A fine tribute to Vikraman Nair

There is little chance that you met Gopalan Vikraman Nair, a Malayali from Alappuzha who went to Santiniketan to study English literature in the 1950s, but never returned to Kerala. However, if—by a rare stroke of fortune—you had seen him from close quarters, you would possibly remember him as a man of rare brilliance. Vikraman Nair, Nairda to his countless admirers, was a polyglot who not only knew more than half-a-dozen Indian and foreign languages, but had also read an enormous volume of literature in all those languages. He is perhaps the only Malayali who worked as a Bangla language journalist and wrote (in Bangla) two of the finest travelogues I have read. If you have had the good fortune to have met him, you would also remember him as a dazzling story teller, who would unfailingly captivate small audiences with hilarious anecdotes from his multicoloured life. You would also recall him as a man who could argue on any social / political issue and establish his views with precise evidence selected from his vast store of knowledge and information. 

In the turbulent West Bengal of the 1960s and 70s, he joined the Communist Party of India (Marxist) and then leaned towards the Naxalites. As the Naxalbari movement degenerated into thoughtless cold-blooded murder of perceived class enemies, Vikraman Nair left them soon. Unlike most city-based communists, he was not an armchair revolutionary. He actually worked among peasants for many years.

My friend and Nairda’s close associate, Manas Bhattacharya has written a wonderful memoir on Nairda in Bangla. I have too much affection for Manas; I won’t try to write a review of his book. But I can tell you that I have read Manas’s 174-page book in less than six hours, so gripping his narration is. Congratulations, Manas for your lovely lucid prose. Let me also do what I can do a little: translate a few pages of Manas Bhattacharya’s eponymously titled book: NAIRDA—Three Decades with Vikraman Nair.

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[Nairda could make friends easily with children, and his little friends were exceedingly fond of him. Manas tells us that unlike most people, Nairda neither changed his voice nor his body language when he talked with children. He was his usual self. Here are a few lines about Nairda and his little friends.]

Let me first talk about a little girl, Fultusi, who Nairda used to tutor privately. She was in the seventh grade then.

One afternoon when Nairda had a day-off, Debashish and me were chatting in a low voice in a corner of Nairda’s room. Fultusi had come for her lessons. She sat on Nairda’s cot, while Nairda was in front of her on an armless chair. Perhaps Fultusi couldn’t answer a question, suddenly, we heard a suppressed growl, which was immediately followed by a full-blooded smack on Fultusi’s chin. Debashish and I were stunned. How could anyone hit such a lovely girl (who was a good student too)? That too, it wasn’t a casual hit, it was a robust slap. Fultusi’s hung her head; silent tears began flowing down her chins.

After punishing his pupil, the teacher continued with his lessons, but the flow had been impaired. Nairda ended the class after a while. Watching the crude exhibition of cruelty, Debashish and I were angry with Nairda for days.

Fultusi’s home was on the other side of the tramline, barely ten minutes’ walk from our boarding house. After an hour or so, a domestic help came from Fultusi’s house and said, ‘Fultusi’s mother has asked me to tell you that Fultusi won’t continue the tuition.’

Without showing any emotion, Nairda said in his usual gruff voice, ‘Thik achhe.’

A week passed. Debashish and I felt sorry about the charming little girl. But there was no change in Nairda’s behaviour. Then one day, Nairda returned to the boarding house in the evening and declared with a smile, ‘Fultusi will come from tomorrow.’

I said enthusiastically, ‘Good, Fultusi must have got over her anger. Please stop beating your students.’

Nairda said, ‘You know what happened? Ratna (Fultusi’s mom) declared, ‘My daughter won’t go back to that barbaric teacher,’ but Fultusi stopped going to school. Her demand, she would study only with Nair Kaku. Ultimately, Ratna had to accept defeat. Barun (Nairda’s friend, Fultusi’s dad) came to my office to tell me.’

A little later, perhaps referring to my view on physical punishment, Nairda added, ‘Children don’t learn unless you give them a few smacks.’

It isn’t Fultusi alone, all the children from the large circle of Nairda’s friends, without exception, are ardent fans of Nair Kaku. When Nairda goes to their house, their faces light up in happiness. Depending on their age, with some, Nairda would just play; to some, he would be a teacher; to some he would talk like an equal. During the chats, the topics could be anything from literature to history to politics to anecdotes from Nairda’s life. For the last one, one could hear frequent bursts of loud laughter from the room. Soon, the entire family would gather there.

…

Nairda has many little pupils. Every year, he takes them to the zoo once, and to the Kolkata Book Fair at least twice. They look forward to these days with tremendous excitement. Once I had the good fortune to accompany them. The joy and excitement I saw was among them was unbelievable.

If their parents or uncles wanted to take them, they would refuse. They would go only with Nair Kaku. Can there be so much fun with anyone else? When they stood before the chimp’s cage of before the elephants, who would tell stories about chimps and elephants so beautifully? Even if they had read the stories before, they would love to hear them again if the raconteur was Nair Kaku. Soon a crowd of random visitors would stand around Nairda and start listening to his tales. And needless to say, not all of them are children.

 

Kolkata / 18 Feb. 23