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Of cartoonists and kings

I like cartoonists. I consider them the subversive conscience of society, and I admire them for their seemingly effortless ability to drive home a complicated point with a few deft brush-strokes. In particular, I like political cartoonists. When in form, they can be devastating; they are past masters at deflating large egos.

One of my favourites nowadays is Gopikrishnan, whose work appears in the Malayalam daily, Kerala Kaumudi. In a previous column, I inadvertently confused his name with that of the acerbic commentator Rajakrishnan, whom I also happen to like for his irreverent, insightful and savagely witty commentary in Malayalam.

Anyway, on January 30, I caught a little masterpiece of Gopikrishnan's that had me in stitches. The headline was, in 8th century Sanskrit, udara nimittam bahu krta vesham ("for the sake of one's stomach, one wears many costumes"), from Sri Sankara's Bhajagovindam. It was popularised by Kunchan Nambiar, of whom more in a minute.

The entire stanza is:

Jatilo mundhee lunjhita sheersha
Kaashaayaambara bahu krta vesha:
Pasyannapichana pasyati kalusha
Udara nimittam bahu krta vesha:

Roughly translateable as (my Sanskrit is, alas, poor):

"Matted locks, shaven head, or cropped hair
Saffron robes or various costumes
Without understanding, man struggles
And wears many costumes for the sake of his stomach"

The two panels in Gopikrishnan's cartoon were utterly timely: in one, there was a bald and shirtless Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee in classic Gandhian pose -- the "half-naked fakir" before a spinning wheel. This, of course, referred to Vajpayee's fast on Martyr's Day, the anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi's assassination by Nathuram Godse.

Poor prime minister! Despite his known integrity, cynics find it hard to believe there was not a lot of political grandstanding in his symbolic act. If one were to believe the omniscient English-language press, he, like King Canute, can do nothing to stop the alleged "Sonia wave", a figment of their fevered imaginations though it may be. Thus the alleged futility of this grand gesture.

It so happened that the second panel in the cartoon did refer to the formidable woman from Turino. Only it had her in the full Hindu sanyasini (nun) regalia, coming out of the Tirupati shrine. Madame Gandhi, complete with saffron robes, kamandalu (water-carrier), rudraksha beads, tilakam (sandalwood paste on her forehead), dandu (armrest) and wooden clogs! It was priceless.

In the wake of the unease generated by her apparently exclusivist Christian beliefs, (see my column Death of a Missionary), Madame Gandhi the Younger is now engaged in serious spin-doctoring designed to convince the Hindu masses that she is indeed a 'secularist'. She went to the extent of getting the Congress Working Committee to declaim that "Hinduism is the most effective guarantor of secularism in India." Pretty good tap-dancing, there!

Yes, Sri Sankara was right, udara nimittam is an excellent reason to endure bahu krta vesham. This comment was popularised by Kunchan Nambiar, an 18th century poet and satirist par excellence, who invented the ottan thullal, which consists of a traditional folk dance/burlesque with lyrics that skewer the high-and-mighty, including both individuals and whole communities. Nambiar was known for his one-liners, for instance the refreshingly candid:

deepastambham mahascharyam; namukkum kittanam panam
(the lighthouse is wonderful, and I too should get some money)

which he coined at the time a Maharaja of Travancore built a wonderful new lighthouse. All the great and not-so-great court poets wrote paeans declaiming its glories. Unfortunately for them, Nambiar's barbed line exposed the humbugs for what they were.

Ottan thullal was a very popular entertainment form as recently as the 1930s and 1940s; my mother remembers watching performances on her way back from school, in her village in Central Travancore. Alas, the advent of newspapers, and later, television, has put paid to this ingenious mechanism of poking fun at the powers-that-be. Ottan thullal, and the older chakyar koothu, both satirical art forms, are now only trotted out at youth festivals and so forth.

Cartoonists are in any case a little more accessible than a regional folk dance. Everyone likes R K Laxman's bewildered Common Man in The Times of India, bemused observer of the foibles of bureaucrat and politician. O V Vijayan's apocalyptic political cartoons in The Statesman and Kalakaumudi were subtle, subversive and surprisingly topical even today, a decade or two later.

Among American cartoonists, I have enjoyed Garry Trudeau's acerbic Doonesbury series, even though it has tended to get a little shrill on occasions. For sheer wit and strangeness, of course, nobody beats Gary Larson's Far Side animal tableaux; and then there's the current favourite, the would-be Organisation Man, Scott Adams' Dilbert. Hilarious stuff, and oh, so true!

But my favourite cartoonist of all time remains the late G Aravindan, acclaimed maker of art films, but also long-time bureaucrat at the Rubber Board or some such. His superlative series, Little People and a Big World used to appear regularly in the Mathrubhoomi weekly in Malayalam. For years, I have been looking for the collected edition of this classic; finally last week, my erudite friend K Parameswaran loaned me his copy. This 1978 edition is a true pleasure.

For, it captures, like almost nothing else, the trials and tribulations of a Lost Generation -- the rootless post-Independence generation that watched its heroes turn into ghosts, and its dreams turn into ashes. The same theme was dominant in Aravindan's maiden venture into film, the flawed masterpiece Uttarayanam (translated by the director himself as Throne of Capricorn, although that is not exact).

Reading the entire series (selected cartoons over the period 1960 to 1975 or so) is like reading a gently satirical novel set in the Kerala of the period -- a tumultuous time when there were several wars, severe unemployment, etc. Ramu, the protagonist, is a young, bookish, intellectual type with an MA in the liberal arts; clearly the author's alter ego, his mentor Guruji and he spend their time in pursuits of the intellect.

Much of the series is devoted to Ramu's desperate pursuit of that elusive job -- he tries every possible avenue, including an emergency commission in the armed forces after the 1962 China War; the Central Services examinations; every job that calls for a graduate, temping in a small tutorial college or filling in for an absent clerk at the employment office. Nothing works.

The other desperate search is for a husband for Ramu's sister Radha; sadly, the impoverished family cannot afford the dowries demanded by prospective bridegrooms. Sometimes, too, the fact that her brother is unemployed, and also is known on occasion to have a tipple at the local pub seem to disqualify Radha. And Ramu's romance with Radha's friend Leela is going nowhere, as she gets a job and becomes a minor socialite.

Over time, however, Ramu's fortunes improve. He becomes a trusted aide to a prosperous businessman; when he starts a new venture, he puts Ramu in charge. Slowly, Ramu's life changes -- and this is reflected subtly in the cartoons themselves. Whereas in the early years of the series, there is a profusion of people and activity in the frames; as Ramu becomes more closed, self-centred and focused, we begin to see just the faces; no backgrounds.

As in Seemabaddha, the Satyajit Ray film (one of his superb and underrated Calcutta Trilogy: Pratidwandi and Jana Aranya being the others) about the decline of a sensitive and idealistic young man as he slowly turns into a Company Man, Ramu too changes. His circle of friends changes from young Abu, the corner-tea-shop-owner, Gopi, the old school chum, and Guruji, the intellectual; his new 'friends' are George, the 'fixer', the socially ambitious local doctor, the rich contractor Jacob, et al.

In the end, Ramu has become what all good boys want to be: he is the legendary MD, as his mentor dies and he is chosen by the board to run the company. He has made it, he is rich, he has crossed over; he has become part of the corrupt system. But he has lost some large part of himself. As the protagonist, Ravi, in Uttarayanam discovers, he is wearing a mask.

It is a long journey, and Aravindan pokes gentle fun at those Ramu meets on the way. Here are some examples:

On the philistinism of bureaucrats

IAS officer: "What is that book? Oh! Malayalam. I seldom read this vernacular stuff... mostly trash... Being the departmental head I have to scrutinise a lot of these... nauseating, but then... I correct some of it... Can't you read something serious?"

Ramu: "Well, I do. Camus, Kafka, Genet, Sartre..."

IAS officer: "No! No! Don't go after this cheap vernacular stuff... you must read the famous authors. Listen, send your peon -- I'll send over something good. Have you heard of a writer called Somerset Maugham?"

On pontification by film-folk

Journalist to prosperous film producer (one of Ramu's old students, whom he had expelled from school for indiscipline): "Why do you make films, sir?"

Producer: "I want to make something that will give a few moments of pleasure to the poor labourer -- the majority in my country -- in the midst of his dawn-to-dusk efforts to earn a pittance; a few moments when he can forget his travails and enjoy himself whole-heartedly."

Journalist: "What induced you, sir, to become a film maker?"

Producer: "Ever since I could remember, it has been my ambition to become a film director and a film producer; no, it was the burning and sole objective of my life."

Journalist: "One more question. What would your message be to those coming into films at this time?"

Producer: "Follow in the footsteps of Japan's Kurosawa, Sweden's Bergman, and France's Godard."

Journalist: "Thank you very much". Journalist leaves.

Producer (to Ramu): "How was I, sir? I memorised all these things at different times."

Ramu: "Very impressive! If only you had expended the same energy to memorise while you were a student, Rajan, you would now be a clerk in a corner of some office, surrounded by piles of red tape..."

On Americans 'doing' India

An American woman came to Kerala, allegedly to study kathakali.

Guruji: "Ramu, that white woman you sent to meet me came over: she's not at all serious about the subject. Just a transient infatuation. Typical American."

Jimmy (a businessman): "Good morning! ... I finally met her, Mr Ramu. She's awesome. I tell you, I was lucky. Last evening, when she was all by herself on the lawn at the Mermaid, with a bottle of beer. It's a wonder! What is it that brings these foreigners here? What is there for them to study here? The only folk art here is kathakali."

Guruji: "Yes, indeed. The white woman has come from a land replete with so many folk art forms: like cabaret, twist, shake, rock etc..."

Jimmy (clearly missing the irony): "Really! You said it!"

On the ineffable sadness of ageing; and arranged marriages

Marriage broker (regarding Ramu's sister's wedding): "...I think we should try another party now... that's best."

Ramu: "Any new conditions? You know we can meet any money demands now."

Broker: "No, not that, sir. It's a problem of age... I'll see you later, sir. Another party is coming by the Mail. If they wait in the Railway Waiting Room, I'll be in great shape."

Ramu: "Of course, the train will be late. Only time doesn't wait."

On Indo-Anglians and others looking for their 'roots'

Young NRI man who wants to be a writer: "I've been searching, Ramu."

Ramu: "For whom?"

NRI: "...A guru. I am in search of a guru. I can't see my way forward without him. I shall not rest until I find him. I started off with TM. Haven't you heard, Transcendental Meditation? But, peace... it eludes me. There has been no place I haven't been to: Rishikesh, Kedarnath, Varanasi, Pazhani, Guruvayoor... Where is he?"

Ramu: "Start writing, Indran. It is time for you to."

And, in a later cartoon:

Ramu: "Indran! Where have you been? Haven't seen you for a while."

NRI: "I was in Bombay and Delhi to finish my novel. It's done. I stayed at the Oberoi Sheraton and the Akbar. It was a thrilling experience. India is the backdrop..."

Ramu: "Yes, indeed, the places you stayed at would show you the face of the true India."

NRI: "India has always been the same -- with its poverty, prostitution, superstition, filth, flies..."

Ramu: "You are a true Indo-Anglian. You'll do well."

On business practices

Ramu (as industrialist): "I'm thinking of starting a paper industry. Not one, a chain... a complex."

Industries Secretary: "It's ideal. For a place like Kerala. You have all the necessary raw materials for pulp; water -- the cheapest form of transport... I will find out for you the actual per capita consumption of paper in Kerala, Japan and the US."

Ramu: "The maximum consumption will be in Kerala, no doubt: we consume it in yogurt, in butter, in ice cream. But what I really meant was a true paper industry. One that exists only on paper."

Industries Secretary: "I see; quotas, licenses. Of course, that too is an industry."

How Readers responded to Rajeev Srinivasan's earlier columns

Rajeev Srinivasan