the great national leaders like Swami Vivekananda, Rabindranath Tagore and
Mahatma Gandhi. The Government was rather suspicious about us. We were far too
Gandhian. On the other hand, many of our national workers thought we were not
national enough. Caught between two stools, as it were, we had our moments of
wavering. But we had burnt our boats, and had banded ourselves together. This
feeling of belonging to a brotherhood upheld our spirits.
I
must here mention the great encouragement we got from about 1922 from Rajaji,
who along with our Karnatak leader, Gangadhar Rao Deshpande, used to visit the
school, and talk to boys about Swadeshi and Khaddar. Rajaji used to refer to
himself as an honorary teacher of our school. He looked our programme and
wished us godspeed. Our spirit was greatly strengthened by his words of
approval and appreciation. He was an acknowledged authority on Gandhian ideals
and technique. When we had the blessing of such a one, we could afford to
ignore the criticism of smaller men who assumed “Holier than thou” attitudes.
After
having been a rolling stone as Surveyor or Overseer in different places and
different departments (he had no recognised diploma or degree), my father
got a foothold as an Overseer in the Madras Corporation in 1906. He had left me
during the previous year with his elder brother, who was a
clerk in the Magistrate’s Court at Kalahasti, where I completed my fourth year Primary.
I was to join a High School (as schools from IV Form were then called) at
Madras.
We
were living in Akbar Saheb Street, Triplicane and, by a lucky chance right
opposite to our house across the street, was the residence of Sri V. S.
Srinivasa Sastri, the reputed Headmaster of the Hindu High School, hardly a
furlong from our residence.
My
father had of course decided to have me admitted in the Hindu High School, in
the I Form, and had duly secured an admission form. The form was filled up but
an amavasya and then a Tuesday intervened, and, when my father and I went on
Wednesday, we were told that there was no more seat available.
I
was greatly disappointed, because everybody told us that the Hindu High School
was the best one in the city, and it was near our house. Reluctantly, I joined
the Mission School, situated behind the Parthasarathy temple, now called the
Kellet High School. Thus began my education in a Christian Mission institution
in 1906, which was to continue in other Christian Missionary institutions, till
I completed my Honours Course 12 years later.
I
do not at all regret having gone through these Christian institutions. It
brought me into touch with some dedicated spirits. It gave me a knowledge of
the Bible. It helped to stimulate interest in moral and spiritual ideals.
The
system of education that obtained when I passed through high school and
college, contributed to make our knowledge of our own Indian languages most
deplorable. The mother-tongue or the regional language was the medium of
instruction only in the primary stage. That was some small mercy.
At
the end of the primary stage, one entered the high school, (I-VI Form) where
English was not only the first language, but the medium of instruction. There
was provision for the mother-tongue or regional language to the extent of being
able to write a composition in it on topics found in a prescribed non-detailed
book. There was also Sanskrit. The Indian language teachers commanded little
respect (to put it mildly), and pupils took delight and even pride, in
neglecting Indian languages.
I
took up Sanskrit as my second language in the High School, but the syllabus was
such that one could get no more than a mere smattering of it. In my case, I had
the misfortune to have a Sanskrit teacher, who was cursed with impatience and
bad temper, and fully believed in the saying “Spare the rod and spoil the
child”. Only in his case the word ‘rod’ should be substituted by “beatings and
pinchings”! As a result, I emerged out of the school with the knowledge of the
Sanskrit alphabet intact and little more. When I joined the Christian College
for the Intermediate, I should have offered Sanskrit Translation, under second
language. Instead, I offered Telugu Composition, as some one at the time told
me it was an easy alternative. I realised too late I had made a mistake. I
learnt that though I obtained a First Class in the Intermediate Examination, I
had just scraped through Telugu Composition with grace marks.
Kannada
was my mother-tongue and spoken at home. Madhvas generally carry the language
with them wherever they happen to reside, just as Srivaishnavas carry some
Tamil with them. But the Kannada was of the variety one usually hears in
Triplicane at Madras or in Coimbatore. I was innocent of its literature, the
only exception being the songs of Purandaradasa and other saints and the
Harikathamritasara, with all of which my mother had fairly intimate knowledge.
She had a hauntingly sweet thin voice and an extensive repertoire of Dasa’s
songs stored up in her memory. My introduction to Kannada literature, while I
lived in Andhra and Tamil Nadu in my earlier years was through listening to my
mother’s songs.
Thus, at the time I left the college with an Honours Degree in English literature, my stock consisted of a fair amount of conceit for my knowledge of English and an unabashed ignorance of the literary treasures of Kannada, Telugu and Tamil, with all of which I had merely a kind of nodding acquaintance.
It
was Gandhiji in 1921, who first made us realise the tragic absurdity of
educated Indians, so called, being unable to hold intimate converse with their
less educated brethren through their common language.
Though
I could carry on conversation, addressing a gathering for-two minutes, unnerved
me greatly. Kadapa Raghavendra Rao and Mudved Krishna Rao, who gave many of us
glimpses of the possibilites of Kannada eloquence, not only goaded me but even
chid me for my nervousness. R. R. Divakar gave me a practical tip, “Don’t talk
in English, say for a year, talk only in Kannada–until you get used to it.” The
tip worked–and in a year, I was able to make five-minute speeches, without
unduly perspiring. That was sometime in 1925.
My
first efforts at Kannada writing were contributing to our National High School
Magazine, which in some ways was a pioneering effort. Sri T. S. Venkannaya gave
me the stimulus to write. He coaxed me in his own pleasing way. “There is
nothing easier. Do you not know how to talk in Kannada? Put the same words down
on paper in an orderly grammatical form–and you have it.” Sri Venkannaya’s own
speaking, when he addressed a gathering, had such an uncanny simplicity. You
were acquainted with every word, which he used. But when you yourself stood up
to deliver the goods, somehow you rumbled and the proper words did not come
in the proper order.
How I became a
Translator
Becoming an author was not at all my ambition. How I achieved authorship, albeit mostly translatorship, may interest readers.
A
story by Rajaji called a ‘handspun story’ translated from Tamil, was published
in “Young India” edited by Mahatma Gandhi. It was the pathetic story of an old
woman, who had brought in-different yarn to the Khadi centre and pleaded for
full wages being paid, as she had done the spinning amidst distressing
conditions in her home. It was a story full of pathos that brought out the
human aspect in Khadi production. The artistic handling of the theme greatly
appealed to Nadkarni of Karwar, who wrote to Mahatma Gandhi for
permission to have the story translated into Kannada to be published in a
Kannada Journal. Mahatmaji wrote to Rajaji passing on to him
Nadkarni’s request. Rajaji wrote to me that the story published in “Young
India” was from a Tamil original, that instead of translating the
story from English to Kannada, it would be much better to translate the story
from Tamil directly into Kannada, as both were Dravidian languages and had
syntax and many words in common. He asked me if I would do it. He also sent me
the original Tamil story. My own knowledge of Tamil was greatly limited,
being confined to its colloquial for purpose of conversation. But when I read
the Tamil story, I found that Rajaji himself had written it in popular style
and its diction offered no difficulty. I therefore translated it into Kannada,
and had the story published in, I believe, “Jaya Karnataka” of Dharwar. Rajaji
was greatly satisfied that I had done the assignment.
Sometime
later, when he met me in Bangalore, he asked me casually if the account of
Socrates’ Trial and Death had been rendered into Kannada by any one. There were
none at the time, so far as I knew, and I told him so. The version produced by
S. G. Sastry and A. N. Murthy Rao were published later. So, Rajaji persuaded me
to render into Kannada his abridged version of the Trial and Death of Socrates,
which he had prepared while in Vellore jail, calling it “Satyagraha Vijayam.”
He had Indianised Socrates’ name into “Sukrutar”. He wanted the book to be priced
cheap so that it could have a wide circulation. I took up the assignment and
finished it, admiring all the time the masterly way in which Rajaji had done
the abridgement. It was published by the Satyasodhana Book Depot run by my
friend, Nittoor Sreenivasa Rau, and priced at 8 annas, if I remember right.
This
led me to translate, at his instance, his collection of stories, his book on
the Gita, his Upanishat Stories, and much later his Ramayana, etc.
I
discovered that rendering. Rajaji’s Tamil sentences into Kannada was absurdly
easy. You had only to think of the proper Kannada word for a Tamil word now and
then. The order of words was, in most cases, the same, and most words were
common. So when the late A. R. Krishna Sastry complimented me on my ‘Ramayana’
in Kannada, calling it the ideal prose style of his conception, I told my
revered friend promptly that the entire credit for it should go to Rajaji and
not to me. Some years later the Sahitya Akademi at Delhi entrusted me with the
task of translating a collection of modern Tamil stories, by different authors,
into Kannada. I undertook the task rather light-heartedly. I soon realized that
I could not make such headway without a Tamil dictionary and even referring
some passages to Tamil scholars for elucidation. It was then I realized the
reason for the extraordinary vogue Rajaji’s writings enjoyed in Tamil Nadu.
Look
on this picture and that
Some forty years ago, the Railways used to offer Railway concession during Christmas holidays. You visit all places in a particular zone and go to and fro but must finish the journey in a fortnight; the fare was only 12 ½ rupees.
In
the National High School, we had started a Teachers’ Trip Fund to which we
subscribed every month. It occurred to us that we should visit Travancore,
where temples had been thrown open to Harijans and to other South Indian towns,
which all came under the South Zone, during the Christmas holidays of 1936,
taking advantage of the Railway concession. We started with a visit to Ernakulam,
and saw places on the West Coast, going down to Kanyakumari, then to Madurai,
Rameswaram, and later went up North as far as Madras, visiting towns on the way
and returned to Bangalore. We were about ten in number.
How
we were victims to the vagaries of fortune and weather in Madurai and
Rameswaram is still vivid to my mind.
We
were armed with letters of introduction to important persons or institutions in
the towns, which we proposed to visit.
After
a glorious time at Kanyakumari, we returned to Trivandrum and took train to
Madurai, which we reached late in the evening. We had a letter to an affluent
merchant there, whom we could not locate that night. We were not stranded,
however, as we were able to force ourselves as guests of the Principal of a
college there, an old class-mate of mine. Next morning, we had to attend to
washing our clothes, and had our food at a hotel. In the afternoon, we were
able to track down the good merchant, our prospective host. The letter of
introduction from a friend of his in Bangalore contained such eulogistic terms
about us that the magnate was all deference and gratitude that he had the
privilege to cater to the comforts of such minor Mahatmas as we! He immediately
arranged for our lodging in sumptuously furnished apartments, and for our food
from a luxurious hotel to be served to us there. He then placed two Sedan cars
at our disposal together with a guide to take us round that sparkling city. We
had become V. I. P.’s and tried to play the part to the best of our ability,
putting on the best dress that we could manage. We felt like state dignitaries,
receiving courtesy and even reverence in the places we visited.
Our next place of visit was Rameswaram, which we reached on a morning, after boarding a train from Madurai after midnight. It was a crowded train and we had scarcely any sleep. We found the Pamban Station a sandy desert and could not get any satisfying breakfast. We had to trudge in sand carrying our kit for over two mites to Dhanushkodi, where the ceremonial sea-bath had to be taken twice: once in a calm salt lake on one side and again in a rough sea on the other. As we started on the weary walk in the sand, rain overtook us; not just a drizzle, but a heavy downpour. Not only the clothes we wore soaked through, but the kit which carried our dry change of clothes became wet. The wet clothes we wore impeded the walk and so we got rid of them and bundled them on our head, wearing either mere shirts and a kaupina–or only the latter. We looked not much different from the fishermen and fisher boys that ranged the coast!
We
remembered the lordly way we had paraded ourselves through the streets of
Madurai, on the previous days, and laughed through our distress.
At
the end of the first World War in 1918, influenza raged in an epidemic form in
India, and many parts or the world. There were heavy casualties.
During
this period, notable work was done in Bangalore to provide relief to poor
people in Bangalore by the Government, the City Municipality and private
agencies. All educational institutions were closed down for over two months.
I
had joined the National High School in 1918 soon after graduation. The school
had about 200 students, more than half of whom served as volunteers, and
rendered yeoman service. There were only three other high schools for boys in
the city at that time. The National High School staff and students were the
largest centingent engaged in social service in proportion to their total
strength.
Rave
Ganji was prepared early in the morning in the Purnaiya’s Choultry near
Chiklalbagh. This was distributed free to poor people living in crowded
localities or in slums from house to house by volunteers. We witnessed
agonising scenes of people dead and dying of double pneumonia. Volunteers
carried with them not only Ganji cans but the solution of Thymol in two-ounce
bottles and Eucalyptus oil. Starting at about 8. A.M. they worked for nearly
four hours visiting localities, allocated to them and rendered personal service
at great risk.
In
the afternoon, the teachers of the National High School and others, under the
leadership of K. S. Krishna Iyer, assembled in Sultanpet in a house, opposite
Dr. Gundanna’s Reliance Pharmacy, to bottle Thymol solution and Eucalyptus oil.
A number of doctors rendered voluntary services arid attended to emergent
cases.
Many
of us had our first experience of witnessing suffering and scenes of death at
close quarters.
When
the epidemic subsided, there was a sigh of relief. A public meeting was held in
the then Government High School, now the Government Arts and Science College,
to express thanks to the volunteers, who had rendered service. The National
High School came in for special commendation and was presented with a silver
shield.
That
was the year when the National High School sent up its first batch of students
to the S. S. L. C. Public Examination of March 1919. The results were
miserable, only six passed out of fifty, but I have no doubt that among those
who failed were many who had received real education by learning the lessons of
selfless social service and compassion, and who doubtless acquitted as good
householders and good citizens later in life.
The Ramayana
V.
S. Srinivasa Sastri was a regular visitor to Bangalore and I used to spend
several months here almost every year. He had many disciples and friends in
Bangalore.
My
own ‘Service’ to him consisted in providing books for his reading from the
school library. Sastriar was not a voracious reader but a discriminating one.
He had the habit of pouring over well-known books again and again. Among the
English authors he was fond of are Austen George Elish, Thackeray and of course
Shakespeare. He would ask me to get books by one of these authors, well-bound
books and printed in bold type.
On
the last occasion of his visit to Bangalore, I believe in 1944, he asked me for
some of his favourite books. I took them to him. Some days later when I called
on him he said, “Well, take away these books. Thank you for the trouble. I have
here all I need”, and he pointed to a fat book on his side table. I thought at
first it was the Webster’s Dictionary which used to be on his table. No, it was
Valmiki Ramayana!
Noticing
my blank look, he continued, “I may claim to have read good literature of
England and other countries. But I find the fulfilment of all literature in
Valmiki. There is nothing like it in all the literature of the world. Well,
have you read the Ramayana?” he asked me pointedly.
For
a moment, I was taken aback by his solemn tones. “In parts”, I said faltering.
“That
is not enough”, he said, “Read it well–read it through.”
In
January 1946, I was in Madras to be present at the Kannada Literary Conference.
Sastriar had been seriously ill in the hospital. He had returned to his home in
Mylapore.
It
occurred to me to pay my respects to him before leaving for Bangalore. I went
to his house in Mylapore late one evening. I knocked at the door in front of a
dark passage. The person who came to the door asked for my name. On hearing it,
Sastriar sent word that I might come in. He was resting on a cot and made me
sit on it. He made kind enquiries of friends in Bangalore. He referred to
Gandhiji’s visit to him a few days earlier, in touching tones, that are
imprinted in my memory. I thought I should not tax him further. I touched his
feet and got up to leave.
“God’s
blessings on you”, he said and added, “Are you reading the Ramayana?”
“Yes, I am trying to”, I replied without faltering and took leave of him.
A
few days later he passed away. I felt a sense of bereavement beyond
words. Since then, I have tried to justify the word I spoke to him.