Iswara Dutt: As I Know Him

Was it J. B. Priestley, who advised the admiring reader not to meet “your favourite writer”? As a voracious reader himself, long before he became a celebrated writer, he had gathered enough experience in this matter to make bold to offer this negative advice (almost Punch-like in its finality) to those less experienced and more optimistic than himself. It was, in a way, lucky for me that I had not yet read that thoughtful essay of Priestley’s (may be it was not yet written, as a matter of fact), when I happened to meet one of my own favourite writers, for the first time. It was over two decades ago, when I had just finished writing my B. L. Examination in Madras, and was spending the summer in Tenali (not a change for the better from Madras in the matter of weather, by any means!) scouring the local library for the books of Shaw, Wilde, Chesterton and Belloc who were my favourite reading at that time. I could only say this, without any more ado about the subject–that I was happy to have met him and known him ever since and claimed his friendship till his death in June 1968. Far from being disappointed or disillusioned, as one very well might, after a personal encounter with someone whom you had been admiring from a safe distance, I was only the more enthused by an association, which I had no occasion to regret, which had not only survived these twenty odd years but become closer and stronger and happier with the lapse of time.

That favourite writer is K. Iswara Dutt, who had written nothing, in my memory, which I preferred willingly to skip, where I had the chance to read. Before I met him in the summer of 1946, I had already read his two little books–Sparks and Fumes and And All that! The first presenting a gallery of brilliant pen-portraits of Andhra political leaders from Sir B. N. Sharma to Sir A. P. Patro; and the second an engaging collection of personal essays in the lighter vein on all things from Congress Presidents to cups of coffee and such other tremendous trifles including a tuft of hair (on male head) the sight of which always set him on the edge. There could, of course, be many (indeed there were some, and there are a few) other writers, more widely read, more deeply learned, more full of ideas and more subtle in their understanding or exposition of them, than Mr. Iswara Dutt, but hardly any who could, or did, write with a greater zest for the subject of their choice, or with a greater lucidity of expression or a greater sense of personal style. He was among the most readable of Indian writers in the English language–who had left their mark on political and literary journalism in recent times.

As a stylist, he had modelled himself on the English masters of his early days–who had made their names immoral in British journalism. The most striking of them who had influenced him in the formative years of his writing career was, of course, A. G. Gardner, whose volumes of profiles (like Pillars of Society, Prophets, Priests and Kings, Certain people of Importance etc.,) he knew almost by heart, as also the books of personal essays (of Alpha of the Plough) like Windfalls, Many Furrows and Leaves in the Wind. T. P. O’Connor (founder-editor of the famous T. P’s Weekly) was another, whose parliamentary sketches must have inspired him to do for the leading figures of the Indian Parliament what the former did for those of the British Parliament in the Eighties and Nineties of the last century. A certain spontaneous symmetry (not a fashionable virtue of modern English style), characterised by balance and antithesis, which came to be recognised as the hallmark of his style, became almost a habit with Iswara Dutt, the writer, that he could not easily give up even if he wanted to.

Another remarkable feature of Mr. Iswara Dutt’s personality was that the literary quality was no less evident in his personal correspondence than in his professional writing. He was, indeed, one of the most delightful letter-writers that I had directly come across in my life. He would often make a joke of it and say that he was “ a man of letters” in more senses than one–because he wrote more letters and received more letters than many of his professional contemporaries. And what enjoyable letters he wrote! So heart-warming in their intimate and personal tone, so vivid in their minute detail, so genuinely interested in the fortunes of the person at the other end, as to encourage him to keep on a real and lively dialogue. There was nothing to suggest the impatience of a hard-worked journalist, who must needs give of his best to other forms of writing, nothing to betray the apathy of a seasoned man of the world, who can be expected to be full to the brim with his own personal commitments and family responsibilities to be able to spare the time or writing space to satisfy a distant correspondent. And the hand-writing too! Those even, bold and well-formed characters, which seemed to flow out of the age of caligraphy, skipping the age of the typewriters that had intervened in recent decades, to the detriment of the former. He would always write with a steel pen and a relief nib, (and never a fountain-pen or its cheap and glossy successors like the ball-point and such other newfangled contraptions), reminiscent of the forgotten graces of the quill-pen. It was his belief and experience that the ceremony of dipping of the pen in the bottle and the flow of the ink from the nib gave the writer the time and the mood for the flow of ideas.

Like many young men, who read too well, or may be only too desultorily (but certainly not too wisely, for making the most of what one reads), I nursed the fancy of taking to journalism, encouraged by the vague notion that a specialisation in the study of English literature at college could be one of the qualifications for taking up a career in journalism. Before deciding to do something, which seemed a leap in the dark, to all the well-wishers in the family, I made bold to write to a few experienced journalists, who hailed from Andhra and made good in the different parts of the world. Some wrote in a casual, evasive, or cryptic manner, in view of the pressing demands on their time and the awkward necessity of having to interfere in somebody else’s personal choice. I do not remember anyone had written to me on the subject, with the same degree of refreshing candour, personal interest and discreet encouragement as Mr. Iswara Dutt. The very first letter was aglow with a characteristic animation–full of horse-sense and home-truths, as well as the boyish puns and bright witticisms, of ideas to think about, of wisecracks to chuckle over, of a personality to cherish and a friendship to nourish.

When children spoke of journalism as a career, wrote Mr. Iswara Dutt (whom I paraphraze, not being able to quote, at this point) parents shook their heads dismally. For, in this country, journalism was not yet comfortable as a profession, let alone its being attractive as a career. But it had its thrills and compensations (for all the kicks and lack of half-pence) for those who felt the call for it and had the urge. But there was no escape from the fact that some would take to ink as others to drink and, as in hanging and wiving, it all went by destiny! Sensing the truth about me that my craze for journalism had passed well beyond the stage of boyish infatuation or even juvenile delinquency, he offered me the benefit of a personal discussion and hospitality beneath his roof, if I could manage to proceed to Jaipur, where he was publicity officer, officially speaking, but actually cultural attache, private secretary and personal friend, all rolled into one, to Sir Mirza Ismail, then Dewan of that princely State. He was still able to bring out the Twentieth Century, with the help of his brother, Ananda Mohan, and friends in Allahabad, though it was becoming more and more difficult to bring it out, let alone keep up its original standard, what with the official duties in Jaipur and cultural activities including the conduct of the Athenaeum. For some reason or another, I was not able to make the journey to Jaipur, but I got a letter from him, date-lined Madras, saying that he would soon be passing through Tenali on his way to Machllipatnam, there to spend some time with his relatives. To enable me to locate his compartment, all the more easily, he mentioned the fact that he was travelling First, though he could hardly afford it! (It was so characteristic of his humanity, that he did not look down on some of the creature comforts and other nice little things that made for personal happiness, but even revelled in them with a boyish relish that could easily be mistaken for vanity by those devoid of sympathy and understanding. ) Though I had not seen him in the flesh before, I had no difficulty in spotting him amidst the books and periodicals strewn all around him. He was chewing betel and smoking a pipe, for which I was prepared through his calculated ‘asides’ in the letters. It was a most enjoyable half-hour that I spent in his company in the compartment up to Vijayawada. On the railway platform he introduced me to all the members of his family–that gracious lady his wife, Smt. Anasuyamma, something of whose motherly affection I was later to enjoy, his sociable son Gopalaratnam, Babji to friends, and his lively daughter Veni–and his friend and publisher of his first book, Mr. B. Rajabhushana Rao, a lawyer by profession, closely connected with Triveni Quarterly for some years in the past. Some time later, I happened to visit him at Machilipatnam, where he was relaxing in his sister’s house. Here it was that I could get to know something of his mode of living and working–a part of his beautiful library was already in transit from Jaipur to Hyderabad (where he is to move, with Sir Mirza, as P. R. O. for the brief stay at the Lake View annexe, made familiar to the readers of his autobiography). I could also see something of his fondness for the company of select friends where he would revel in the flash of wit and the flow of soul, amidst the steaming cups of coffee and rising curls of tobacco smoke. It dawned upon me here that the writer and journalist, who could enlist your admiration by his pen, was not always the shy, scholarly, recluse, who preferred the closet or the chronic dispeptic who survived on tea and biscuits, consumed in the privacy of his bed-sitting room.

Despite the appetising descriptions of the Lake View annexe, with its beautiful situation, where he moved in for a short-lived stay in the august vicinity of the palatial residences of Sir Mirza Ismail and Sir Walter Moncton, I could not meet him in Hyderabad during the time he was there in that troubled State, bringing out New Hyderabad in the old. Soon after freedom and the changed set-up in Hyderabad, under the military governor’s rule before the integration, Mr. Iswara Dutt shifted to Delhi and switched to daily journalism, as a columnist and Sunday magazine editor of The Hindusthan Times. I was then on the editorial staff of an English daily in Madras as a sub-editor, none too happy with the daily grind of routine work. The year 1949 was drawing to a close (by which time I had done regular subbing for a year and a half, after the training under Mr. K. Rama Rao, for a like period, all of which seemed enough for the disillusionment of a young man dreaming about the glories of a writing career in journalism!) and I was already wondering how best to get away from all this to something else more bearable. In reply to my letter written in December that year, which must have given him more than an inkling of my mood at that moment, he wrote (24 December 1949), ending thus:

“….I won’t make this letter longer as you will be coming here shortly, though next year. But, I would like to hear from you promptly and have evidence of more cheerful spirits. May 1950 make amends for the dying and unlamented year!”

I did make the pilgrimage to Delhi, as expected, and while nothing came of the interview, for which I appeared, I remember to have returned home and to the job in Madras, distinctly improved in my spirits. More than once had he written to me that the most effective antidote he knew of for the low spirits of friends was his own company! And he was as good as his word, his optimism was infectious and his concern for the welfare of friends, especially if they happened to be journalists or writers, was more than formal.

A year or two passed, before there was something specific to talk about. Meanwhile, there were bound to be personal problems for everyone to worry about, which left little time for letters written for the pleasure of it, as well as those written on business. In explaining his own longish silence, he wrote sometime in June 1952:

“…..The season’s lack of mercy apart, I have too much on my hands these days–the magazine, the overseas weekly, special supplements and my own column–and feature. I am afraid I have ceased to be a letter-writer–or a man of letters!

“...The leaderette on Poetry in Parliament is a brilliant performance. There is so little of literary craftsmanship in our daily press that I must heartily congratulate you on your effort. At this rate, the day is perhaps not far off when the hungry North will consume youto fill an aching void. I am an optimist–and not a bad prophet either!”

“We have now an excellent, though expensive, flat in Karol Bagh–not even a Cabinet Minister perhaps pays a monthly rent of Rs. 300 minus electricity and other bills. But, I believe in living well, having always drawn a distinction between living and existing.”

The New Year Day of 1954 was one of the proudest days in the journalistic career of Mr. Dutt. For it was on that day that he took charge as Chief Editor of Leader, a paper he had served over twenty years earlier as Chintamani’s assistant. He was now happy to be in Chintamani’s chair. He did his very best to put some life into a paper that he loved so well. But the paper had not many years to live, nor the chair many months to hold him. After 15 months or more, may be 18, he resigned from the Leader and returned to Delhi. The detailed letter he wrote in November 1955 told me, more than somewhat, of his mind and his mood:

“…. It is now over six months, since I left the Leader out of concern for a certain editorial tradition and journalistic values. I returned to Delhi (having no other place to go to) but not to….., part of the ‘chains’ which I refused to wear. Having courted wilderness and martyrdom, I have–temporarily – gone into literary retirement at considerable personal sacrifice. Perhaps you know–otherwise you should know–that I have no ancestral property of any kind, no roof over my head, no land (unless Vinobaji gives me!) no pension or provident fund, no insurance policy, and on the top of it all, no bank balance or savings and that I am thus in utter readiness to conform to the socialistic pattern of society.”

That he was factual in saying all these things was easily admitted. But he was also being witty and mock-serious at the same time. If the unwary reader were to think he was in the streets, he would be mistaken, for it was during this period that Mr. Dutt found the time and the peace of mind for working on The Street of Ink, his substantial autobiography, on which light is thrown in the next paragraph:

“While it is so, I have, however, made the best use of my time and converted an ordeal into an opportunity by working on a book. It is now ready for the press. It has two aspects–chronicle and memoirs. It consists of 15 chapters or 95 sections and comes to over 250 pages in print. It is the only book of its kind ever written by an Indian journalist….”

In connection with the production of this book (printed in Madras), Mr. Dutt stayed for a fortnight or so in Madras. Having much to do with this book, by way of going through the manuscript and passing some of the proofs, I was meeting him almost daily, while he was in Madras, combining the pleasures of listening to music recital and poetry recitation with the less exciting business of revising proofs. Soon after finishing the book and going to Delhi, Mr. Dutt was in high spirits. New opportunities came his way–like the ‘Parliament Today’ assignment on A. I. R., and the Secretaryship of the National Book Trust under the chairmanship of Dr. C. D. Deshmukh. After relinquishing this job, he started the New India weekly in 1961 and struggled hard to keep it going for a few years, but had finally to wind it up. All the while, he was doing quite a bit of freelancing, whatever be the regular job on hand, for the time being might be. The Andhra Pradesh and other supplements of New India were useful as reference material. The last four to five years of his life were devoted to the two volume of Congress Cyclopaedia, which was a commendable work, by any account, when done by a team of writers, but a remarkable achievement, as it was virtually done by a single man.

From personal friends, it did not take long for us to become family friends. My stay with him in Delhi was a period of unqualified pleasure. My late wife (Audilakshmi) was welcomed into the inner circle of his family as one of their own members. Referring to her visit, he wrote in 1959:

“You must have by now heard from the lady in Leningrad. Her stay here was to us a joy–and we were happy that she felt so much at home under our roof.”

“Don’t hesitate to come to Delhi, if there is a chance….”

In fact, it is hard to think of any friend of his on a visit to Delhi who had not stayed with him for a day or two, or at least had not had his dinner or tea with him. This is a point that can hardly be over-emphasised in outlining his personality, as it is a feature conspicuous by its absence in most others, not excluding journalists. It may be argued for some journalists, the less privileged variety of them, that the struggle for existence is so much on them, that the question of hospitality becomes irrelevant to their basic economy. But even those on whom Dame Fortune has deigned to smile cultivate a flair for playing the charming guest rather than the generous host! Some there are who have the fear of their lives to play the host of any description. Mr. Iswara Dutt was less eager to be the guest than the host. Of few others could this be said, in all conscience!

Conversation, like letter-writing, was another of the vanishing graces in which Mr. Dutt revelled with no reservations. He did not cultivate it so much as an artful diplomat, as he lost himself in it in the company of like-minded friends. He was fond of the pun and the alliteration, as well as the brilliant epigram and the striking paradox and the ‘quotable’ quote. The pun may not be among the higher forms of wit, but Mr. Dutt could never quite get rid of it, in the written word or the spoken word. As a student, who did not do too well in his paper, he is known to have accosted, the lecturer in the class: “You have given me no mark, Sir only a remark!” He was hard on “the posters and the imposters of the Indian Press.” He was fond of T. C. among journals and M. C. among journalists. “Windbags” was his retort to a Madras orator, who went for the ‘Moneybags’, hammer and tongs.

Not that Iswara Dutt had no defects, as a writer or as a man. It is possible to find his writing wanting in depth and subtlety, if you are a learned scholar or a fastidious intellectual. But, none can deny him the merit of being vivid, lucid and readable. As a man, he might have paid court to those who strode the corridors of power. But he did that with a modicum of loyalty and was not eager to change his patrons, all too easily, according to the changing politics of power. He might have looked up to the high and the mighty, all too often. (He might have dropped names, but he did not drop friends!) But he did not look down on the humble and the deserving. He was a good companion, as well as an impressive “courtier.” He was a lively man and a loyal friend, for all that. We can’t boast of too many like him.