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Memories---
By K.
Satchidanandan
AFTERWARDS
(To Ayyappa Paniker)
Blind, my battle lost ,I sit
On the top of the train of poetry
Emptied of your black laughter,
Waiting for the familiar scent
Of panikkoorkka* growing near the well
To show me my ruined house.
You reach my inside,
A pebble in my rice
Sweet like candy,
My vagabond’s teeth
Playing on it
A hundred t tunes.
I know the world will
Turn into a thousand shreds
In the broken glass
This Onam season
And you will be there in each
In a different costume.
We will choke :
I in my darkness
And you beyond the glass,
Like a silent abyss.
REMEMBERING AYYAPPA PANIKER
By K.
Satchidanandan
In the demise of K.Ayyappa Paniker Indian literature has
lost one of its eloquent exponents and radical innovators. An
avant-garde poet, an insightful critic, a profound scholar, a
responsible translator, a careful editor, a rare teacher-
Paniker’s genius had diverse moods and hues. And he left his
glow on everything he touched. He was to Malayalam what Gopal
Krishna Adiga was to Kannada, Mardhekar to Marathi, Muktibodh to
Hindi. Navkant Barua to Asomiya, Bishnu Dey to Bangla or Sachi
Routray to Oriya or Faiz Ahmed Faiz to Urdu : all of them
heralded a revolution in sensibility in their languages and
marked a transition in the history of their literatures with
their poems, translations and critical interventions. They also
groomed a new generation of writers in their languages who
would, even by denying them, carry forward the task that had
engaged their whole life ,of innovation in perspective and
idiom.
Ayyappa Paniker was not just a poet ; he was a literary personality who created his own age in literature by working in
several genres and media and that is how I had known him even before I met him in 1966. I had already read many of Paniker’s
early poems like ‘The Love Song of a Surrealist’ , ‘Kurukshetram’,
He, Gagarin, ‘Agnipooja’ and ‘Pururavas’ and been impressed by
their unconventional modes of conception as well as articulation
.I was a post-graduate student of English literature at
Maharaja’s College, Ernakulam and. had just begun to take
writing seriously at that time; a few of my poems and articles
had appeared in little magazines like Sameeksha and Anveshanam.
I still vividly recall that meeting.He had already read all that
I wrote and commented on the novelty and power of the images in
my poems. He had come on some official mission, but in the
evening some of us writers and students met in a conference room
in a hotel near the college. That was the time when the New
Poetry was being hotly debated in Malayalam. Its detractors
found fault with its new rhythms, use of blank verse and prose,
obscure images and novel syntax while the admirers found it
refreshing after the tyranny of the stale, cliché-ridden poetry
of the imitators of great romantics like Changampuzha Krishna
Pillai. Paniker was the very embodiment of all that was new in
thinking as well as poetry at that time and had already inspired
many younger poets like Kadammanitta Ramakrishnan, Madhavan
Ayyappath, N. N. Kakkad, M. N. Paloor, Cheriyan K. Cheriyan , T.
R. Sreenivas and several others including me.That informal
evening meet had only the supporters of the New- like the
fiction writer Ponjikkara Raphy- the author of Swargadootan, the
first stream-of -consciousness novel in Malayalam , M. Thomas
Mathew, a critic of note and T. Ramachandran who later went on
to become a major writer of New Fiction under the pen name, T.
R..We discussed the state of contemporary poetry and the need
for a journal to give an impetus to the whole Movement and then
Paniker read out, in his characteristic style in his gentle
voice, his new poem, ‘Mrityupooja’ (Hymn to Death). I did like
the poem and the cadence of its dandaka metre used in the
Kathakali verse, but I, the kind of confused existential leftist
that I was then,had ideological reservations about its mood of
total hopelessness, a reservation I did not hide from the poet.
To my great surprise I found that when the poem was published in
Mathrubhumi weekly, it ended with a kind of apology for Ravana’s
dance of death and the hope that Sita will be retrieved from the
netherworld of darkness : in its earlier version, it had ended
repeating the initial invitation to death .I felt so happy to
assume that perhaps my criticism had something to do with this
change in the published version.
That was the beginning of an intimate relationship that went on
acquiring new depths until his painful final parting on 23
August. In 1967,we-twenty poets and critics-together launched
Keralakavita, a poetry quarterly that became the mouthpiece of
the new movement. Not that it did not publish good conventional
poetry ; only its emphasis was on New Poetry. It encouraged all
of us to experiment, translate and share our thoughts about
poetry with the readers. Each issue had , besides poems in
Malayalam, translations of bunches of poems by one non-Malayali
Indian poet and one poet from abroad, close studies of
individual poems, critiical articles on current trends and
revaluations of older poets from fresh points of view. Ayyappa
Paniker and Keralakavita played a major role in developing the
translator and the critic in me. I had written some articles and
done some translations earlier, but now I found myself
translating significant poets from India and abroad like Chairil
Anwar from Indonesia, Eugenio Montale from Italy, Zbignew
Herbert from Poland, and Jibanananda Das from Bengal and writing
studies of poetry and evaluating the new trends in poetry from
time to time.The readers may well imagine how crucial this kind
of a rigorous training must have been to a poet in his early
twenties. Mine was no isolated case; Kadammanitta Ramakrishnan
translated Octavio Paz’s masterpiece, The Sunstone , the poems
of Senghor from Senegal and Cesar Vallejo from Peru for the
quarterly as also Beckett’s path-breaking play, Waiting for
Godot; Attoor Ravivarma did Voznesensky and Madhavan Ayyappath
did Gopala Krishna Adiga. There were issues focusing on the New
Kannada Poetry and Tamil poetry too. Paniker himself translated
T. S. Eliot(including his ‘ The Wasteland’) Nicolas Guillen and
Pablo Neruda.. Poets and readers of poetry looked forward to the
meetings to release each issue of Keralakavita held in different
towns including Chennai and Bangalore as they always had
exciting poet’s meets with a lot of new voices and stimulating
discussions of poetry around papers most of which were written,
embarrasingly, by me on Paniker’s insistence. My first
collection of essays on poetry, Kurukshetram, contained mostly
articles published in Keralakavita including studies of three of
Paniker’s own poems, ‘Kurukshetram’, ‘Pururavas’ and ‘Mrityupooja’(later
I wrote one on his ‘Pakalukal, Ratrikal’(Days, Nights) and also
general evaluations of his poetry in Malayalam and English, the
latter for Jayanta Mahapatra’s publication, Chandrabhaga. Many
of the poems in my first collection,, Anchusooryan ( Five
Suns)also had poems published in the same qarterly including the
title poem that had appeared in the very first issue.Paniker
continued to edit Keralakavita until he passed away, though its
second incarnation, as an annual, did not have the same impact
as the quarterly , not for any decline in quality ; it had
survived its original mission as the herald of New Poetry in the
language. Still it continued publishing the youngest of writers
and translations from around the world. The last translations I
did for Keralakavita last year were of poetry from North-East
India.One of Paniker’s last wishes, expressed to its publisher
M. M. Basheer, was that Keralakavita may not stop publication
even after he was gone : what else can prove better the great
commitment he had to the cause it stood for?
Paniker had his own ways of creating and looking at poetry, but
he never imposed them on younger poets like us. At least from the
Seventies of the last century onwards I have been writing a very
different kind of poetry though it did share his inclination for
stylistic innovation and his sense of irony..In fact it was
Paniker himself who published my ‘Satyavangmoolam’ ( My
Testament) which was a kind of declaration of faith, mine as
well as that of my generation and marked a turning point in my
poetry as also in the New Poetry in Malayalam aftyer the change
heralded by Paniker.By that time all of us younger poets had
begun to create our own modernisms that often disagreed with
Paniker’s modes and mores. I even wrote an article criticising
Paniker’s seemingly apolitical stance . But he continued to
treat me with great affection and respected our difference, a
quality one seldom finds in senior poets most of whom want
younger writers to be their perpetual disciples and mimics..
 Later however I have come to feel that Paniker was political in
his own way. He ridiculed the ways of the world, exposed
hypocrisy of every kind and reacted to a crisis like the
Emergency with a series of caustic cartoon-poems ; only he
refused to be bound by any definite ideology that he knew would
circumscribe his poetry .He continued to encourage me
unobtrusively, without ever making me feel he was ‘patronising’
me . It was he who introduced me to great Indian poets and world
poets of note through the Poetry Festivals organised by Bharat
Bhavan and ICCR and i recommended me to the Sahitya Akademi to
join the team of Indian poets participating in the Festival of
India in the now-extinct Soviet Union.-which was my second trip
abroad, the first being to Yugoslavia to take part in the
Sarajevo Poetry Days on the recommendation of someone I never
knew- the Hindi poet Sreekant Verma who had read me only in
translations. I translated some of Paniker’s poetry into English
on my own that he liked immensely and encouraged me to do more
translations- not only of his poetry- into English.That gave me
enough confidence to translate a lot of Malayalam poetry into
English for various occasions.He was also responsible for my
joining the Sahitya Akademi as the Editor of Indian Literature.
I was extremely reluctant to leave Kerala where I had my home
and friends and readers ; but for his sweet persuasion I would
never have moved to Delhi. It was a decision that changed my
life: I am not speaking of the various recognitions my work
received in the capital, but the new dimensions it gave to my
life-experience , the new orientations it gave to my literary
enquiries and knowledge and the new directions it gave to my
writing in general and poetry in particular. He never refused my
invitations to Delhi, for poetry readings as well as talks.He
was also a regular contributor to Indian Literature. He readily
agreed to edit the revised edition of the Encyclopedia of Indian
Literature on my request, and also to deliver the Samvatsar
Lecture at the Sahitya Akademi last February that unfortunately
was his last major public prgramme. He had had a long
association with the Akademi, having been on its Boards and also
edited for it a collection of Indian poetry in English and the
marvelous 4- volume anthology of Medieval Indian literature.
The last time I met him was about a month before his demise at
his house in Trivandrum. I gave him my Collected Poetry in three
volumes that had just come out and asked about his well-being.
He knew by then he did not have much time left- he had begun ,
very unusually for him, to speak about the impending death even
a few months before when the first symptoms of his lung
malfunction had appeared. He held my hands tight and thanked me
for having been with him through thick and thin: this was so
uncharacteristic of Paniker who abhorred all show of sentiment
that I could no more stand in front of him, looking at that weak
frame.
**********************
Pranam
to Ayyappa Paniker
By -Mr. Mohan Kumar
"Welcome to Helicon,' he wrote in his scintillating foreword to
my first
book of rather pedestrian poems. I had gone to him, limping and
late.
Starting late need not worry him, he wrote in the foreword;
staying long
will take care of that. That was Ayyappa Paniker, poet, scholar
and critic,
for ever encouraging new poets, for ever discovering in the
poems of the tyro beauty and felicity which few others would have cared to
notice.
I had seen him, years before, at some meetings of Government
committees,
looking distinguished with his jet-black hair and jet-black
beard, often
silent. The silence and the reserve of a true poet. And he was
the poet who gave a new vigorous thrust and direction to modern Malayalam
poetry. And
I noticed the same silence and reserve when, years later, hair
and beard
turned grey, somewhat frail but distinguished nevertheless, he
presided
regularly over the poetry readings organized by Poetry Chain
and, later,
Kavitha at Thiruvananthapuram. A silence that always reminded me
of
Dakshinamoorthy instructing without uttering a single word. With
a benign
smile, he would listen to the poems and the subsequent comments
of the
participating poets. And he would not interfere except when
there was
unfair criticism and then he would speak a few gentle words in
defence or
appreciation of the poet.. And all of us knew in our hearts that
to Paniker
each one of us was dear, though he would never give a hint of
his affection.
In his speeches as well as his poems, he delighted us with wit
and humour
that came so naturally to him. Even in casual conversation, his
words
carried a greater load, a deeper significance. 'You are a good
driver,' he
said to me once when I was driving him back home from a poetry
reading
session. It was only later that I realized that he was perhaps
playing on the word 'driver' remembering my reputation as a taskmaster.
I remember the last reading session we had together. As usual,
he listened
keenly but spoke little. When, at the end, we asked for a date
for the next
reading, he was hesitant. Could we not wait till he got over his
chest
problem? We never met again.
As the illness ran its course, I tried to meet him several
times; but every
time he put it off. 'Next week would be better,' he said, as I
spoke to him
for the last time over the telephone. It did not materialize.
Then he was hospitalized.To whom can I turn now when I am in doubt or
despair?
********************
Fond
Remembrance - A Tribute to Dr.Ayyappa Paniker
By-Prof. Radhamony Kunjamma
Dr.Ayyappa Paniker joined the faculty of the Institute of
English, University of Kerala, in 1966. At that time, I was a
first year post-graduate student there. I still remember his
first Shakespeare class. The memory of Dr.Paniker presenting
Claudius, in the first scene of Hamlet, “One eye drooping, one
eye smiling” lingers in my mind. Through his social satires and
speeches he was always looking at his own community, “one eye
drooping, one eye smiling.” His criticism was often piercing but
always honest and sincere.
At that time Dr.Paniker was a good looking young man in his
early 30s. He was always neatly dressed, decent and serious and
already a celebrity. But he was always humble. For us he was the
perfect “guru.” None of us ever thought of him in a different
light. Our feelings towards him were a mixture of affection,
respect and apprehension. We used to sit spellbound in his
classes. His lectures were never profuse but always profound. We
never missed his classes and didn’t dare too.
Modern poetry and linguistics became equally enjoyable in his
hands. He used the most apt words in every context. His skill in
extracting and exploiting the full potentiality of each word and
expression was unequalled. Words seemed to be his favourite
toys. He continued to juggle with them like a child engrossed in
its play. His poems, lectures and conversations provide enough
testimony for this – (kam, takam, patakam-/John Abraham, loan
Abraham, gone Abraham, down Abraham. ) When he became ill he
called himself “vayyappa paniker.” He laughed at himself and at
the word.
Narendra Prasad, who later became a major playwright, literary
critic and actor, was his favourite student in our class. Even
Prasad was rather scared to meet Dr.Paniker personally as his
words and reactions were often unpredictable. Each meeting with
him was like a debut. One felt extremely anxious about it. He
always maintained some distance with his students. But later on,
as he as well as his students grew older, the relationship
became more cordial.
Prasad made an unforgettable speech about Dr.Paniker’s
contributions as a literary genius, social critic, teacher and
individual during his 70th birthday celebrations. It was like
his swan song. Prasad’s untimely death cast a shadow in
Dr.Paniker’s later life. The memorial speech that he made on
Prasad’s first death anniversary revealed his love for that dear
disciple who was almost like a son to him.
Dr.Paniker’s contributions to Malayalam language and literature
are still unassessed. As he had no active political or group
interests, no one has come forward to make a thorough evaluation
of his work. Over a period of fifty years, he had trained
thousands of students who occupy responsible positions all over
the world. No other writer of Kerala has strived so hard,
single-handedly, to raise the status of Malayalam. He introduced
new trends in poetry and criticism, and popularized them as
translator, editor and supervisor. He facilitated the
translation of numerous masterpieces from Malayalam to English
and world classics into Malayalam. Thus he brought Malayalam and
Malayalees closer to world classics.
Dr.Ayyappa Paniker was an unequalled literary genius and
indefinable personality whose responses were often
unpredictable. He remains in the memory of his students as an
embodiment of our traditional “Guru sankalpa” or concept of the
ideal Guru.
Prof. Radhamony Kunjamma
Retd.Principal, N.S.S.College for Women,
Neeramankara, Thiruvananthapuram.
***************************
Ayyappa
Paniker and Kudiyattam
By Margi Madhu ( A well known artist of Koodiyattam)
A two room house of Devasam Board near the Valiyasala temple, in
Tiruvanantpuam. Water used to drop in rainy session. I used to
sleep on the floor of a shed at the back of the house. Daily
routine was the toil in the kalari and self cooking. The
Training under my Father ( kochchukuttan chakyar) and uncle (
Ammanoor madava chakyar) was a bitter experience for all the
students. Appreciation and suggestion from the scholars who
visited daily was real support. Dr Paniker was significant
figure among those scholars. He was the friend of Appukuttan,
the founder of Margi.
Acording to Ayyappa Paniker this almost demolished building was
the Ashram of Sandhipani Muni> He
 used
to say---- “ If you have not seen Sandipani’s Ashram. You can
visit Kochukuttan Chakyar’s dwelling for the same.
I am more acquainted with the world of art. But I have heard
that Dr Ayyappa Paniker is the pioneer of modern poetry. Modern
Poets after him have smirked Koddiyattam and Kathakali as
extinct and can not add any thing to their experience. Unlike
them , Ayyappa Paniker found the treasure in Koodiyattam and has
shared that recognition on his weekend visits.
He has a clear wxistence of an artist. After I started doing
main roles and expressed my own opinions, he said, “ Madhu, you
must start writing. An artist should write about art. That is a
necessity. His support made me write about Koodiyattam in Kerala
Kavita. It was the beginning of my academic researches. It was
his encouragement which led to dismiss the usual limits of
written language of a traditional artists and understand the
modern and post modern technical language in the periodicals.
His humors can be identified by a keen observer. There is a
saying—the day of performance depends upon the day of the actor.
But Ayyappa Paniker use to say-“It is not the day of actor that
is to be good, Actor performs daily. It has different results.
Audience should be lucky to see the good ones. It is not actors
day that is to be good, but the audiences.
When the world famous poet came to margi every week to see the
Koddiyattam, he becomes an ordinary observer and shared his view
on acting without any pretensions. But when he was asked a
permission to include his interview in a Koodiyattam
documentation done by KSFDC and SSUS along with other
Koodiyattam Scholars, he said that he was not a Koodiyattam
scholar. As I was the coordinator of that documentation I forced
him, but he did not allow. I have heard many academicians
authoritatively talking about factual errors, only with the
knowledge they got from books. They claim themselves to be
Koddiyattam Scholars , but Ayyappa Paniker Humbly dismisses
himself to be a Koodiyattam scholar, though he was learned
Koodiyattam through continuous study and has his own viewa and
opinion about this art form. It may be the simplicity of a sage.
But I feel that his dicision was a big loss to students of
Koodiyattam His thought on Koodiyattam acting is not compiled
and is spread over many articles and private talks which will be
soon lost. But those thoughts go around margi, where he used to
see Koodiyattam and share his ideas to give life to actor.
*****************************
A Personal Note of Thanks – For Dr.
Ayyappa Paniker
By Dr.Jayasree Ramakrishnan Nair
It is a rare fortune that one is given the opportunity to move
close with extraordinarily gifted people. Dr. Ayyappa Paniker,
Paniker Sir and A.P to his students, poet, critic, translator,
and teacher, was a rare human being who was an amalgamation of
several enviable qualities. In fact, he was a treasure house of
knowledge with a wide range of interests.
I became closely acquainted with Paniker Sir when I enrolled as
a Ph. D scholar with him. In the beginning, I was rather
awestruck at the prospect of working with him. But it took only
a few days for me to understand that he was at heart a person
like any of us, and a caring and considerate individual in his
own special way. As most of his students would agree, he was
temperamental, subject to flashing changes of mood. A virtual
taskmaster, he has often driven me to tears. I remember Sir
saying once that his table top has been the receptacle of floods
of tears. There is no doubt that if he drove us relentlessly, it
was not without a specific purpose. He was one who wanted those
working with him to achieve the best in life.
Maybe because I was a student, I know him primarily as a
teacher, a critic and translator. Now that I think back, I have
hardly encountered the poet in him throughout my period of
acquaintance. I am deeply indebted to Dr.Paniker for a number of
reasons. He is my guide and mentor who taught me the value of
time management. I think that the most important fact that I
learned from him was not to make excuses. Besides when one works
with a person like Dr.Paniker, one learns to think critically
and express oneself clearly. Dr.Paniker was one who believed in
the dictum that “Brevity is the soul of wit.” Pointing out the
importance of maintaining an economy of words, very often he
used to remark on the fallacy inherent in making sweeping
remarks.
And there are moments in your life when realization dawns on you
how much a person has influenced you. I had one such gratifying
moment at Dhvanyaloka in Mysore, where I had gone to present a
paper on Shakespeare translations. It was my first major seminar
and the response was rather overwhelming. A common compliment I
received was regarding the precision, brevity and clarity of the
paper. If I have attained these virtues, I have to give the
credit entirely to Dr.Paniker.
My entry into the field of translation was spurred primarily by
my grandfather, Dr.Suranad Kunjan Pillai. By a strange
coincidence, Dr.Paniker guided me towards Shakespeare
translations as the topic for my Ph.D thesis. This has further
led me to choose translation as my major professional interest.
The remarkable thing about Dr.Paniker is his genuine enthusiasm
to appreciate constructive endeavors. When we started our
research journal Samyukta , we were quite taken aback by the
tremendous appreciation he expressed. A person whom we thought
stingy in compliments, was giving us words of praise!
Dr.Paniker had been giving us all support with the special issue
of Samyukta focusing on his life and work. Unfortunately he left
us midway. But I am sure that he will continue to inspire and
guide us all along. And dear sir, as you have often pointed out,
what is it that cannot be achieved with the right mindset and
the wholehearted willingness to strive!
*************************************
Adieu
A poem dedicated to Dr. Ayyappa Paniker.
By Suma VS
Our hearts withered
May your soul rest,
for it has had its bounty of days and nights,
weaving from the leaves of your books.
Dry your tears, brethren, my friends, and
raise your heads as the flowers
raise their crowns to greet the dawn.
Look at him standing like a column of light,
between every line of his poetry and his literary world?
Although his voice has reduced to silence
hold your breath and listen to him.
Grasp his words which have passed mountain peaks;
they recall unbound freedom, scattered around.
A legend, a poet, a professor, a critic
an enigma, whose literary grace was so wide that the
twilight shadows of him thrive ,
even after he departed on mute feet.
**************************
Ayyappa
Paniker as I saw him
By-Catherine Thankamma
This is not a conventional obituary. My defense– that it comes
straight from the heart; that Paniker Sir would appreciate it.
His grace is sufficient for me.
 That half-closed left eye that sliced through pretensions taught
me to see things in perspective. As my guide [for M.phil ] he
told me two things-one – you can’t make a writer greater or
lesser than he is; a thorough unbiased evaluation; that’s
enough. The second came at a time when I was grappling with a
totally confusing piece of writing. He asked: “You’re from
Alapuzha aren’t you? What is its’ definitive feature?” As I
looked at him bewildered, he provided the answer: “vada thodu –
athayathu vada”[stink].And smiled that endearing broad smile,
his eyes crinkling with mischief. And believe me, that seemingly
incongruous statement played a substantial role in my securing
an A grade.
But if I’ve given the reader an impression of a warm cosy
relationship it’s totally off the mark.
I had heard a lot about Paniker Sir before I saw him; but that
first time was a disappointment. He had come to give a lecture.
There were two other speakers, one of whom spoke in a squashy,
multi-syllabled shockingly erudite style. We nineteen year-olds
were visibly impressed and we frantically jotted down as many of
the ‘squashes’ as we could. When Paniker Sir rose to speak we
all held our breath –we had heard so much about him- but he
hardly said any thing; language- ordinary; pronunciation
–nothing great; no bombast –a casual, bored kind of style-we
were disappointed. GSJ who was a voracious reader [still is]
shook her head in that decisive way of hers and said “He is
good.” I swallowed my retort. I didn’t realize then that I had
in hand my first precious piece of that jig-saw that was Paniker
Sir. He hated pretension and hypocrisy; it provoked a gut
reaction in him. At times he reacted to it with subversive
humour. A friend of ours once happened to travel with Sir. When
they reached Delhi an air hostess came up to Sir and said
apologetically that there was just one stairway available, and
that was at the exit door. Sir nodded and said: “If you could
you would make do with half a stairway.”
Kavalam Sir’ comment that words were scared of him couldn’t be
truer. Paniker Sir was intensely aware of words, of their
infinite potential for manipulation and his humour was an
exultant celebration of it. It was also a tongue-in-cheek
acknowledgement of his audience’ intelligence. Of course there
are some who are so thick-skinned or bloated with self
importance that no barbs can pierce their armour. When that was
the situation Sir withdrew, became uncommunicative, donned the
mask of blank-eyed silence and indifferent utterances. Some
years ago Kavalam Narayana Paniker’s troupe performed Bhasa’
---.The performance would be preceded by a talk on Bhasa’s
theatre by Paniker Sir. As the event was sponsored by some
government department a minister came to light the inaugural
lamp. All that was required from him was do the job, say the
bare minimum and leave.But the minister decided to enlighten the
audience on Bhasa’ theatre and he did – for almost half an hour.
The audience fidgeted. At last the speech was over and the
minister left. Paniker Sir came forward and accepted the mike…
“Bhasa’ ----he said and paused; stared at the audience and
said:“begins.” A crack of laughter rang out. And the play did
begin. Sir who had no craving for limelight -who never lacked an
eager audience, decided not to speak. That was Paniker Sir – one
who loved to play with words, who had a puckish sense of humour,
who was a lover of theatre and a master actor with a superb
sense of timing.
But during my student days my liking for his poetry did not help
me overcome my fear for the man. There were stories galore among
the student community of those days about his caustic tongue and
comments that could annihilate the victim, of his insistence on
perfection, his impatience with mediocrity…years later I joined
for Mphil and Sir taught us research methodology in a style
uniquely his own.
One day he was talking about the importance of accuracy in
documentation. He said “Take the word ----and began to spell it
when one of the students-a teacher on FIP, X- impulsively took
on and spelt it wrong. Assuming an expression of uncertainty Sir
asked:“ Are you sure there’s a double rr?” X affirmed
confidently. Sir now assumed a holy “we should be accurate”
expression and suggested that X should go to the library and
verify. X suddenly sensed danger. He would have willingly
retracted but Sir encouraged him to go. As X left the classroom
Sir looked at us; his eyes crinkled and he said in a very
chuckly voice:“ He’ll never forget this lesson.” The unholy joy
in those eyes had to be seen to be believed. But the curious
thing was that Sir was not really making X a butt-rather he
taught us to beware impulsive cocksure assertions. I won’t
easily forget the time he made me the butt of his humour.I was
in an advanced state of pregnancy at that time; one day I asked
him if I could use the toilet at the corner of the veranda which
only the office staff used. But unfortunately the words I used
were “ Can I use your toilet?” He promptly said “of course “ as
though he would go to any length to avoid a catastrophe. Too
late I saw the gleam in his eye and realized I was in for it.
Apparently he told the Ph.d research scholars with great
gratification – I can imagine his expression-Catherine asked me
if she could use my toilet. And he looked at them with a pious
expression -the only give away sign, the twinkle in his eyes.
You can imagine the rest.
He was a hard task master My second daughter was born by
caesarean section so I had to be in hospital for ten days. Exams
for the course work had begun. My husband went to inform Sir.
Sir heard him out and said –I’ll tell the teachers to give her a
separate test for the two papers she missed ; she can come and
write the remaining exams with the others. I went to write the
exam as ordered on the eleventh day. Sir guided my thesis
because of the shared interest in theatre. I spent a week at
ASRC, Hyderabad, leaving my three-month old daughter at home.
When I returned I went to see Sir with a stack of bibliography
cards. Sir quickly went through the lot, saw three or four entry
errors, got irritated and threw them at me saying- make the
corrections; till then I don’t want to see them. A peon who
entered the room just then, saw it adding to my humiliation. I
left the room unable to see clearly, blinded by tears. I went
home and wept bitterly; called Sir cruel and inhuman, while my
husband made sympathetic noises. Such was the pressure - which
he didn’t ease for a moment - that I was one of the first to
submit the thesis on date. I was justifiably proud of it- the
computer had just made its presence and my husband had typed out
the dissertation on the one and only computer in the SBT’
officer’s training centre[ he spent so much time in that room
that it was nick named manimury ]I proudly stepped into Sir’
room ;too late I saw he wasn’t alone. I would have backtracked
fast enough but Sir, his antenna forever tuned to a potentially
ridiculous situation called me in. I dumbly handed him my
thesis. He ran his fingers over the cover and said sweetly:
“It’s nice isn’t? I’ll take it.” I saw Chandrika Balan give me a
consoling glance.
It was after all that grind was over that I began to know the
real Sir. One evening I went to his house to get his signature
for some documents. My daughter- who was at an age when anything
and everyone is a welcome plaything - sprang into his arms and
grabbed his beard. His eyes alight with affection he looked at
her and said: “Aah, you heard my voice so many times from the
inside, alle?” He then handed her back saying: “ I put you
through fire didn’t I.?” It was not humour but genuine affection
that shone in those eyes just then. He knew every bit of what I
went through. I realize now why he didn’t slacken the pace; I
would have floundered.
I do not intend to refer to his contribution to literature. I
want to do justice to the man who was the tip of the iceberg in
self revelation. Sir very rarely let down the barrier of ironic
aloofness but he could be very affectionate and would go out of
his way to help out someone he approved. And unlike some of our
many path-breaking writers and critics he had no reservation in
acknowledging and encouraging new talent But he was deadly in
his intolerance of pretense, hypocrisy and everything that was
fraudulent. Many who did not understand this – or rather who
were not sensitive or honest enough to appreciate it – disliked
him and resented his rapier sharp comments. Sir knew it well.
That - as well as the grotesque sequel to O.V.Vijayan’ cremation
must have lead him to ensure what privacy he could for his own.
But Sir was pragmatic enough to accept that some things cannot
be avoided. His response to the claims of “Sir belonging to the
people and the need of cremating him with state honours”; or to
those who knew him well and tried to avoid it - would be: “Let
them have their fun.”
I’m glad I didn’t see him in the last few years; I prefer to
remember him with that ironic gleam that spared no one. A friend
and I once went to see a series of short plays starring
Naseeruddin Shah. One was a solo performance in which the actor
played God. He sat in a dump yard on a heap of tyres , his eyes
twinkling, uttering sarcastic remarks on the folly of creating
human beings. Neerada and I turned towards each other at the
same time and said: “Paniker Sir.” Even as I write I feel him
hovering behind me; and an ironic whisper follows: Catherine, is
this for me or for you? If the catechism class image of heaven
still holds, Sir will make some ironic reference to this and
other idiocies that will have God, St. Peter and all the other
denizens of heaven chuckling delightedly.
Good bye, dear Sir.
***************
A TEACHER EXTRAORDINAIRE
By Dr P. Radhika
Dr K. Ayyappa Paniker was an extraordinary teacher not merely
because of his enormous scholarship and willingness to share
with his students the fruits of his intellectual labour; or
because of his poetic talent and his instinct to disclose to his
students the insights into literature it offered him; but, most
importantly, because of his uncommon perspective and his
eagerness to reveal to his students the spectacular visions it
afforded him. The unorthodoxy of his thinking coupled with a
rare generosity of spirit inspired his students to see the power
of some of the most despicable of vices and the wisdom as well
as virtue in using them as tools to improve their personality.
Intolerance was to be cultivated if you wanted to remove the
weeds of hypocrisy from your thoughts, words and deeds. Anger
was to be stoked if you desired to burn out mediocrity. Greed
was to be encouraged if you had a stomach for intellectual food.
Envy was to be stroked if you sought to improve your skills and
put yourself on par with your superiors. Pride was to be
pampered if you feared slipping into carelessness. Fault-finding
was to be nurtured if you believed in correcting your own
mistakes. In this sense, he was the devil’s advocate, par
excellence!
These, I feel, were qualities he treasured in his own creative
and critical personae and encouraged legions of his disciples to
absorb into their system. Anger was a weapon he directed towards
avoidable mistakes and correctible wrongs in others. The
self-important and the cynical may have imagined that he was
violently assertive or was always trying to win an argument.
People who truly understood his good motives knew that he
reacted strongly only to those whose work could be improved
qualitatively. He was extremely tolerant towards and gentle on
those who were beyond correction! As a student, who knew him for
twenty long years, I have been a witness to this unique and
strangely endearing phenomenon.
By--
Anupama R.
From a revered name in the English Literature syllabus to a
friendly mentor, Dr Ayyappa Paniker was everything I had not
imagined to be — down to earth, witty and youthful. Here was a
man who had traveled widely, was one of the most internationally
sought-after poets and critics, yet was gracious enough to
invite a complete stranger and nobody like me into his home. I
was fortunate to know this great man for the last few years and
I dedicate this poem to Sir.
All that remains
Great thoughts and words
all packed into 5 feet 7 inches, he walked in.
The beard told tales of wisdom
as he listened, eyes closed.
Grey eyebrows chuckled, as wit hid
between the lines on the forehead.
Now, all that remains is precious memory
and salty tears.
**********************
A Homage
by Rati Saxena
Poet’s
pyre**
In a blindfold world
I go beat the deathless drum
– Bhikku Nanamoli
This is not the first poem
I have taken out from the dusty old file
there are a number of poems which are still
fresh and smell of new earthen pots
Agnaye swaha!
it is the primary offering for the pyre
the journey into your being
and not being
You were here till yesterday
and in the yellowness in the corners
of leaves you now stand as a pen in my hand
in its scratches on paper
you are the rolling wind through my fan
I smell you as I smell sharp spices
Agnaye swaha!
thist is the second offering I make
for your pyre
The boat is in the sea
the net is in the boat
the fish is in the net
the fisherman is killing the fish
blue is a shade that fades
a boat is the one that sinks
I am fish for you
Agnaye swaha!
you are
in the verses of this poem’s remains
we wrote them together, remember?
the words
the melody
the hum of our breaths
you are in here
in the threads of my thoughts
in the endless infinity of my love
for you
Agnaye swaha!
and for ever and 4 days
you will remain with the poem
and the empty box
and the fallen leaves from trees
and the smell of spices as it fades away
( **This poem is part of a long poem and was written long before poets death, now this is homage to poet from his
translator )
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