Literary magazine ‘Pakhi’ brought out nice September issue on Gyan Ranjan, the writer-editor. The issue evoked a variety of reactions in me-- thrill, surprise, anguish, nostalgia and, at times, a sense of déjà vu.
I too know Gyan Rajnan, though, of course, not as well as Kashi Nath Singh or Dudh Nath Singh do.
But I know him better than to fall for what Agneya or Vijay Bahadur Singh would like the world to believe about Gyan Ranjan.
I think Rajendra Yadav’s assessment of Gyan Ranjan was the best in the magazine, though it may not be the most honest. He admitted to having formal relation with Gyan Ranjan and his evaluation amply reflects this dispassion.
With zero writerly ambition and an unobtrusive passion for literature, I knew, I could love Gyan Ranjan forever. ‘Pahal’ that triggered a ceaseless debate in literary circles whether he was a better writer or editor was never a yardstick for me to judge Gyan Ranjan. An innate indifference to Pahal polemics helped me endure the love.
Acute self consciousness about my inability to write anything remotely literary helped in no small measure. The closest I came to a literary misadventure before Gyan Ranjan was when I reviewed Asghar Wazahat’s story collection ‘DIlli Pahunchana Hai’ for the Pathak Manch in 1982. Hari Bhatnagar, then my colleague in ‘Gyan Yug Prabhat’ newspaper, asked me to substitute late Mahesh Bajpai as book reviewer. He overrated, and continues to overrate, me as a well read friend. His insistence left me with the Hobson’s choice.
He arranged me a copy of Wazahat’s book and asked me to read and review in four hours. Written review was to be read as Hari’s room, on top floor of Gyan Ranjan’s previous house in Agrawal colony. I am, of course, talking of Jabalpur. I read the book and prepared a review in a jiffy. Four hours later, I duly read it before a small group that included Gyan Ranjan.
The review was debated. Till the last moment Gyan Ranjan thought I was reading review written by Mahesh Bajpei. When he learnt the truth, his expression betrayed a pleasant surprise. He remarked, “It was a very nice review. I didn’t know it is yours. You should write more”. I knew myself better to take his remark seriously.
In subsequent years, I was forced to foray into the uncharted terrain of literature several times. All are an imminently forgettable experience. Once Suresh Pandey, then programme executive in the Akashwani, Jabalpur Kendra, indulged me to write three poems for broadcast in just two hours. I was, understandably, flabbergasted rather than thrilled at the prospect of Rs 400 remuneration, current unemployed status notwithstanding.
But Suresh, like Hari Bhatnagar, was too good a friend to say no to. I pondered over potential subjects for poetry. Here Gyan Ranjan again came to rescue, though not physically. It so happened that eminent poet Alok Dhanva had come to Jabalpur and stayed with Gyan Ranjan.
He had returned from Bombay (not Mumbai—it was in 1983). We had a brief interaction with Alok at a place where we were rehearsing for our forthcoming play. I asked Alok if he saw Arabian Sea in Mumbai. He said no. Before I could react, Alok hastily added that he felt waves of a sea standing on the roof of Gyan Ranjan’s house on the second floor. Bulbul, Gyanji’s daughter, was with him in the evening, he said. “She wondered aloud how these rows of houses from this spot look like waves of a sea”, Dhanva recalled.
The poet’s interesting talk had stuck in my mind then. Under pressure from Suresh’s deadline, the Dhanva anecdote flashed back on the mind and I churned out some gibberish employing sea’s imagery and an 8-year-old girl’s quaint observation. I don’t remember a word of the so-called three pieces of love’s labour. But I do remember that Suresh said he liked the poetry and would have them broadcast from New Delhi station too.
When he so chose, Suresh’s ability to induce a delusion of grandeur in any gullible mind was mind-boggling. Mercifully, I was no so naïve. To me, poetry has always been a soothing friend but never as an itch to burden the world with unsolicited crap. The brief, albeit forced, dabble in poetic cheekiness was soon forgotten.
Almost 24 years later, a horrible episode at Hindustan Times again led me astray in the delusionary world of writing. This time in story writing. Daughter of a senior IAS officer on internship at the HT somehow got this horrendous impression that I was about to devour her. My silly attempts to disabuse her mind of this only compounded my miseries. She was adamant on seeing me out of the HT for no crime whatsoever I thought I committed except sincerely trying to mentor her as feature editor. The editor was somehow convinced that an IAS officer’s daughter, a privileged guest in the paper rather an intern, can’t be faulted; the fault must be mine.
In his uncharacteristic fulmination, he rebuked me so harshly that I was simply benumbed for days. The matter was so delicate I couldn’t share it with family. I was extremely upset all the time. The world seemed to have come down crashing before me. A foolish desire to redeem my self respect through story writing overwhelmed me. In one sitting, I wrote the entire episode in a style that I vaguely thought might be construed as literary enough. A long season of silliness followed the story crudely titled ‘Afsar Ki Beti’ because mind was desperately craving for ‘redemption’. I approached Hari Bhatnagar with story for publishing in Sakshatkar, the magazine he edits. Hari, a great friend, profusely praised the story for reason I know for sure was friendship.
Having delivered the story, my fever subsided and I forgot all about the one-sitting stupidity. But Hari had not forgotten. He published the story. Worse, he told me Gyan Ranjan, of all people, liked the story. Of course that was a joke cracked in all seriousness to please me but I was wise enough not to be amused, much less thrilled.
I never needed ruse of an aspiring writer to earn Gyanji’s affection and free copies of Pahal at my doorstep in Jabalpur till I was there. He had enlisted me in his mailing list without asking. It was only after I came to Bhopal that I started missing Pahal sorely. Hari in Bhopal would sometimes lend copies of the magazine but the thrill of finding it at doorstep was missing. The free receipt of Pahal in Jabalpur had a hidden affection of the sender for the recipient. That affection, though not very demonstrative or deep, manifested itself in many ways.
The most enduring manifestation was the post card Gyan Ranjan wrote to me sometime in late nineties. If I remember it correctly, the card said, ‘Tumne Apne Ko Jis Tarah Sahej Kar Rakha Hai Usase Hame Prerna Milti Hai’. Its literal translation would thoroughly deceive any one about the real significance of the observation. What I understood in this cryptic sentence was his implicit admiration for my incorruptibility as a journalist and my undiminished passion for reading books.
If I were a systematic person that I always thought I should be but could not, I would have had that post card laminated for record, if not displayed on the drawing room.
All this description might give an impression as though I was quite close to Gyan Ranjan. No, I was not. In fact, I seldom had had one- on- one conversation with him. If not in groups, at least Arun Pandey would be around when I happened to meet Gyan ji.
Arun in those days used to be a gregarious, happy-go-lucky youth. We were and still are close friends. He was my college mate and closest colleague in Vivechana. He had an uncanny knack for testing the limit of liberty he could take with elders. His inimitable Banarasi style always gave him leeway to retreat if the attempt at taking liberty backfired or misfired. I would feel both comfortable and fearful in his company whenever we had to talk to respectable people.
Gyan ji’s affection for Arun was pretty obvious and Arun could take liberty with him. Arun first introduced me to Gyan Ranjan in 1980 when I was still a student. Arun brought me to Vivechana, our theatre group, for acting, having seen my award-winning play in the college’s social gathering. Gyan Ranjan impressed me on first sight, though I had yet to read his stories. I told my mother about Gyan Ranjan. She had read him. Her first reaction was, ‘Buda Bansh Kabir Ka Upja Put Kamaal’.
It took me years to grasp the real import of Mummy’s comment. A research scholar on Jai Shankar Parasad under the guidance of Rameshwar Shukla ‘Anchal’, Mummy’s comment shouldn’t have been surprising. She was quintessentially ‘Chhayavadi’ Hindi scholar who thought Ramnath Suman, Gyan Ji’s father, was grossly undervalued in the Hindi literature. Gyan’s few stories that she had read didn’t impress her.
Imbued in the mother’s sensibility of literature since childhood, I had to take years of reading Marxism and western literature, apart from Hindi literature, to appreciate and mesmerized by Gyan Ranjan’s stories. I am consciously avoiding mention of the stories, lest this blog should get too long. To an extent, his stories are also responsible for my diffidence at writing. If you can’t write even one percent like Gyan Ranjan did then what is the point of writing? Besides Vivechana, the Hitavada was another reason that made me keep in touch with Gyan Ranjan. The paper was launched in 1980. Its proprietor Anand Shrivastava, Maharshi Mahesh Yogi’s nephew, was Gyan Ranjan’s student. Gyan Ranjan became a sort of undeclared adviser for the paper, though he never came to the fore. Arun Pandey joined the paper and I followed instinctively. Careeism was a hated word for me in those halcyon days of idealism. Innuendoes about Marxist Gyan Ranjan’s association with ‘religious ’ paper spread across literary circles. Kayasthwad was another insinuation. But Gyan Ranjan fobbed off all these subtle and not-so-subtle murmurs with insouciance. His only contribution to the paper of Maharshi Mahesh Yogi that I distinctly remember was his beautiful homage to Shaheed Bhagat Singh. Its title was Inquilab Zindabad.
Pasha was a big factor that kept me emotionally closer to Gyan Ranajn than he ever realised. Whenever I recall Pasha, the picture that flashes on mind is that of a Christ Church school boy in Khakhi uniform going by rickshaw from the narrow alley of Agrawal colony. He was so respectful and sweet to me all along that It is still hard to think of him as a grown up man.
To attend Pasha’s Baraat in Allahabad, I even risked being told to please join only reception later. Frankly, there was hardly an invitation for me to join the Baraat. But Arun Pandey said let’s us go. I couldn’t resist seeing Pasha as bridegroom. Till the last moment when Sunayana Bhabhi was serving dinner just before departure of Baraat, I ate with trepidation.
Since I came to Bhopal, meeting with Gyan Ranjan became very infrequent. I would only learn that Gyan Ji had come recently and stayed with Hari or Raaj Kumar Keswani. A couple of times I urged him to stay with me too. He promised but didn’t oblige. I didn’t mind. You don’t have to be demonstratively close to any one to earn and endure love. The post card is a reminder of this.
But I know him better than to fall for what Agneya or Vijay Bahadur Singh would like the world to believe about Gyan Ranjan.
I think Rajendra Yadav’s assessment of Gyan Ranjan was the best in the magazine, though it may not be the most honest. He admitted to having formal relation with Gyan Ranjan and his evaluation amply reflects this dispassion.
With zero writerly ambition and an unobtrusive passion for literature, I knew, I could love Gyan Ranjan forever. ‘Pahal’ that triggered a ceaseless debate in literary circles whether he was a better writer or editor was never a yardstick for me to judge Gyan Ranjan. An innate indifference to Pahal polemics helped me endure the love.
Acute self consciousness about my inability to write anything remotely literary helped in no small measure. The closest I came to a literary misadventure before Gyan Ranjan was when I reviewed Asghar Wazahat’s story collection ‘DIlli Pahunchana Hai’ for the Pathak Manch in 1982. Hari Bhatnagar, then my colleague in ‘Gyan Yug Prabhat’ newspaper, asked me to substitute late Mahesh Bajpai as book reviewer. He overrated, and continues to overrate, me as a well read friend. His insistence left me with the Hobson’s choice.
He arranged me a copy of Wazahat’s book and asked me to read and review in four hours. Written review was to be read as Hari’s room, on top floor of Gyan Ranjan’s previous house in Agrawal colony. I am, of course, talking of Jabalpur. I read the book and prepared a review in a jiffy. Four hours later, I duly read it before a small group that included Gyan Ranjan.
The review was debated. Till the last moment Gyan Ranjan thought I was reading review written by Mahesh Bajpei. When he learnt the truth, his expression betrayed a pleasant surprise. He remarked, “It was a very nice review. I didn’t know it is yours. You should write more”. I knew myself better to take his remark seriously.
In subsequent years, I was forced to foray into the uncharted terrain of literature several times. All are an imminently forgettable experience. Once Suresh Pandey, then programme executive in the Akashwani, Jabalpur Kendra, indulged me to write three poems for broadcast in just two hours. I was, understandably, flabbergasted rather than thrilled at the prospect of Rs 400 remuneration, current unemployed status notwithstanding.
But Suresh, like Hari Bhatnagar, was too good a friend to say no to. I pondered over potential subjects for poetry. Here Gyan Ranjan again came to rescue, though not physically. It so happened that eminent poet Alok Dhanva had come to Jabalpur and stayed with Gyan Ranjan.
He had returned from Bombay (not Mumbai—it was in 1983). We had a brief interaction with Alok at a place where we were rehearsing for our forthcoming play. I asked Alok if he saw Arabian Sea in Mumbai. He said no. Before I could react, Alok hastily added that he felt waves of a sea standing on the roof of Gyan Ranjan’s house on the second floor. Bulbul, Gyanji’s daughter, was with him in the evening, he said. “She wondered aloud how these rows of houses from this spot look like waves of a sea”, Dhanva recalled.
The poet’s interesting talk had stuck in my mind then. Under pressure from Suresh’s deadline, the Dhanva anecdote flashed back on the mind and I churned out some gibberish employing sea’s imagery and an 8-year-old girl’s quaint observation. I don’t remember a word of the so-called three pieces of love’s labour. But I do remember that Suresh said he liked the poetry and would have them broadcast from New Delhi station too.
When he so chose, Suresh’s ability to induce a delusion of grandeur in any gullible mind was mind-boggling. Mercifully, I was no so naïve. To me, poetry has always been a soothing friend but never as an itch to burden the world with unsolicited crap. The brief, albeit forced, dabble in poetic cheekiness was soon forgotten.
Almost 24 years later, a horrible episode at Hindustan Times again led me astray in the delusionary world of writing. This time in story writing. Daughter of a senior IAS officer on internship at the HT somehow got this horrendous impression that I was about to devour her. My silly attempts to disabuse her mind of this only compounded my miseries. She was adamant on seeing me out of the HT for no crime whatsoever I thought I committed except sincerely trying to mentor her as feature editor. The editor was somehow convinced that an IAS officer’s daughter, a privileged guest in the paper rather an intern, can’t be faulted; the fault must be mine.
In his uncharacteristic fulmination, he rebuked me so harshly that I was simply benumbed for days. The matter was so delicate I couldn’t share it with family. I was extremely upset all the time. The world seemed to have come down crashing before me. A foolish desire to redeem my self respect through story writing overwhelmed me. In one sitting, I wrote the entire episode in a style that I vaguely thought might be construed as literary enough. A long season of silliness followed the story crudely titled ‘Afsar Ki Beti’ because mind was desperately craving for ‘redemption’. I approached Hari Bhatnagar with story for publishing in Sakshatkar, the magazine he edits. Hari, a great friend, profusely praised the story for reason I know for sure was friendship.
Having delivered the story, my fever subsided and I forgot all about the one-sitting stupidity. But Hari had not forgotten. He published the story. Worse, he told me Gyan Ranjan, of all people, liked the story. Of course that was a joke cracked in all seriousness to please me but I was wise enough not to be amused, much less thrilled.
I never needed ruse of an aspiring writer to earn Gyanji’s affection and free copies of Pahal at my doorstep in Jabalpur till I was there. He had enlisted me in his mailing list without asking. It was only after I came to Bhopal that I started missing Pahal sorely. Hari in Bhopal would sometimes lend copies of the magazine but the thrill of finding it at doorstep was missing. The free receipt of Pahal in Jabalpur had a hidden affection of the sender for the recipient. That affection, though not very demonstrative or deep, manifested itself in many ways.
The most enduring manifestation was the post card Gyan Ranjan wrote to me sometime in late nineties. If I remember it correctly, the card said, ‘Tumne Apne Ko Jis Tarah Sahej Kar Rakha Hai Usase Hame Prerna Milti Hai’. Its literal translation would thoroughly deceive any one about the real significance of the observation. What I understood in this cryptic sentence was his implicit admiration for my incorruptibility as a journalist and my undiminished passion for reading books.
If I were a systematic person that I always thought I should be but could not, I would have had that post card laminated for record, if not displayed on the drawing room.
All this description might give an impression as though I was quite close to Gyan Ranjan. No, I was not. In fact, I seldom had had one- on- one conversation with him. If not in groups, at least Arun Pandey would be around when I happened to meet Gyan ji.
Arun in those days used to be a gregarious, happy-go-lucky youth. We were and still are close friends. He was my college mate and closest colleague in Vivechana. He had an uncanny knack for testing the limit of liberty he could take with elders. His inimitable Banarasi style always gave him leeway to retreat if the attempt at taking liberty backfired or misfired. I would feel both comfortable and fearful in his company whenever we had to talk to respectable people.
Gyan ji’s affection for Arun was pretty obvious and Arun could take liberty with him. Arun first introduced me to Gyan Ranjan in 1980 when I was still a student. Arun brought me to Vivechana, our theatre group, for acting, having seen my award-winning play in the college’s social gathering. Gyan Ranjan impressed me on first sight, though I had yet to read his stories. I told my mother about Gyan Ranjan. She had read him. Her first reaction was, ‘Buda Bansh Kabir Ka Upja Put Kamaal’.
It took me years to grasp the real import of Mummy’s comment. A research scholar on Jai Shankar Parasad under the guidance of Rameshwar Shukla ‘Anchal’, Mummy’s comment shouldn’t have been surprising. She was quintessentially ‘Chhayavadi’ Hindi scholar who thought Ramnath Suman, Gyan Ji’s father, was grossly undervalued in the Hindi literature. Gyan’s few stories that she had read didn’t impress her.
Imbued in the mother’s sensibility of literature since childhood, I had to take years of reading Marxism and western literature, apart from Hindi literature, to appreciate and mesmerized by Gyan Ranjan’s stories. I am consciously avoiding mention of the stories, lest this blog should get too long. To an extent, his stories are also responsible for my diffidence at writing. If you can’t write even one percent like Gyan Ranjan did then what is the point of writing? Besides Vivechana, the Hitavada was another reason that made me keep in touch with Gyan Ranjan. The paper was launched in 1980. Its proprietor Anand Shrivastava, Maharshi Mahesh Yogi’s nephew, was Gyan Ranjan’s student. Gyan Ranjan became a sort of undeclared adviser for the paper, though he never came to the fore. Arun Pandey joined the paper and I followed instinctively. Careeism was a hated word for me in those halcyon days of idealism. Innuendoes about Marxist Gyan Ranjan’s association with ‘religious ’ paper spread across literary circles. Kayasthwad was another insinuation. But Gyan Ranjan fobbed off all these subtle and not-so-subtle murmurs with insouciance. His only contribution to the paper of Maharshi Mahesh Yogi that I distinctly remember was his beautiful homage to Shaheed Bhagat Singh. Its title was Inquilab Zindabad.
Pasha was a big factor that kept me emotionally closer to Gyan Ranajn than he ever realised. Whenever I recall Pasha, the picture that flashes on mind is that of a Christ Church school boy in Khakhi uniform going by rickshaw from the narrow alley of Agrawal colony. He was so respectful and sweet to me all along that It is still hard to think of him as a grown up man.
To attend Pasha’s Baraat in Allahabad, I even risked being told to please join only reception later. Frankly, there was hardly an invitation for me to join the Baraat. But Arun Pandey said let’s us go. I couldn’t resist seeing Pasha as bridegroom. Till the last moment when Sunayana Bhabhi was serving dinner just before departure of Baraat, I ate with trepidation.
Since I came to Bhopal, meeting with Gyan Ranjan became very infrequent. I would only learn that Gyan Ji had come recently and stayed with Hari or Raaj Kumar Keswani. A couple of times I urged him to stay with me too. He promised but didn’t oblige. I didn’t mind. You don’t have to be demonstratively close to any one to earn and endure love. The post card is a reminder of this.
How i wish i could write about Gyan Ranjan's stories as well
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