Desh Bandhu, Babuji and Bhopal

I haven’t heard of any other newspaper except Desh Bandhu where a senior editor graciously got away with writing against the owner. The paper has many other unique features to its credit of which I will write later.   

Senior journalist Vijaya Kumar Tiwari’s comment on facebook over my blog about Raj Narayan Mishra has freshened up some memories of late Mayaram Surjan (Babuji), the founder of Desh Bandhu group.

Tiwariji wrote that Raj Narayan Mishra could excel in Desh Bandhu mainly because the paper had the leadership of a visionary owner- editor like Babuji. I cannot agree with him more. Indeed, Babuji’s well delineated left-of-the-centre ideological line earned the paper huge respectability, though it always remained plagued by resource crunch.

Babuji himself was a fine writer. His half a dozen books bear glorious testimony to his lucid style and focused writing.

The critical piece I referred to in the beginning had appeared probably in early seventies. Late Ramashraya Upadhyay was the editor. The paper was facing severe resource crunch. Salaries of the staff had not been paid for months. Atmosphere in the paper was understandably somewhat tense and despondent. Ramashraya Upadhyay, a known leftist, one day lost cool and wrote a satirical piece in the paper with title—Ek Naukar Jo Malik Ban Baitha ( a servant who rose to become the owner).

Ramashraya Upadhyay was a veteran and well-respected journalist. Babuji used to call him “ Lekhni Ke Durvasa”. A more apt description would be hard to find. Like the sage Durvasa of Hindu mythology, Ramashraya Upadhyay was unsparing of all in his pious anger. His vision was sharp, pen sharper. 

The piece he wrote unmistakably alluded to Babuji who had been an employee of the Nav Bharat group till 50s. The Deshbandhu came up a decade later. I don’t know what the reaction in the office was but Babuji was reportedly more amused than angry with his editor’s subtle fulmination.

In fact, the piece came handy for Babuji many a time to pacify agitated complainants who would decry ‘uncharitable’ reference of them in the paper. One of the notable complainants was former chief minister Shyama Charan Shukla.

Having said this, it was not as though Desh Badhu was an anarchic, free for all paper. Not at all. It had a clear line and direction straight from Babuji and his eldest son Lalitji. But neither deliberate suppression nor overplay of certain reports to annoy or please certain individuals would be countenanced, though aberrations did occur in the paper on this count in those idealistic days too. Reporters would not fear reprisal from the powerful people they wrote against. The paper would stand by them.

Once Babuji himself told me about the story. The context was provided by Vitthal Bhai Patel’s visit to the Desh Bandhu office one morning in 1988. The bidi magnet and poet used to live in E-22 in 45 Bungalows and Desh Bandhu office was barely a hundred yards away. He was industry minister in Moti Lal Vora’s cabinet. His political mentor Vidya Charan Shukla had been expelled from the Congress a few months ago. VC had formed Jan Morcha with his handful supporters. Since Vitthal Bhai was close to VC, speculations were rife in Bhopal that he too might join Jan Morcha soon.

I wrote a piece in Desh Bandhu on this line. Coincidentally, Vitthal Bhai came to the office on the very day the weekly hit the market with the story about his possible desertion of the Congress.

When I saw him, I grew suspicious that he might have come to complain against me. To be fair to him, the story was purely conjecture. I had not talked to Vitthal Bhai. I felt he had a valid reason to object to the story. Restless, I tried to eavesdrop conversation between Babuji and Vitthal Bhai. It was a vain attempt. The Congress leader was in the office for an hour.

Soon after he left, I went to Babuji and circumspectly sought to know what the purpose of Vitthal Bhai’s visit was. Babuji said he is a friend and he often drops in. Babuji’s cheerful mood emboldened me to ask if the Congress leader had grouse against the story in Saptahik Desh Bandhu. He gave a cryptic smile. “ Gussa Nahi The, Thode Pareshan The. Tum Unase Baat Kar Ke Report Likhte To Jyada Behtar Hota”.

I was both ashamed and relieved. Ashamed because the story indeed was weak for want of quotation, and relieved that Babuji so lightly put the matter of journalistic ethics to me.

As I heaved a sigh of relief, Babuji asked, “ Tum Dar Rahe The Khya ?”  I nodded in affirmative. Then he narrated the story of Ramashraya Upadhyay’s piece and assured me to be relaxed.         

           

      

Dilip Matthar and RC Tiwari of Jabalpur

Last night I regaled a party of youths in a five-star hotel with Jabalpur’s Dilip Matthar story. The story is pretty old. It has earned me huge applauses hundreds of times before but none had suggested in the past that I should write it down too in my blog.

A young girl, who seemed completely bewitched by the story, kept asking me in the party why I don’t write it in the blog. She knew about my blog. Although the pretty girl is not familiar with Jabalpur, she had been to the city many times to her relatives who, she said, also shared some anecdotes with her, characterizing a quintessential Jabalpurian of old parts such as Dixitpura, Kamania, Miloni Ganj, Fuhara,  etc etc.

However, she confessed, none was like Dilip Matthar’s. She was particularly charmed by the word Matthar. Loosely translated in English, it could mean rugged in body and half empty in mind.  

While writing this blog on Dilip, I’m acutely conscious of the near impossibility of creating the magic of narration in written English. The unique nuances of Jabalpurian dialect are impossible to enliven in the foreign language. Let me try all the same.

There was a police inspector named RC Tiwari in Jabalpur. Before he retired (possibly in late nineties), Tiwari remained, by and large, glued to the city – being posted from one police station to another. He was a well- built, Bullet-borne, slightly paunchy policeman with penchant for loud and foulest invectives. He loved to make his presence felt more by his choicest abuses on streets than his action.  

He would strike terror among small- time goons whenever he chose to. He would, however, refrain from disturbing big criminals or mafias—partly due to pressure from politicians/ higher ups and partly for his own ‘reasons’. RC Tiwari was darling of the local politicians as much as of local media. When he shot dead a trapped leopard in a house, the biggest newspaper of Jabalpur gave headline to his exploit as ‘Sher Ne Sher Ko Mara’.

The city chief of the paper, an unabashed admirer of RC Tiwari, did not bother about the fact that neither the killer nor the killed belonged the big cat family. But such was the aura of the police officer that the news was read with interest and widely debated across Paan kiosks that dotted Jabalpur landscape.

Talking about RC Tiwari’s real and imagined daredevilry tales was as common as talking about weather in Jabalpur those days. He was almost an essential narrative in Jabalpur’s socio-political life. He was also the cause of strikes in many colleges.

In those days, criminals were hard to tell from student leaders and their number was only growing. A police action against a criminal masquerading as student leader had an immense probability of turning into student unrest, triggering strike in colleges. Thus, RC Tiwari was both a hero and anti-hero among college students.

This was early eighties when youth angst in Jabalpur manifested itself in a variety of ways—from ridiculous and bizarre to violent.

Dilip Matthar was a small time criminal. He was semi literate simpleton who thoroughly enjoyed running errands for  more notable criminal, his boss. He was an adorable sidekick. Unemployed, Dilip lived in Kotwali area. I have little information about his family background except that his father probably had a small shop which fetched meager income.

Kotwali area had a huge population of youths who are in Marxist jargon called lumpen proletariat. Dilip was one of them.

In between his two-decade long stay in Jabalpur, Tiwari was posted in Kotwali as station in charge. The police station gave him instant fame. Since he was fond of catching small time criminals with panache, Tiwari had no dearth of youths to beat up and abuse in this police station area. This was a sensational time for criminals and Tiwari.

Dilip Matthar, despite his naivety, knew well he was potential candidate for RC Tiwari’s ravenous eyes for catching small time criminals.

So, Dilip thought of an ingenious way to keep off the harm’s way. He was, unsurprisingly, a worshipper of Bacchus.

Amid RC Tiwari’s reign of terror in Kotwali area, Dilip would come out drunk on the street and shout aloud, ‘RC Tiwari Ko Chhod Kar Sabaki Maa Ka …. .The nightly incantation of Tiwari in such a reverential term, he thought, would at least keep him off his wrath, if not endear him to the police officer. His trick saved him for a while.

But, as Dilip’s nocturnal rounds of drunken abuse went apace night after night, people in the area grew restive. They complained to the police officer that Dilip’s ingenuity might sound gratifying to him, but it is actually insulting. RC Tiwari heard them patiently but didn’t act.

One night, however, RC Tiwari felt it too embarrassing for him to bear Dilip sparing him from the torrents of drunken invectives in public. He caught hold of Dilip Matthar and pushed him inside the lockup after sound thrashing. Since no case could be made against Dilip, he was let off the next morning with warning.

Stung by the bashing and frustrated at failure of his method of propitiating the police officer, Dilip got drunk the same night again. This night he was drunk more heavily than usual.  His tongue was slurring, his feet off balance. He came out on the same road and shouted.. ‘Ab To RC TIwari Samet Sabaki Maa Ka……

Once again he was arrested but this time he had no regrets. He had avenged his humiliation by including the police officer in the vague quest to screw mothers of all.            

     

Da, Durg and Dark Days

Jin Ladakiyon Ki Jitni Der Se Shadi Hoti Hai Woh Utani Hi Badi Bindi Lagati Hai, Utani Hi Gahari Mang Bharati Hai (The more late the girls are married, the bigger the bindi on the forehead, the deeper the vermillion in the parting of their hair).

This was Raj Narayan Mishra’s famous observation in his immensely popular weekly column ‘Dhumta Hua Aina (roving mirror) in Desh Bandhu, the newspaper from Raipur which is well past its glorious days now. This particular column had probably appeared in mid seventies, though I’m not very sure. For, I had not read the column, only heard about the widely talked out observation from others.

Mishra had produced a myriad such catchy comments from his prolific pen. Whatever the issues—political, social, economic, familial or civic—Mishra was adorably notorious for cheeky comments. Readers would love his column more for this cheekiness than the issues it dealt with.

The column was unsparing of people who mattered- big and small-- but its beauty was that none would get provoked enough to vent ire. That way, ‘Da’ was Ajat Shatru, as Lalil Surjan rightly pointed out in his homage to Raj Narayan Mishra in a column in Desh Bandhu last month.          

Raj Narayan Mishra, who was affectionately addressed as ‘Da’, died last month at the ripe age of 80. He had earned popularity as journalist while working in Desh Bandhu for over three decades. Originally from Uttar Pradesh, Da shifted from Jabalpur to Raipur in early sixties and settled there.

I spent some turbulent months in 1989 with Da in Durg while we were together working for Amar Kiran, a newspaper launched by an upstart Sardarji in the hope of making quick money through means more foul than fair. Da had a very hard time salvaging his reputation he had built over three decades in Desh Bandhu.

At times he looked pathetic, especially when drunk. I would wonder whether to pity or get angry at his helplessness. The Sardar had hired him as editor and put his in his own hotel. The Sardar’s was a rag- to-riche story in iron trade. He had minted money through contracts and contacts in the Bhilai Steel Plant. He was a semi-literate, impatient, eccentric nouveau riche who was absurdly keen to earn respectability through owning a newspaper.

Da, who had quit Desh Bandhu, proved an easy and potentially lucrative catch for the Sardar. Da too had no better option in the given situation.

A week after Da joining the paper, I contacted him from Bhopal. Da was my admirer. Or, so he would let me feel. He seemed particularly charmed by my style of interviewing and profiling of important people in the ‘Saptahik Desh Bandhu’, the weekly from Bhopal I was working in. We had struck closeness in Satna (1985) and later Jabalpur.

I and Da were in the launching team of Satna edition of Desh Bandhu. Da had come from Raipur to guide the paper, though we had late Shyam Sundar Sharma as editor. Sharmaji, a retired additional director in the state’s public relation department, owed his post to his proximity to Mayaram Surjan (Babuji). He was affable, harmless and master at guffawing at the drop of the hat. But editor’s job required more than that. Sharmaji had trouble shedding his PRO job he had moulded himself into over three decades of service in the MP government.

We were appalled when in one of his editorials he fawningly wrote about inauguration of some project by ‘Shri Arjun Singh ke Kar Kamalon dwara’.

So, Lalitji had valid concern that the fledging Satna edition needed professional hands to guide. He sent two of Desh Bandhu’s stalwarts –Satyen Gumashta and Raj Narayan Mishra—from Raipur one after the other. Both had different expertise—Gumashta ji was a veteran on the desk job, Da’s forte was, of course, rural reporting. He had the credit of putting rural reporting in Chhattisgarh region (it was not state then) on national map.

Da was the first Statesman rural reporting award recipient for Desh Bandhu in sixties. Having blazed the trail, Da delightfully witnessed a dozen Statesman awards coming to his paper in the subsequent years.

We instantly struck friendship in Satna. Yes, friendship is the right word. For, Da was never officious or condescending to his colleagues, no matter the age difference. The bonding got further cemented in Jabalpur, partly through boozing, when he was ‘shunted’ from Raipur for a while. He vainly tried to recreate his Raipur magic in Jabalpur eveninger. Frustrated, Da kept a low profile and whiled his time mostly boozing.

Although we did not maintain contacts, Da would some time call from Raipur to praise my stories in Saptahik Deshbandhu. The tie of mutual admiration, endured through years, prompted me to ask Da if he would like to appoint me as Bhopal correspondent of Amar Kiran. He was more than eager to have me in. That was the time Da had the blank cheque from the Sardar.

When I went to Durg, the Sardar requested if I could stay back for a couple of months to help launch the paper. I readily agreed. He put me with Da and another colleague from Jabalpur TIllu Verma (now a lawyer in Bilaspur) in his hotel.

Despite the Sardar’s initial extravagance and enthusiasm, I could sense something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Da betrayed his unease in apparent disinterest in work. Sardar’s son and two nephews, all three spoiled brats, would use Da’s room like an open bar.

Somehow, the paper got going. Before too long, the Sardar started showing his true colour. One day I learnt from our Bhilai correspondent that he brought a briefcase from a liquor baron for the Sardar in lieu of not publishing a report. It was a clear blackmail. Da knew it though he was not a party in it.

Barely a week later, a blackmailer hack of Durg wrote some nasty piece about the Sardar. A stung Sardar asked Da to cook up a bizarre story about the hack’s wife’s ‘infidelity’ and publish in the paper. For someone who had earned his name for strong socialist views and championing causes of the downtrodden, Da’s acute predicament in the face of the Sardar’s order was indescribable. But he acquiesced in and wrote nastier piece than was published about the Sardar.

It was a vulgar piece of which even a rank blackmailer would be ashamed of. Such was the time we endured in Durg.

Sardar hated Da and made no bones about it. He hated me too but was diplomatic about it for he ( mistakenly) thought I was quite influential journalist in Bhopal who must not be antagonized.

Not even for a day, Da could exercise his editor authority in the paper with the kind of aplomb he was expected. Those were horrible days. One day Tillu Verma, who was made city chief, printed an utterly absurd story about a house haunted by ghosts. Such superstitious stories would be hard to find even in Manohar Kahaniyan. But Da tolerated because the Sardar had liked it.

There are so many things about the nightmare that Amar Kiran to me and Da proved. Only respite for me was a girl friend about which I will never write in details. For Da, there was no respite except his drinks. He had stopped discriminating between day and night for drinks in those days.         

                

Towards realizing a music dream

"Kehte hai, ke agar kisi bhi cheez ko dil se chaho to puri ki puri qayanaat tumhe use milaane ki koshish mein lag jaati hai." The dialogue from blockbuster ‘Om Shanti Om’ is, of course, quintessentially filmi and it was meant so in the film. But somehow I’m hugely fascinated by Shah Rukh’s stylish utterance of the dialogue.

Why? Because it invariably echoes in my mind whenever I chance upon something unexpected.

The last time the dialogue flashed on my mind was when I met Dhrupad exponent Manoj Saraf. It was a sheer chance meeting. I am a regular at a Herbalife health club at the LIG square since July this year. The club is like an extended family where all the young members adore me. Or, so they make me feel. The affection is, of course, mutual.

Manoj came looking for the club ten days back. He is a little obese and wants to shed some kilos of his fat body. Uncharacteristically, I immediately struck a conversation with him at the club. Normally I am rather reticent but in the club you can find me at my gregarious best. The company of the young arouses ebullience in me.

Within minutes of our first talk, I learnt that Manoj Saraf hails from Ujjain, learnt Dhrupad for four years in Bhopal under tutelage of Ustad Fariduddin Dagar, struggled for 12 years in Mumbai and is back now to settle in Indore and try his luck in property dealings.

His wife Sulabha Saraf (earlier Chourasia) turned out to be a cousin sister of Shobha Chaterjee, my friend Alok’s wife. Both Manoj and Sulabha fell in love while learning Dhrupad and married. Manoj and Sulabha live with younger brother Ajay whose wife Shivani is Sulabha’s real sister. What a happy and united family!

Their background inspired me to become their pupil. The long dormant desire to learn classic vocal music resurfaced. I urged Manoj to teach me Dhrupad. He graciously agreed.

Later, I also learnt that Manoj’s brother and sister-in-law too are into music. Ajay and his wife earlier used to accompany Sadhvi Ritambhara on her religious discourses and sang devotional songs. The foursome of the joint family is steeped in music and this is pretty evident in their home. A room is earmarked for music lessons. It has a synthesizer, Tanpura and other musical instruments kept on a corner. All four take classes in different times—Manoj and his wife on Dhrupad and Ajay and his wife on light music. 

The first day of Dhrupad learning was an exhilarating experience last week. How ‘Sa’ is different from ‘Ni’ in cadence, nuance and octave took half an hour to practise. But my devotion probably impressed Manoj. He appeared satisfied with my sincere efforts.

Only three classes so far and I am beginning to visualize the day when I will sing and that too classical. What a fortuitous meeting with Manoj has turn into me! Soon, I plan to buy a Tanpura to practice at home.

All through my long theatre years, I yearned to become a reasonably good singer but music always remained my Achilles Heel. I remember acting in Gogol’s play ‘Aala Afasar’ in which I played lead role. It was an adaptation in Noutanki style and I was supposed to sing my dialogues. Every thing else was fine as far as audience reaction went except singing part. I felt ashamed. All the encomiums for good looks and fine acting held no meaning for me because I felt I failed miserably in delivering the dialogues in expected tune.

Full throated but tuneful delivery is the soul of Nautanki. I was acutely conscious of the fact but couldn’t do justice to the role.  Lack of tunefulness always saddened me when in company of friends singing songs.

We in Vivechana theatre group in Jabalpur would often travel with plays in early eighties. While on train or bus, film songs kept us in high spirit. I had the little singing power to join the chorus that would reasonably hide my tuneless voice. But I would always be a little envious of Tapan Banerjee when he sang ‘Wanha Kaun Hai Tera’ or Rajendra Dani when he sang Hawaon Pe Likh Do Hawaon Ke Naam….. Such mellifluous voices, such soulful songs. Arun Pandey was ‘ Besura’ was it was hard to make him realize that. 

Perhaps I may have reconciled to being an unlucky Besura, if it were not Alok Chaterjee’s observation that my sense of musical notations is very good. All I need, he told me, was to hone the voice through practice. Being a gold medalist from NSD and a good singer himself, Alok must be telling the truth, I felt.

By coincidence, the person teaching me Dhrupad is Alok’s distant brother-in-law. It is just beginning and Manoj appears to be satisfied with my learning. Yesterday, when I went to his beautiful home in Simran tower opposite railway station, he was doing ‘riyaaz’. I quietly sat on the mattress in front of him. He was immersed in his singing. After 15 minutes he finished his riyaaz and putting the Tanpura aside, he remarked, ‘Rakesh Ji wait for one year. You will also be singing like this”. I was thrilled. Could I sing with a modicum of singing sense all those songs I love so much?  

Could I ever win applause in company of friends and colleagues by singing old melodies? I will. What is my age after all? At 54, it is just youth. Isn’t it?  

             

IPTA in Jabalpur (part two)

As the bus started for Bhopal from Jabalpur, a powerful song repeating Hyderabad several times broke out from the back seats. It was thunderous song full of vigour which took all other Baraatis by surprise. My relatives, mostly from villages, were intrigued by what the song was about. The time was June 28, 1986 night. Next day world cup football final was slated between Argentina and Brazil apart from my seven feras with Jaya.

The bus was carrying the baraat of which I was the groom and the singers were my friends from Vivechana (IPTA). The song was a rather long- lingering hangover of the IPTA convention in Hyderabad. An energetic group from Patna had composed the song as homage to Hyderabad, recalling the tempestuous event of Telangana communist uprising of late fifties. The Hyderabad meet was, in a way, turning point in the IPTA movement.

On the day AK Hangal died recently, Hyderabad persistently came to my mind. It was in this beautiful city in (1985? or 1986?) that I had gone with a Vivechana team to take part in the IPTA meet. We were equipped with revolutionary people’s songs. After the revival of IPTA in Jabalpur PWA meet of which I talked in the first part, it was first national meet for us.

We were naturally bubbling with enthusiasm. AK Hangal, Kaifi Azmi, Farooq Sheikh, Sagar Sarhadi (his film ‘Bazaar’ was critically acclaimed in that period) were all there. We shared dais filmmaker Shyam Benegal and comrade AB Bardhan. Vivechana was one of the few privileged groups which was given an opportunity to present songs on the stage. Clad in dark red IPTA T-shirts we sang with full throated voice, ‘Uthao Toofan Palat Do Sari Duniya (raise a storm and change the world).  What an exhilarating feeling it was!  A visibly moved Shyam Benegal came to us to congratulate on the stage.

But excitement is not what I remember the Hyderabad meet for. It is more for the way AK Hangal was unjustly pilloried that I recall Hyderabad more vividly.

On the second day of the IPTA convention at CPI state office, delegates deliberated extensively. A resolution was passed and members were called upon to speak on it. Apparently, the resolution had the clear stamp of the old guards like AK Hangal.

When it came to debate on the resolution, some young members bitterly criticized it for lacking clear ideological direction. The tone and tenor of the anti-resolution was dismaying to me. Although barely 26 then, I firmly believed that art must not be shackled by political ideology, be it CPI, CPM or any other of the left outfits. Most vociferous among the critics were from Bihar and UP.

AK Hangal tried to remove their misgivings but he was virtually shouted down. The scene, as I recall it, was pathetic. Here was a veteran who lived all his life for IPTA values and he was being ridiculed over semantic quibbling in the draft of the resolution. One activist found serious fault in the very wordings of the draft which, however, I found quite lucid. Arun Pandey was with me and he shared my feelings. Other friends from Vivechana, mostly neophytes in IPTA ideology, thought otherwise, though they had no convincing arguments to back their opposition.

I am highlighting the Hyderabad episode because this dialectics of art versus political ideology seems to have always dogged the IPTA. Art demands autonomy within broad ideological moorings underpinning it. Left parties seek to make art a propagandist tool to further their interests which may , at times, clash with the very essence of true art.

Even before the IPTA was revived, Vivechana faced this crisis. CPI, Jabalpur unit, would doubt ideological commitment of some of our key members, both in their personal conviction and their artistic expression. However, to be fair to the CPI bosses, the problem never assumed any serious proportion. The communist party kept a dignified distance from Vivechana.

One instance deserves mention in this regard. We had produced ‘Sagina Mehto’ (a play on which a film was also made featuring Dilip Kumar in lead role). I essayed Sagina’s character. The play is about how a rustic but powerful trade union leader is sought to be corrupted by the system dominated by capitalism. Alok Chaterjee, then an artiste in Bharat Bhavan repertory, directed the play.

It was quite a nice production. But Praveen Atloori, then AISF state secretary ( or president?) didn’t like the play, not because it was badly produced; his objection to the play was for its alleged anti-communist undertone. He wrote a long article in CPI’s Hindi mouthpiece ‘ Jan Yug’ , questioning Vivechana’s rationale in choosing such a “ reactionary” play for production. The article dwelled mostly on Sagina Mehto’s ‘individualistic approach’ which Atloori found to be militating against communist trade unionism. He concluded by saying Vivechana should be more cautious in choosing plays. I was Atloori’s good friend. We didn’t mind his well-meaning , if misplaced, criticism of the play. Incidentally, Atloori was a great fan of one of our early plays ‘Darinde’ which, in his view, conformed to all the requirements of a revolutionary theatre. The play indeed was very popular, though it somewhat lacked aesthetic finesse.

                On again, it is time to wrap up. For, I have decided not to let any blog exceed 1000 words.

If any body cared to read this, he /she is requested to wait for more on IPTA in next blog

    

The IPTA days in Jabalpur (part one)

Indian Peoples Theater Association (IPTA) convention in Indore on October 1-2 refreshed some old and –mostly, but not all- fond memories of my association with the leftist theatre movement. Himanshi Rai, a pillar of IPTA in Madhya Pradesh, was predictably there. 

Out association is three decades old: once it was thick but slackened with time. Period. We met during IPTA meet but could not spend as much time together as both, or at least I, desired. Nevertheless, I was delighted and nostalgic throughout the day after our meeting.

A part of my IPTA years in Jabalpur got spent sowing the wild oats. Born romantic—Scorpions are known to be so—I would get easily drawn to girls. Being reasonably handsome helped. That said, I was by no means a lecherous liability on IPTA. 

Although never considered fit enough for any post in the organization for reasons I am yet to fathom, my commitment to the IPTA movement was 100 percent till I was part of it. Ideologically, I guess, I was less wavering than many, if not most, of my colleagues. Yet, I had had enough (not necessarily all valid when I look back) reasons to get disillusioned. But that was then. Today, I sorely miss the IPTA days. 

Somehow, this foolish longing flickered in my heart that someone in the Indore IPTA convention might call me on stage as an old hand in the movement to share experiences. I was mentally prepared for that. But who would have cared? Back to home by my cycle from the convention, I spent hours ruminating the tumultuous years in the IPTA. The organization in Jabalpur was, in fact, Vivechana, the theater group founded in 1974. Both were synonymous since 1980 when IPTA was revived.

IPTA’s revival is attributed to many persons, timings and factors. But I would like to believe with fair amount of conviction that the revival was conceptualized in the Progressive Writers Association’s (PWA’s) national convention in Jabalpur in 1980. 

Late AK Hangal and Kaifi Azmi were there. Since Hangal is not a writer, his presence in the PWA jamboree could only mean he had some other, more important, agenda than writerly discussion. In his obituaries , the nonagenarian actor, who died a few months ago, was widely hailed as reviver of IPTA, though  nowhere was it mentioned where the revival plan materialized.

I was a young, idealistic youth then, bubbling with energy. Fresh in the company of communists and overflowing with revolutionary ideas, I was an enthusiastic volunteer in the PWA convention which was, more or less, Gyan Ranjan show. He was, characteristically, managing the show from behind the curtains as chief organizer. We all were at his back and call.   

We had a separate group discussion on how to revive IPTA. I don’t remember whether Himanshi Rai was there or not. I had yet to know him. He was posted, I believe, in a Durg branch of Dena bank. Anyway, the plan to revive IPTA was put in place. Since Vivechana was already doing precisely what IPTA was supposed to do, formality of forming IPTA was not called for in Jabalpur.  

However, sense of association with a movement pioneered by the likes of Balraj Sahani, Kaifi Azmi, Sajjad Zaheer and, of course, AK Hangal gave a district impetus to Vivechana’s theatrical activities. We vociferously descended from proscenium to the street with vigour. Vivechana had the distinction of staging street play in early seventies when the genre was little known. There was some play authored by Shashank which was staged out on the street. Probably its title was Panchwa Sawar. But street theatre was yet to come in vogue as a potent weapon of social awakening.

It was a time of organizational churning in Vivechana too. To go into that makes no sense now. I don’t know where Dr SB Patel and Dr Prabhat Mishra, the two old guards of Vivechana are. Dr MG Pateriya, another old guard,  is, unfortunately, no longer with us. Gyan Ranjan had more important works to do in Pahal and PWA.

So, the mantle of Vivechana fell on younger generation. By this time,  Himanshu was back from Durg to Jabalpur. Arun Pandey was not a veteran but he was one of the most active members in the group. Both Arun and Himanshu had keen interest in running the organization, unlike performers such as Tapan Banerjee , Sita Ram Soni, Raj Kumar Kamle, Alok Chaterjee and , lastly, me. We gladly facilitated and celebrated ascension of Himanshu and Arun in the Vivechana hierarchy and hailed it as the harbinger of a new chapter in the organization’s history. The transition was not smooth as was only to be expected.    

Around this time, Bharat Bhavan was taking shape. Vivechana was poorer by three good artistes—Alok, Ganga Mishra and Raj Kumar Kamale. Alakh Nandan, our sole director, also joined Bharat Bhavan repertory. Vivechana’s loss was Bharat Bhavan’s gain as subsequent years resoundingly proved. The vacuum thus caused made roles of Himanshu and Arun more important. Himanshu took the organization, Arun direction.

Badal Sircar’s Juloos, of which I have discussed in one of my previous blogs, was the mile stone in revamped Vivechana. Two new street plays—Raja Ka Baaja and Machine—stormed the street theatre with the kind of kinetic energy the people of Jabalpur had never seen before. 

Both were originally Alakh Nandan’s direction. He still had love left for Vivechana in the initial days of his shift to Bhopal. Today’s generation will find it impossible to imagine how we would perform street plays and collect money , throwing sheet for people to throw coins on.   

Then Tapan took upon himself the responsibility of directing Hari Shankar Parsai’s immortal creation, ‘Inspector Matadin Chand Par’. The play when staged on street created a massive storm. Its fame spread far and wide across the country. 

Soon enough, the play became a cult of sorts in street theatre movement. The original play had Alakh Nandan’s inimitable touch, though Tapan’s hard work can not be discounted.

I and Arun had visualized a paunchy, laggard, stereotype police inspector as protagonist. But Alakh cast Sita Ram Soni for the inspector’s role. Soni, a gangly but lithe artiste with amazing sense of comedy timing proved better choice than we thought.  The gamble paid off. For street theatre, speed is the name of the game. I was cast as narrator for reason only Alakh Nandan knew. By the time I dissociated with the street play its had already been staged more than 300 times , in Jabalpur and elsewhere. Later, we adopted Juloos too as street theatre.

Oh, this blog has got too big. I stop here. Will write about IPTA in next blog. A lot needs to be shared, irrespective of whether any body cares to read it or not.

I too know Gyan Ranjan

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.