110 THE WEEK • JUNE 30, 2019
DETOUR
SHOBHAA DEhttp://www.shobaade.blogspot.comGirish and the power of modesty
ILLUSTRATION BHASKARANI
had a massive crush on Girish Karnad for
decades. If that sounds schoolgirlish and
superfi cial, it is fi ne. It is the truth. I am sure
there are countless other men and women who
felt the same way about Girish. When he played
Smita Patil’s uncaring, unfaithful husband in
Umbartha (1982), a marvellous Marathi fi lm, I
waited breathlessly for him to be back on screen,
even though the fi lm centred around the eff ort-
lessly brilliant Smita. Girish’s role was not as
well-written, and he certainly did not walk away
with the best reviews. But that hardly mattered
to diehard fans like me. He often repeated his
reason for working in fi lms: screen roles paid his
bills. He made enough money from movies to
fund his plays, his real passion projects.
Th ere is much to learn
from people like Girish,
who seemed immune to the
labels thrust on him. From
being called a modern-day
Socrates to an “urban Naxal”,
he took it all in his stride.
As a literary genius, rooted
in Kannada culture, the
other Girish—suave, urbane,
sipping a drink and enjoying
great food at soirees—was
equally at home in glitzy settings. Unshaken and
far from apologetic when faced with controver-
sies, like his takedown of V.S. Naipaul during a
lit fest in Mumbai or his opinion (mangled by
careless mediawalas) on Rabindranath Tagore’s
plays, Karnad stuck to his guns. Th is remarka-
ble honesty of opinion and the strength of his
convictions set Girish apart from the herd of
politically nervous, self-declared intellectuals.
Th e last time I saw Girish was at a lit fest in
Bengaluru a few months ago. He was wheelchair
bound and half his size. He had tubes in his
nose and an oxygen pack. He showed no trace
of self-consciousness, as visitors gaped and
whispered. It was obvious he was gravelly ill. As
a lifelong fangirl, I rushed across to greet him. Helooked up and smiled benignly. My heart skipped
a beat as my eyes briefl y met his. Th ose eyes! Like
melting caramel! I went back to my table with a
sinking feeling. I knew I may never see him again.
A year or two earlier, we had shared the stage
at yet another literary event. I remember marvel-
ling at his equilibrium and dignity when a brash,
uncouth ‘writer’ hijacked the inaugural ceremo-
ny, ignoring the stalwarts onstage and brazenly
plugged his new book to the young crowd. It was
obvious those readers had little knowledge of the
chief guest’s vast body of work. For them, Girish
Karnad was possibly just another senior writer
representing a bygone era. Despite the younger
author’s crudeness, Girish did not fl inch or show
the slightest annoyance. He carried on with his
enthralling keynote address,
sprinkled with sharp political
commentary and criticism of
the government’s policies. I
was disappointed by the in-
diff erent applause at the end
of his address. It was another
poor refl ection of this TikTok
generation’s reading habits.
Th e loss was entirely theirs.
Much has been written by
Girish’s contemporaries, who
had been lucky enough to know the man who
wrote brilliantly, thought brilliantly and lived
brilliantly. Th e man who made early choices
that shaped his future in signifi cant ways. Th e
Rhodes scholar who loved Hindustani music and
the powerful playwright who straddled many
worlds simultaneously. A colossus who wanted
to slip away minus the fuss. Girish had instructed
his family to decline a state funeral and to avoid
any pomp and show when the end came. Th is is
called class and good breeding. Girish Karnad’s
contribution to our understanding of ourselves
will remain through his incredible thoughts and
words. As for me, it is that voice and those eyes
that I will always recall, each time one of his plays
is staged.