An orphan spirit
UMESH KULKARNI
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Raghavendra Khasnis, the quiet, accomplished writer in our midst, made a quiet exit too
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SADDLED WITH PAIN The personal realm of Raghavendra Khasnis was not different from his literary realm
The true nature of an individual can be understood only by the manner in which he faces and responds to the comings and goings of everyday life, at various points of his lifetime. The entry points into such trying moments are obtained through friends, near and dear ones, who pass through his life. For the last 34 years, I had the good fortune of being the insider to the life of a person whom I valued a lot.
Writer Raghavendra Khasnis, a post-graduate in literature, worked as a librarian in S.P.College in Pune. He rested immense confidence in the FTII, Pune, as an institution, and had a fondness for its graduates. This drove Khasnis to establish contact with the Kannadigas in FTII, who had an academic bent of mind. The graduates of the Institute were clearly under the influence of regional literatures of the Navya (Modern) movement thereby many of the films that were made during this period, did borrow heavily from the stories that emerged from the Navya tradition. Khasnis was very approving of this give and take between the two creative mediums. Precisely because of this reason, it was possible for him to critique all the films that were made under the Navya influence. Being a librarian gave him the access to various newspapers and journals, furthering his interest in the subject.
He was transferred as assistant librarian to the Bangalore University in 1970, and that not just eased his access to the Navya-New Wave directors, but increased it too. Hence, he became the "literary guide" to most filmmakers.
When people raved and ranted about not enough stories that could be made into films, he with a quiet laugh dismissed it as "asamarthara aalapa" (the refrain of the inept). Khasnis always insisted that directors should read literature from the world's various corners. In the background of their life experiences they should be able to make it their own. Only when such an internalisation takes place — both in content and range — will the film industry be able to grow. Indian filmmakers should be able to adapt the literature of the West and not find satisfaction in borrowing their technical expertise, he had repeatedly stressed.
In Khasnis's stories the characters are like scattered images. Also, their inner turmoils would leave a deep imprint on the reader's mind. His personal realm was not very different. In his intensely reflective moments he was often caught saying: "There is no line (lakshmana rekha) to demarcate my literary and personal worlds."
The freedom to live one's individual self was the basis of individual freedom, he believed. He gave his children the freedom to live and shape their lives just as they wanted to. His three daughters, moulded their futures in a manner befitting a self-respecting, democratic father. But his son Rajeeva, who constantly claimed a sense of entitlement, failed to realise that responsibility was part of the very same baggage. He moved away from their lives, and like a character from Khasnis's story, even disappeared mysteriously.
"You make films for the government. Why don't you make one on my life as a lesson to all those who are desperate to have a son? My pillars of strength are my daughters, who never fail to respond to my emotional needs. My son has left me with a lasting pain," Khasnis would lament.
It almost seemed like the Parkinson disease was waiting to force a retirement on him. It put a complete stop to his literary activities, clinched his freedom of expression by rendering his fingers useless, and rendered his speech completely incoherent. His turbulent family life built tremendous psychological pressure on him. A constant illness, soaring medical bills, government's negligence, wrung him dry as a bone — emotionally and financially.
Way back from the New Wave period itself, many filmmakers — Mrinal Sen, B.V. Karanth, K.M. Shankarappa, T.S. Ranga, and Nagabharana — expressed the desire to make one of his defining short stories, "Tabbaligalu", into a film. Girish Karnad even wrote the screenplay for it. But somehow it was never made into a film. "I don't think I have the good fortune of watching it on the big screen," he had sadly told me so many times.
Khasnis never aspired for any awards. He refused to fall into any literary bracket and never tried to appease a bureaucrat for personal favours. He only accepted the awards that came his way and gently refused all individuals who offered him help. The happy thing is that his family also shares his moral position, which is probably the only victory of his lifetime.
(The writer is a filmmaker)
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