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DR. D. V. GUNDAPPA
Many-faceted Man of Genius

Poet, prose writer, philosopher, translator, playwright, biographer, literary critic, to mention only some of his contributions to the literature of all time, D V G also wrote in English, making his little journal the mouthpiece of his pre-Gandhi an liberalism, practi­cal statesmanship, humanism and his love of equality, liberty, fraternity and other Western values. His metaphysics was Vedantic­-oriented, his social values were generally rooted in 19th century England and his creative writing was in tone and inspiration, with a few transitional features of diction and style. He produced lovely modern classics like Manku Timmana Kagga (Gnomic folk verses of Dull Timma) and Jnapaka Chitrashale (An Art Gallery of Memories), the former a book of precious wisdom through quaint similes and the latter a memorial gallery of memorable men. They make charming reading and they are a remarkable summation of the many facets of the man and the writer. Where practical statesmanship and the builder’s zeal, the kinetic features of his personality, made common cause with his creative and critical endowments, the product was a gem like the Gokhale Institute of Public Affairs, of which the whole of Karnataka is proud.

One of the pioneers of the modern Kannada renaissance, D V G has many things in common with other pioneers like B M Srikanthia, Masti, Panje Mangesh Rao, Govind Pai, Alur Venkatarao and Shanta Kavi.

An entire session of this seminar will be devoted to a discussion of the creative and critical writings of D V G. his contribution both to literature and to journalism. I shall therefore turn to poignant memories of this great man, and give one or two of his poems in English translation. I knew D V G since 1927 when I was an undergraduate in Dharwad. He visited Dharwad in 1927 and I listened to his lecture in Karnatak College and to his discussions with elders like Bendre in a meeting of the Geleyera Gumpu. Later he connected me with my critical reviews and poems in Jaya Karnataka, the Gumpu’s monthly. In 1931 I was appointed a lecturer in English in Fergusson College, Poona, and in 1933 I was invited to preside over the Kavighoshti in Raichur to be held along with the year’s Sammelan. That was just the time when D V G became President of the Kannada Sahitya Parishat, (techni­cally Vice-President, with the Yuvarajah as President). DVG had immense love for the young and seemed to have decided to mould me if he could. At the Parishat meetings I was always by his side and he used to whisper into my ears certain “dos and don’ts� which were very precious indeed. He invited me to Bangalore for a lecture in the Parishat on the eve of my departure to Oxford for higher studies. He took an elder brother’s interest in my movement from innocence to experience and in moulding me into a likeable young man of letters. An enchanting correspondence with me was initiated by DVG, and I responded to it with all the enthusiasm of a youngster and adoration and adventure. He wrote such beautiful English in his epistles, it was a real pleasure to read them.

I do not wish to go into other details here. I shall only refer to an epistolery episode, which he has published in his Ketakee Vana, a collection of poems, printing first his poem of 4th September, 1941, written after being reminded of me by a letter written by me and found in one of his old files and my reply to it on 14th September, 1987 which is a tribute to the DVG I loved. I reproduce these two poems here in English translation.

FRIENDSHIP

Food grows stale and cold,
Decay fruits untold
Even pretty girls grow old
But friendship’s fresh as ever,

Bound to fade is the flower.
Fate’s own cruel hour
Strikes. Even mangoes sour
But friendship’s fresh as ever.

True some vague obsession.
Mind’s vacant-eyed session,
Some tiredness, pain.
Which I combat in vain
Made me forget.

How long can this remain
Or memory go to sleep?
Sure, it’ll wake up with a leap
And the brain

Till it remembers again!
With me it was so today
The mind was merry and at play.
Looking for something in old files
Flashed forth the letter which you wrote:
What love, what gushing forth from springs
Deep within! I was overjoyed.
My memory flowed into the void
And filled it. Vanished the sense of guilt
Reassured was my joy, heartfelt.
I dipped the pen of my delight
In the ink-pot of friendship’s ink,
Dip, dip, dip, sink, sink, sink
And wrote without pause this letter in verse,
A young green leaf, though the paper be dry.
Make much of this, with a poet’s eye,
This scribble-babble, deeming it high,
O poet! Receive this poesy.

To this epistle of 4th September 1941, I wrote my reply

“To Dear DVG� on 14th September, 1941.

PROMETHEUS, THE FIRE - BRINGER

To the rock perched on a mountain peak
Him, Prometheus the brave,
Him the gods bound, bound hand and foot.
His crime? Jupiter punished him.
Him, the fire-bringer to mankind,
Save Prometheus, O, save Prometheus!
None can save him! Nothing can save him
Only love, love can save him,
Love, sovereign Love, Love, Love divine,
A true titan, unafraid,
You stood against the granite rock,
Jove bade an eagle-agony
Grab your whole heart piece by piece,
Only a fill of wind your food,
Only rain-water was your drink.
Sole, the earth-mother, day and night,
Took her suffering son in her arms
And rolled him round in nihil-space,
A top spinning in that graceless void
With a sweet, dear-eyed concern
Pleading with stars to save Prometheus,
Prometheus the brave, the great,
To you, Prometheus-like, O friend,
Who is saviour? Where is joy?
An eagle, gnawing at your heart,
Will consume you limb by limb
But for your immortality.
Alike arise your joy and mirth
From the bounty of the earth.
You cool your eyes with the lovely tints
That earth and sky scatter in glints.
Immortal love slumbering hidden
In earth and sky, will spring unbidden
Like lightning, trumpet to the world
the joy and liberty Love brings,
And iron chains to Tyranny.
The promise of a Golden Age
Fulfil Love will, page by page.
Enthroned is Love in a golden car.
Fixed with many a glittering star.
Triumphant, Love will drive in state
Bound to her car Wheels is captive Fate.

Till the advent of Love’s procession
Moving eternal in progression,
Hope only for the symbol dawn.
Strong hope alone is liberty.
First among the hierarchy
Is your line of path-finders.
O elder! I am your younger brother
With your soul’s eye of limpid light,
Bless me! That is my only prayer!
Brother! The mighty spell of Love
Is its own master, its own treasure.
Fingering the vina of the heart
And all that is, with matchless art.
Grew our tribe and its minstrelsy
One with its magic symphony.

May my little lispings find
Love in the garden of your mind.
A star gleaning across a grove
Is your love-letter in my dwelling,
In prison - like dreams of liberty.
All around me is it welling.
I plunge into your depths of love
And like a swan serene I float,
Brushing moss and clinging mud
That to its neck has filled this moat.

I, for a moment, have forgotten
All the weariness, mud-begotten
And into sky have taken wing:
There I am master, there I am king!
I come home with your words of love,
Each one soothing like a dove.

Today, as I look on those almost juveline six scenes of forty-six years ago remember the excitement that was mine when I received the epistle in verse from DVG, more than twenty years my senior, calling me a friend, and writing on friendship itself; my frantic effort to find for a reply poem (I was already doomed to be a “Principal� at Willingdon College, Sangli and busy from morning to evening;) and my success at last ten days later, on a Sunday, when I walked away from my bungalow on the college premises and locked myself in into my “Principal’s office room�, to avoid visitors and intruders; and the utter absorption and mergence with which I wrote it frenziedly till I came to the last word. All this is forever enshrined in my memory, an imperishable part of my being.

One has to the thankful to Providence for giving us such great and generous elders standing sentinel, like light-houses in the ocean of life, lighting up its dark recesses and guiding our footsteps. Honoured be their name and everlasting their glory!

(Presidential speech made at the inauguration of a national seminar (1987) at Bangalore on the occasion of the birth centenary of Dr. D.V. Gundappa).