M A English Literature students from a college in our city crammed the largest room in our home till it was bursting at the seams, literally. Some of them sat out in the terrace garden among the flowerpots. We were discussing the poetry of Kamala Das over coffee and cake on a pleasant afternoon in Pune. They had come from faraway places like Iran, Sudan, Mauritius… and Nagaland, Punjab, Jammu and Kashmir, Gujarat, Tamil Nadu, Karnataka and the extremities of Maharashtra. All students of literature converged on the Oxford of the East, struggling to understand the in-the-face brilliance of Kamala Das.
Unfortunately, the Professor who taught the paper had been far too ‘correct’ in her erudite explanations and so was unable to decipher Kamala’s poetry. Worried, they approached me to give them a ‘crash’ course. An almost impossible task. But I gave it a shot. As they say ‘fools rush in where angels fear to tread’.
We read the poems out aloud to get a feel of their sensuality and forthrightness and as the words fell on my ears they opened windows of memory which had lain dormant for ages. I saw myself as a 20-year-old poet, long scraggly hair, unkempt fuzz on my chin and a perpetual dazed look washed across my face reading my poems at one of Kamala’s literary soirees in Mumbai to an audience of poets and poetry-lovers. She presided over the gathering, constantly floating out words of encouragement.They worked for me at an age when I wasn’t sure what my poetry was worth. She became my mentor.
When they had finished reading and the words had settled down like roosting birds in the corners of the room, there was a silence. Then questions erupted with the rapidity of machine gun fire and I tried to tackle them as they came my way, dodging some that narrowly missed taking my head off my shoulders. Finally, I decided that enough was enough and telephoned Kamala who was living in Pune at that time. She quite readily agreed to take questions on the phone. So they quickly set up a queue in the room and she dealt with their queries one after another. Whilst some of them were not fazed by her explanations, others turned beet red and nearly fell into a swoon. Kamala had struck!
Those were very special moments for me. My life had come full circle… Kamala was beside me again, my mentor.
And now, inspired by her literary legacy, Gyaan Adab will host an evening in her honour on September 24 at 7pm. Be there to honour the woman who dared to be herself.
And as I conclude, I leave you with what she once told me long ago: “Don’t be afraid to speak from the heart, from the gut, with the very blood in your veins. Write out of your hurt, rise out of your hurt. Become who you truly are. That’s all that matters.”
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