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Photo: Sampath Kumar g.p.

UNTO HIS OWN K.S. Narasimhaswamy confined himself to a quite corner of the house and did most of his writing

The year of my birth was also the year of taata’s retirement from the Karnataka Housing Board. Among his children my mother bears a strong resemblance to him and he even wrote a poem on her, “Tungabhadra” (she was born at Harihar, where the river flows). After marriage, she was called Veena to match my father’s name Venkatesh, the previous one was considered too lengthy and old fashioned. He didn’t voice his unhappiness, but taata continued to call her Tungabhadra, at times breaking into a fond ‘Tungi’.

Even 63 years after Tungabhadra’s birth, the poem continues to be a favourite of critics and textbooks. My mother’s moment of pride was when ‘her poem’ was prescribed for her S.S.L.C. examination in the year 1960. Her joy could not be concealed when her giggling friends revealed the secret to their Kannada teacher. Very soon, she rose to the position of a heroine in Rani Sarala Devi School.

Later, while studying B.A. at A.P.S. College, Dr. N.S. Lakshminarayana Bhatta in his literature class quoted the same poem and poet, the then budding writer calling K.S.Na as his Guru. He still recalls how he coaxed the blushing girl to speak a few words about her father and she managed to blurt out in front of the co-ed class that he hardly spoke and was always scribbling.

We saw nothing extraordinary in taata, until outsiders pointed it out to us. He never expressed a desire for anything, not even a separate room, or a table, his first draft was always the last and we only got to read his poems when they were published. On many occasions, he would even give his scribbled notes for household purposes like lighting fire and Ajji now deeply regrets it. A year after my birth, financial constraints forced him to sell his house and move to a rented one room outhouse in Jayanagar. I have fond memories of us coming from Delhi and spending my vacations there. He ate and slept with us, at times retreating to a quite corner and writing something, unmindful of the din around. Looking back, I now understand that his contemplative silence were moments of birth and growth of his poems. One of his last poems reflects this, “Mounadalli maata hudukutta bandihe, Maatu sikkite endu kelabedi… …” (In silence, I am still searching for words, Ask not if I have found words….). His quest ends thus, “Kavitheyaayitu nanage nanna maatu” (The poem is my word).

Taata was very fond of traditional dishes like bele obbattu, shavige and kadabu. Knowing this, relatives and even friends, would bring it especially for him. His biggest compliment would be ‘chennagide’ (it is nice). I don’t remember having any long conversations with my taata, neither does my mother nor anyone else in the family. Only after we left, he would occasionally mention to Ajji with his characteristic subtle humour, “that girl hovers around her mother like an anopheles mosquito!”His appeal to the Karnataka Government to form a trust to take care of all his literary works and encourage budding writers is yet to take shape. Though taata was happy when I studied English literature and later took up teaching at B.M.S. Women’s College, he never regretted that none of us showed any inclination towards writing. He remained unperturbed about not getting recognition too. The only time we saw him become emotional was when, through my father’s efforts, Mysore Mallige’s rights were restored to him by Mr. Kamalanath (its publisher). There were tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips, when he gave the book with its copyright to ajji and remarked, “Our child has come home after 60 years, and in my lifetime itself.” Not a staunch believer of rituals, yet an admirer of traditions, taata’s faith in God was simple but strong, “Deepavu ninnade, gaaliyu ninnade, aara dirali baduku….” (The light is yours, the wind is yours, let it not be extinguished …..)

We felt sad that he missed his 90th birthday just by a few days. If he were alive, he would have turned 93 on January 27.

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