Kamala Das never liked to be called as a feminist. But she spoke on behalf of the hapless womenfolk. Every woman was amazed to read Kamala’s words, as if she should have told this, if got the mote juste. Maya Krishnan talks about her life -long search for this vox populi of Indian women who were incurred to live behind the shroud of morality equated with chastity.

It was in 1992. Among other 22 students I too was attending that highly adored professor’s class. The subject was ‘Indian writing in English’. When it comes to Kamala Das, I still remember, his voice suddenly raised, more lines appeared on his broad forehead, his long hands shot to the air. In fact he was shouting “She is not a poet, she is an incessant head ache to her husband, who provided her a chance to write…”

At the end of the academic year, after the written exam, we were queuing up for the call for the viva voce, ‘in a hot noon in Malabar’. My turn came. As usual, I entered into the small cabin where three ‘top guns in English literature’ were seen waiting for a prey. As soon as I took my seat, questions came gushing from the three sides and I could answer them almost well. Then one grey-haired modest looking professor (a lady) asked, “Who is your favorite poet?”

“Kamala Das”. I answered without any hesitation.

Then they looked at each other as if I have done something taboo.

“Who is your famous prose writer?’ The second man asked. “Kamala Das” .

Again, there came a stand still. “We are asking questions about English literature. Did you get me?” The third man’s style was something sharp.

“I’m answering to the point, Sir..” I replied politely. Naturally, I expected a question like “Why?” or “Explain?”.But to my amazement, a deadly silence followed by a command, came out. “You can go”.

When the result came after two months, I got only 10 marks out of 40 for the viva voce.

‘THAT’ segment

At the academic year end, every journalism student should submit a project of his own. Forgetting all about my viva incidents, I have prepared a project on Indian Engkish writers, in which Kamala Das’ works were also included with an introspective touch. It was only a segment of that whole project. When I presented it, the Director of the institution called me up and said in a lowered voice, “ It is better if you remove this (Kamala’s) segment from your work.” “For what, sir.?.” I was anguished, since the last date of submission was nearing.

“See…” he was seen rummaging for words. “ This is to be sent to Mumbai for valuation. As you know this is not an internal assignment. So it is better…you cut this part. Because, we would be helpless if anything happened”

I had to change the whole project, within three days, as I thought it would be a tonsured head, if ‘that’ segment was removed.

Headline Hits

When got an entry in a leading news paper, I was dreaming of getting an interview with Kamala Das. All my dreams are about our encounters in various angles. At first I would scold her with smiles for chopping my marks, and then I would touch those gifted hands and would ask her to put it upon my head. While interviewing, she would sit in that royal sofa set like a queen, I would sit on the floor, my eyes lifting up as if in a prayer, listening to each sound she makes. She would ask me to sit with her. But I won’t. I would sit there until she asks me to go. On leaving, I would slowly stand up, snatch my i-pod and bag, and instantly give her a hug and a kiss and would run out.

Inside the newsroom, in my (rare) empty hours, I made lay outs of the interview with the poetess and gave a number of head lines, but contented with any.

But nobody asked me to do an interview with Kamala Das. Despite my constant requests and waiting, such a chance never came.

One day when I reached the office, a lot of hoo- haas were heard reverberating. One of my seniors was seen narrating the ‘humorous’ incidents he had the other day in an interview. All on a sudden, I heard a word ‘Madhavikkutty’ through the hoots. So I stood there for sometime. Somebody’s comment was like this, “ this is what we call the ‘the moral speech of a …… lady’. Laughter and howling cracked the news rooms. At last the article came to my desktop, depicting Kamala Das as the epitome of Indian poetry, promising poet of revolution, and like. It was for the Sunday supplement, I remember.

When I told this to my friend, she asked me to visit the poet, personally. I tried a lot for it. But, she never permitted any one at that time, as she was physically not well. Even, she never attended the phone calls, as she used to get obscene lingoes (for writing about love apart from the standardized versions), at that time. At last when she left Kerala to Mumbai, fed up of the ‘enroute receptions’ of the scabby natives, and to be with her beloved son (‘the proud’) Jaisurya, I clicked the delete button of my dream vision window. While watching her, waving hands to the crowd standing around, I was sure that it was her farewell.

Amy, the beloved

One day when I was sitting with a pen by the side of the ‘kitchen table where I would cut vegetables’, my daughter , 9 year old Amy came to me running, “Amma, I’ve written a song. I can sing it also.” And she began to sing beautifully but sadly, about the lost greenery of the paddy fields where multistoried buildings and mobile towers sprout. Visuals of a black and white poem written by a 6 year old girl, moaning over the headless dolls ‘that had to remain headless for ever’, gushed into my mind. That girl was the Amy of the royal Nalappat family with one of the richest literary lineage of Kerala.

At midnight, when my husband came back from the office, I showed the piece of poem our daughter has written, with the pride of a mother. He was thrilled to read it. Meanwhile, on the TV screen near the kitchen table scrolled the flash news: Renowned writer Kamala Suraiya passed away…..She breathed her last at a private hospital in Pune..”.

Darling, forgive…..

Renowned persons die a thousand times through the media obituaries and commemoration ceremonies. Not as a coward, as Shakespeare stated. But by the cowards who deliberately avoid or neglect them when they are alive. Subsequently a thought of rebirth (or reincarnation) kicked me back. It is said that those who could not be contended with the life on earth and those who left the world before completing their mission, would definitely have another birth in this world to fulfill their vision.

The half broken ‘Lok Seva Party’, the Krishna craving to get out of the black burqa , the country which longs for a poetry with soul and truth..and so on , a long list of incompleteness awaits for an ethereal happening on earth. At this juncture, how can a beautiful woman like Kamala Das leave this earth with peace?

When a large womenfolk ‘with endless female hungers’ waver here, but to leave ‘to save face, flaunt, at times, a grand flamboyant lust’ how can she leave them simply ‘drab and destitute’? Despite the ‘feminist howling’, when seductive visuals, gagging and gang raping incessantly showers on the adolescence, how can a Madhavikkutty keep mum atop, ‘behind their bedroom door like a brooding dog,? When the children, orphaned by the parents and ignored by the power, ‘lost way and beg at stranger’s door to receive love, at least in small change’, how can she sit idle there? When the protective law turns to be a ‘hair thin line’ of sunshine near the door’, and the girl becomes ‘cold and of no use at all to men’, Darling, forgive, how long you can resist’?

(bold lines- courtesy to the poems of Kamala Das)

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