In ways he never guessed, he was an inspiration to me.
I was a rookie, newly introduced to the world of national journalism, still trailing my small-town aura with me as I entered the Times of India building in 1979 to take the lift to the fourth floor where I sat. To me, the building was hallowed space where journalists, editors and writers whose names I had only read as bylines worked, thought and wrote. One day, I hoped to write as well as they did.
Almost more important was the fact that this was the building from where the common man echoed the thoughts of an entire nation in “You Said It” cartoons that seemed to flow like a happy stream day after day. The creator of the cartoons that were scathing in their simplicity of line and statement sat on the third floor. I could not quite believe I worked in the same building as he did. Every morning, as I stood in the line for the lift, I hoped to run into him.
It did not happen. I was told he came in much earlier. When I once wondered aloud if I could visit him, I was warned. He did not welcome visitors. If he was unduly disturbed, his tongue was sharper than the points of the pencils he used to create his sharp images. Understandably, I kept my distance.
I met RK Laxman then in other ways. First, through his writing. Stumbling on a faded volume that contained all his stories, I read through to discover a writer who had not only a feel for the language, but could create word images as clear as those he drew on paper. His novel, The Messenger, was poignant in the imagery that included both the external and internal personae of his characters. The characters who peopled The Hotel Rivera, his other novel, were not only real but etched with humour and empathy.
As were the crows, who formed one of his pet subjects. Under Laxman's gaze, the squawking, irritating scavenger turned into a clever and wily urbanite who found ways to cohabit a universe overrun by humans and their strange machines. The bright eyes, the glossy black of their feathers and their gamut of expressions as they surveyed their world were captured with such precision that I could not hate the noisy rascally birds any more.
When I finally saw Laxman face to face, I was in for another surprise.
It was at some event where as the chief guest, he was making a speech. Of course, curiosity about a man who inhabited the same working space I did, but who could as well be a myth, drew me to attend the event. Listening to Laxman speak, I discovered a humour that went beyond the pen; a humility that combined with a self-deprecating streak that yet held pride at its centre. Above all, the speech he made revealed a caring citizen, bewildered, just as his common man was, at the speed at which the common landmarks of life as he had known it, were changing.
When eventually we met at an airport, emboldened by my proxy acquaintance with him, I approached him and introduced myself. We chatted about my work, and exchanged, in Tamil, news of people whom we both seemed to know from the common background of being non-resident South Indians. Once again, the quiet containment of the man was evident to me.
After that day, I looked at the cartoons on the first page with added respect. It was as if a talent given had to be used to its utmost so it would complete the mission it had been assigned ‒ of being the conscience of an entire nation. Rain or shine, bandh or riot, flood or fury, in sickness as in health, Laxman's pencils never stopped for a day, and his work never quite ceased.
That thought alone is enough inspiration to anyone who walks the long, lonely road of a writer or artist.
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I was a rookie, newly introduced to the world of national journalism, still trailing my small-town aura with me as I entered the Times of India building in 1979 to take the lift to the fourth floor where I sat. To me, the building was hallowed space where journalists, editors and writers whose names I had only read as bylines worked, thought and wrote. One day, I hoped to write as well as they did.
Almost more important was the fact that this was the building from where the common man echoed the thoughts of an entire nation in “You Said It” cartoons that seemed to flow like a happy stream day after day. The creator of the cartoons that were scathing in their simplicity of line and statement sat on the third floor. I could not quite believe I worked in the same building as he did. Every morning, as I stood in the line for the lift, I hoped to run into him.
It did not happen. I was told he came in much earlier. When I once wondered aloud if I could visit him, I was warned. He did not welcome visitors. If he was unduly disturbed, his tongue was sharper than the points of the pencils he used to create his sharp images. Understandably, I kept my distance.
I met RK Laxman then in other ways. First, through his writing. Stumbling on a faded volume that contained all his stories, I read through to discover a writer who had not only a feel for the language, but could create word images as clear as those he drew on paper. His novel, The Messenger, was poignant in the imagery that included both the external and internal personae of his characters. The characters who peopled The Hotel Rivera, his other novel, were not only real but etched with humour and empathy.
As were the crows, who formed one of his pet subjects. Under Laxman's gaze, the squawking, irritating scavenger turned into a clever and wily urbanite who found ways to cohabit a universe overrun by humans and their strange machines. The bright eyes, the glossy black of their feathers and their gamut of expressions as they surveyed their world were captured with such precision that I could not hate the noisy rascally birds any more.
When I finally saw Laxman face to face, I was in for another surprise.
It was at some event where as the chief guest, he was making a speech. Of course, curiosity about a man who inhabited the same working space I did, but who could as well be a myth, drew me to attend the event. Listening to Laxman speak, I discovered a humour that went beyond the pen; a humility that combined with a self-deprecating streak that yet held pride at its centre. Above all, the speech he made revealed a caring citizen, bewildered, just as his common man was, at the speed at which the common landmarks of life as he had known it, were changing.
When eventually we met at an airport, emboldened by my proxy acquaintance with him, I approached him and introduced myself. We chatted about my work, and exchanged, in Tamil, news of people whom we both seemed to know from the common background of being non-resident South Indians. Once again, the quiet containment of the man was evident to me.
After that day, I looked at the cartoons on the first page with added respect. It was as if a talent given had to be used to its utmost so it would complete the mission it had been assigned ‒ of being the conscience of an entire nation. Rain or shine, bandh or riot, flood or fury, in sickness as in health, Laxman's pencils never stopped for a day, and his work never quite ceased.
That thought alone is enough inspiration to anyone who walks the long, lonely road of a writer or artist.
