|
Meghnadurga (circa mid-1980s) |
A
few days back, Rajesh Macwan, a friend, sent me a few lines of my father
Meghnad Bhatt’s poem about the advice that a father, who is entering the fifth
decade of his life, is giving to his son, who is about to turn 25.
But before I get into the poem, let me give a brief background.
According
to the Hindu Vedas, the four ashramas (stages) of a human being’s life are
- Brahmacharya (bachelorhood, student),
- Grihastha (householder),
- Vanaprashta (to
give up on worldly life),
- and the final stage of Sannyasa (life of a mendicant,
a life of renunciation).
Vanaprashta
means to enter the forest. When one enters the forest, one begins to relinquish
one’s love for material possessions. Typically, that phase commences when a
person enters the fifth decade. In most Indian languages, the fifties end in "Van" (51 = ekyavan, 52 = bavan, 53 = trepan, and so on). "Van" is forest.
In
Gujarati, Vanaprastha is called Vanapravesh. Also, in Gujarati, as in other
Indian cultures, the advent of youth is a considered period of foolishness and clueless
rebellion; it’s when a person, and especially a man, is no better than a
jackass.
The exact age when this transformation from a human to a jackass
occurs is when a man turns 25-year-old.
Gujarati
language has a term for it: Gaddha-pachisi. An approximate translation would be
jackass 25, an age when young men are no better or worse than jackasses. A
relatable reference is the contemporary popular psychological term ‘quarter
life crisis’.
Now, let's get back to the couplet that Rajesh Macwan sent me.
I
have attempted to translate the poem into English. I'm not particularly good at
translations, but I wanted to include the poem in this blog post which I'm posting on the 23rd death anniversary of my dad, so, please indulge me.
A
simpler translation of the title of the poem that Rajesh sent me would be:
Advice of an aging father to a young son
But it wouldn’t capture the essence of
the angst that the original title and the poem possess.
So,
let’s go with the bells and whistle title:
Advice of a Vanapravesh-aged father
to a son who’s on the anvil of Gaddha-pachisi.
I'm not sure if the improvised, hybridized (English-Gujarati) title works, and if it doesn't go back to the simpler version above.
And
now the poem’s translation
Till
yesterday
The
one who wore his father’s spectacles and romped around pretending to be “Pappa”
Has
suddenly turned critical of bapu-cracy (gerontocracy), Mayank?
There
never really was a gap between us, ever
The
unasked, unanswered question that ends the poem is: "Or was there? (a
generation gap).
Meghnad
wrote this in 1985. He turned 50 that year and I was 23. He was at the height
of his creativity. He was a successful union leader, having unionized the
clerical staff of Mafatlal Group, in the heart of Bombay's corporate world -
Nariman Point.
His
journalism was flourishing. He was writing for Janmabhoomi and Pravasi (edited by
the redoubtable Harinder Dave). Although rather late, his first collection of
poems Chhiplan was published in 1980 to good reviews, and his second collection
Malajo would be published in a couple of years. During the decade, he won recognition as a poet from the Gujarati literary establishment.
On
the other hand, I was at a crossroads of my life. I didn’t want to do what I
was doing – chartered accountancy, and wasn’t sure I could turn journalism (at
that time my steadfast interest) into a vocation.
He
didn’t lose patience at my indecisiveness, and what in retrospect was clearly a
sheer lack of purpose.
I’ve
often blogged about Meghnad here, but it has mostly been of how deeply he has
influenced my thinking. I haven’t written much about him as a father. And more
than a poet, a union leader, a committed leftist ideologue, he was a father.
I
could fit a book of the many instances that I remember of him being a father. Today, I’ll narrate just a couple.
On
the evening of my sister’s wedding, after she had left with her husband’s
family, Meghnad broke down and wept inconsolably. Nothing would make him stop.
He didn’t want to stop. He cried for a long time, lying on the bed.
My
grandmother, my mother and I stood near him, gaping at each other, not knowing
what to say or what to do. Later, I asked him the cause of his utter
desolation, but he didn’t answer. He never talked about it ever.
I
saw my father cry only twice. The second time was when he reached Bombay from
his maiden trip to the United States, a couple of years before he passed away.
And, here's another instance of him being a dad.
I
think the males in the Bhatt family have a genetic defect in the eyes. They all
have to wear glasses at a young age. My father, my son and I have had to wear
prescription glasses at about the same age. In my case it was in 1974, when I
was 12 years old.
We
had moved to Teli Gali in Andheri a couple of years back, but my parents were still
unfamiliar with the place, and they had excellent, long-nurtured relations in
Kalbadevi-Princess Street area.
So,
I had my eyes tested at the Round Building (at the intersection of Kalbadevi
Road and Princess Street) and my glasses made at Ganko opticians (at the
intersection of Old Hanuman Lane and Kalbadevi Road).
That late afternoon, we were returning home from Ganko. I was wearing
prescription glasses for the first time in my life.
It was raining and I was unaccustomed
to seeing through the glasses. While descending the stairs at the Marine Lines
station, I nearly slipped and would have tumbled all the way down to the
platform, had Meghnad not grabbed my hand and pulled me up.
He was angry. That was rare because he
was seldom angry. But it was momentary. He pulled me to him and said in a calm
tone. “We must be very careful.” A little later, when we were inside the local
suburban train, he said, "We must start living in Andheri."