Bhau

Picture shot by Dr Shrirang Purohit

Sunday morning was a sad one for Sahitya Sahawas, the colony of writers in Bandra. One of its most respected residents, noted litterateur Govind Vinayak Karandikar – Vinda – passed away.

I had the fortune of knowing him as a neighbour. I also profiled him in 2006 when he won the Dnyanpeeth Puraskar. It was late afternoon and he had been tired of meeting and speaking to visitors and journalists who came to congratulate him. He just answered one question – did he have any advice for young writers? “There is nothing I want to say to the young generation. Let them do what they want. If I was in their place, would I have liked someone to tell me what I should do?”

Indeed, Bhau as he was lovingly called, lived life on his own terms. He never sought puraskars or the coveted chief guest position of the prestigious Marathi Sahitya Sammelan that even many noted authors fight and claw for. The awards came and they were many – the Janasthan Puraskar, the Kabir Puraskar and more. But his truest award lay in the following he had among Marathi readers.

With the awards came the prize money, but Bhau had no use for it. A Marxist, he donated over Rs 7 lakh he won, to the chief minister’s earthquake relief fund, to the SNDT University to start the R D Karve memorial lectures, to the University of Mumbai to start the Madhav Julian lecture series, and even to the Family Planning Association of India.
His major collections of poems include Swedaganga, Mrudgandha, Jatak, Virupika and Dhrupad. He has also written essays such as Sparshachi Palavi and Akashacha Artha. He has written ‘A Critique of Literary Values’ and Parampara Ani Navata – a critique on tradition and modernism in literature. He translated Sant Dnyaneshwar’s Amrutanubhav into modern Marathi. Sometime back he created a flutter when he announced he had ‘retired’ from writing poetry.

His poems for children are well known. As a child I remember asking him about one of his ‘spells’ to stop the ink in a pen from drying, that I had seen him recite on TV. A child when with children, Bhau promptly fetched the book and read it to me, along with other spells he had written.
Years later, on finding that I had chosen English Literature in college, he presented me with a book by John Dos Passos. “It’s a prize for choosing English Literature,” the former English Literature professor said. He also told me he had a copy of ‘A History of English Literature’ by Louis Cazamian and Emile Legouis and I could borrow it from him anytime. Strangely, when I did ask for it, he had no recollection of making the offer! But he trusted me, and though he said he never lent it, he firmly warned me to be careful with it. I was petrified and returned it a few days later, without having referred to it at all!

Bhau was active till about a month before he passed away. He would come down from his fourth floor house at least once a day, carrying a small cloth bag, and buy some vegetables from Anand Bazaar across the road. He had a habit of calling out to Sumatai, his wife. Sometimes in the evenings she would come down to chat with her colony friends. Restless that she was not back after some time, Bhau would stand in the balcony and clap and call her to get her attention.
Sometimes when he went downstairs, he would have forgotten money. He would then call her from below, “Sume! Sume!” When she arrived in the balcony, he would yell, “In our room, in my drawer, from the wallet kept to the left, not the right, throw me the Rs 2 note, not the Rs 5 one.”

Bhau remained a man content with simple joys till the end. He and Sumatai were most happy being with children. Every summer he cleaned the small canal passing through the colony. A poem on his lips, he would inspire many colony kids to join him. During the rains, if he saw the clogged parapet at the entrance of the building opposite his, he would fetch a ladder and clear it himself. If a kid’s kite was caught in a tv antenna on the terrace of his building, he would climb up and free it. He was always ready for a spot of carpentry at home, working on two chairs for himself and Sumatai in the balcony.

Like Sumatai who passed away a little more than a year ago, his body will be donated for medical causes. His eyes have been donated.
A lot will be said and written about him in the days to come. But he lives on in his works. Perhaps the best tribute to him will come when one simply enjoys his works time and again, just as much as he did creating them.