K.
ISWARA DUTT
To
this part of my story belongs my work for Triveni, the famous periodical
whose name has justly become a synonym for Mr. K. Ramakotiswara Rau. A
journalist’s interest lies not only in the papers he works on but also in those
he works for. Swarajya might have given
me the first chance and The Hindu my first opportunity, but neither of
these two dailies had drawn me out into the open spaces or large vistas more
than Triveni in its infancy. It would not have been otherwise in
view of my ties with Mr. Ramakotiswara Rau. No more lofty-minded or high-souled a man has trodden the beaten and dusty paths of
journalism.
One
of the earliest to come under the Gandhian influence,
Mr. Ramakotiswara Rau left the bar to be one of the most sincere and silent
workers in the cause of the Congress. After a spell at Swarajya
he was for some years Principal of the Andhra Jateeya
Kalasala of Masulipatam, in
true succession to its illustrious founder, Mr. K. Hanumantha
Rao. Finally he sponsored Triveni and has since never looked back from
his undivided love for it. It seemed to answer his life’s purpose, his
scholarly disposition, highly-cultivated mind, exquisite taste and quiet devotion to the things which he sets his heart on,
having found their amplest opportunities. Sincerely loved and truly respected
he stands almost alone in enjoying ‘the prestige which comes from honesty and
courage.’
Triveni
is as unusual a journal as my friend is an unusual man.
Everything about it reflected the spirit of our Renaissance–and the character
of its creator. And therein lay, ironically enough, the tragedy of unfulfilment. R’s whole conception of life was–and still
is–tinged with an idealism utterly divorced from the
stark realities of a material world. He has a passion for beauty and joy, which
for all their virtue are extremely expensive in our daily life. Friends wrote
for his journal for love, but the assemblage of contributions, however choice,
does not carry an editor, certainly a founder-editor, very far. There must also
be money-power behind the effort. R–lacked it essentially, and though he could
lean on some good friends who knew the meaning of his visits and readily
loosened their purse-strings he always found the response inadequate for coping
with his own immaculate standards.
It
was out of the question that any high-class journal and too, one which emphasised the cultural aspect at the expense of the
political, could ever build a circulation worthy of its quality. Nor could such
a journal ever attract the hard-boiled advertiser. To add to the difficulties,
R–insisted on having feather-weight paper, art paper for illustrations,
excellent binding and what not. I remember a day when a man who had the stuff
and was never wanting in generosity either, despaired of R–being
able to run a journal like that, with little or no means, and said something
which would have scared the stoutest-hearted journalist. For all his esteem. for Mr. S. Srinivasa Iyengar who very nearly
fainted over Triveni, R–would not simply brook the idea of lowering the
flag. ‘At whatever cost’–was his slogan.
Another
high-placed friend who warned R–against his expensive taste and pursuit of the
unattainable was Dr. Pattabhi. Again and again he
pleaded with R–not to try to soar when he could hardly walk. Nevertheless, Dr. Pattabhi, out of concern for R–who had by then run through
his own money, wrote to several friends for help. An adept in raising funds,
Dr. Pattabhi had almost exhausted the resources of
the English language in making a deft approach to each and striking a personal
note that could hardly miss its mark. Having copied some of these letters
(before R–posted them in a hurry) for the advantage of those who happen to go
about this business in the newspaper world, I am in a position to give
instances of the masterly approach.
Writing
to Mr. E. Raghavendra Rao he said:
‘I
have never sought help of you because I do not want it for myself and you have
enough calls on you. But this Triveni must be as much your concern as
the Editor’s or mine. I ask for your generous support and shall be satisfied if
you sign away a cheque for Rs.
500. You are at liberty to give more.’
Addressing
his old friend, Dr. C. P. Ramaswami Aiyar, he asked:
‘How
can Triveni succeed without the patronage of friends of culture like
you?
and,
to make the response doubly sure, added a post-script:
‘You
must write for Triveni–an article on ‘Indian Renaissance’ before
the newsmongers translate you to
(November
12, 1928)
If
fine words butter no parsnips, soft words do not, at least always, breed coins.
Given the option, people would contribute articles rather than money. R–saw the futility
of this kind of approach. His need–his
own personal needs were exasperatingly few–was
finance. He felt that a stage had arrived when a regular campaign should be
launched for funds and that he should cast the net pretty wide. He fancied the
value of personal contacts, and had almost decided to go North instead of
confining himself to the South. Indeed he disclosed his mind to Dr. Pattabhi when he happened to be in
“There
is little use your going or my going on a mission like
this. You must get hold of a friend like Iswara Dutt who has the gift of wriggling himself into the bosoms
of people.”
R–took
it in the right spirit and lost no time in persuading me to switch over from Swarajya (which was by no means prosperous)
to Triveni (which was in a worse plight). But then we could make it
paying and share a fortune! I too for a time toyed with the idea of building up
an all-India journal and incidentally establishing all-India contacts. So one
day I mustered up courage to mention it to Mr. Prakasam
when he was in a communicative mood without realising
what I was in for. Just like him, he not only scolded me but even threatened to
chase R–away on his next visit
to the office–and he was nearly as good as his word.
Baulked
in our designs on the North, and denied the chances of active, official
collaboration, we were pledged to devote our mornings and evenings to contacts
and collections in the city. We covered every part of the city of
One
who goes to touch the other man, however remotely, can hardly expect to be
received as a welcome visitor. But the Triveni spell was so sure and the
general sympathy for R–so considerable that
whether people had money to give or not, they always received us warmly. There
was appreciation of the venture and R–’s
passionate love for his only ‘child.’ At least there was a promise for doing
something to lighten his load. What about a year’s subscription in advance or,
if it came to that, two or three years’? However welcome the friendly gesture
was at the moment, there it was a feeling that the palliative would not work
beyond the passing month. Something more effective was called for. One day R–sprang a
new idea on me. It was extremely simple and promised to be fruitful. If
it can be so put, it was to take the life out of the subscriber! The experiment
of enrolling life-subscribers was forth-with launched. Our friend Mr. V. Govindarajachari, a leader or the Bar who was later raised
to the Bench, and one of the finest men of his
generation by any reckoning, as usual, blessed the effort. There were other
friends like Mr. K. Chandrasekharan, son of the late
V. Krishnaswami Iyer, who
were unwearying in their support to Triveni. Their
ready response gave the campaign a momentum which
Yet
several came in. But even the life-squeeze had failed to ensure Triveni’s prosperity. R–was
almost always short of money to pay the printing bills. The idea that the
possession of a printing press would alone prove to be the largest single
factor in stabilising his concern had never appealed
to this man of aesthetic taste who had a horror of machines and the drudgery
involved in keeping them going. He would rather persist in the good old way of
somehow producing money for the maintenance of the journal. Frustrated,
disappointed, wearied but never saying ‘die’, R–has
gone on through the decades keeping the journal alive in name but otherwise
struggling, now shifting the office to salubrious Bangalore,
now bringing it back to slimy Madras, and converting it sometimes into a
bi-monthly or even a quarterly. And he has somehow,
God knows how kept it going. His gallant struggle is memorable episode in our
journalistic annals.
*From The Street of Ink by Iswara
Dutt, 1956.