Death of an Era in Journalism

P. D. TANDON
(Former Minister of Information, U. P.)

Indian journalism has lost a heroic figure who was known not only for his profound scholarship but also for his striking integrity and spotless character. He had nothing else to support him in life except his unusual ability and high sense of morality.

M. Chalapathi Rau was affectionately called M. C. He gave the best part of his life in the service of the National Herald. He always had deep respect and admiration for Jawaharlal Nehru. He was the best exponent of Nehru and his policies. He had suffered a lot for the Herald. For years together, he would go to office in the morning and return home at two in the night. I watched him on many a night at his office desk in Lucknow and felt that he was fully devoted and doomed. For years together he did not get even ordinary facilities as an editor, but he hero­ically fought against all odds and produced a paper with policy, personality and purpose.

In his young days he considered journalism far below literature. For him it was not literature even in a hurry. He was a stylist, a craftsman, a delicate tenderer of words, alive to the rhythm and cadence of all that he read and wrote. The music of words thrilled him and the majesty of thought excited and elevated him. He was a severe self-critic, and fastidious in his tastes. He loved few things more than reading and writing. The most remarkable thing about M. C. was that he had proved his worth equally on the news-side and the writing-side. It is a rare phenomenon in Indian journalism. He could write with astonishing ease and ability on both Indian and foreign subjects. He was blessed with a keen and analytical intellect. He was noted for his encyclopaedic knowledge.

M. C. was a very moody person. At times one felt ill at ease with him and if one gave him up in despair, one was not very fair to him. If one felt ill at ease with him, it was because at that moment he was ill at ease with himself – torn asunder with some conflict within. When he appeared to be proud, he really was not so. When he looked stiff and stern, he did not mean to be harsh to anyone. He was probably harsh to himself. When he passed one by without glancing at him, he was in the grip of some idea and wanted to move ahead undisturbed, without any desire to neglect you. His harsh exterior hid a very tender heart. He had not cultivated those moods and manners which are in fashion these days. He wanted to be left alone. His life was very lonely. He was a bachelor and had not known the joys of married life but he had escaped its agonies too. Not to have married was perhaps his biggest scoop. He was an extremely difficult man to be managed by an ordinary woman. Married life might have changed him and yet it might have spelt disaster for the “couple.” He had a horror of intimacy. He was happy in his loneliness. He wanted none to enter into his life. The doors were tightly closed.

M. C.’s letters to his friends were literary masterpieces and reflected his wide vision. I have a lot of them. I am tempted to quote from a letter that he wrote to his friend Manjeri Isvaran on the death of his mother­–

“I, who have all these years felt the lack of a mother, know what the loss of a mother could be...I was crying for long that a great wrong had been done to me. I found fault with imaginary gods. I even thought mother would come . Who are we to think that these were fancies? And when I remember that my mother, the death of my mother and the memory of my mother have been the greatest influences that have made me a man and a poet. I shudder to think what floods of painful poetry might be wrought in you hereafter.

“In your case, especially, your grief must be great, giant-like and god-like perhaps–because you have been these many years ministering unto her and surrendering unto her the strength which you betook from her.         It was my privilege to know your devotion.

“I know I am not trying to ‘wean’ you away from your ‘wretchedness.’ I feel powerless even to attempt it, because even my rusted spirit can bear the thought of disintegration, but not death. I have never liked death.

“The world has many faces, and we have known every one of them. We have known its angelhood and gorgonhood. But by dreamlight and daylight I have known it mostly as Golgotha and dead men’s skulls.”

M. C. was a thinker and an able writer. He had an analytical brain and had insight into various problems. He had written a couple of high class books, excellent poems and short stories. He had deep knowledge of literature, history and politics. His writings were marked for vision and understanding. His brilliant style was characterised by an originality of phrase which was refreshing. As a leader writer, he was unique. During the last world war his editorials on war were a craze. At Wardha, I heard Dr. Pattabhi Sitaramayya say, “Chalapathi, it seems, you go to the front in the day and write your editorials on war at night.!”

In 1958 after twelve years of editorship he gave a shock to the readers and the management of National Herald. He wrote an article in the Herald under his name where he elaborately explained the policy and the achievements of the paper. In the concluding paragraphs he said, “There are then the crew who have not been able to ask of the captain for anything except work, and responsibility. The freedom that the editor has enjoyed has been shared with all, without damage to discipline; everyone has participated in its operation and it has been no mean contri­bution to the traditions of journalism. It is difficult to work in perpetual war-time conditions, though a newspaper has been aptly described by Churchill as a battleship inaction. No battle has been lost. But there are battles ahead and there will be more of blood and tears and sweat. So, the captain, earning his right to retire in battle dress from the battle scene can only wish that the National Herald will remain as gallant and battle ready and confident as Turner might have painted it–The Fighting Tremeraire of Indian Journalism.

This created a flutter, it was difficult to imagine Herald without M. C. The management, or shall I say, Pandit Nehru, succeed­ed in gluing him to the Herald. However, when he left National Herald in 1918, he was glad he was out of it but was distressed at the conditions obtaining there. On July 5, 1978, he wrote to me, “I am not worried about myself, but I am afraid the spirit of the Herald will be killed….my life’s work is being ruined.”

Like Nehru, M. C. believed that in this world one has to journey alone and to depend upon others is to invite a heart­break. In life, he was convinced, one should be lightly laden; He had very few belongings. One day, in 1960 or so, I asked him what was his biggest possession in life. He thought for a while and said that he hardly had anything except a few books, not even notes and clippings which many journalists hoard. “Do you think I have anything worthwhile?” he querried.

“Of course, you have something very precious which many win long to have,” I answered firmly.

His eyes twinkled with curiosity and he coaxed, “Come along, tell me at once what is that! I wonder if I have any­thing really big. Come along.”

I told him that the tape-recorded speech of Jawaharlal Nehru in which he paid warm tributes to him and spoke so eloquently of him and the Herald was his biggest possession in life. The eyes that seemed to be burning with the warmth of curiosity a minute before cooled and calmed in a new realization. He confessed. “I think you are right; I never realised it. I hope I do not lose that precious thing, the precious voice.”

I wondered what was in this journalist which impressed Nehru so much. I knew that off-and-on hoe used to invite Chalapattli Rau to Delhi, introduced him to world celebrities and discussed with him various national and international problems. I had known that Nehru had made it a point to read the Herald’s editorials daily, but for many years I did not know why he was so kind and considerate to Chalapathi Rau. I understood the reason for it when one evening in Lucknow while speaking at the Silver Jubilee Celebrations of the National Herald, Nehru observed. “Chalapathi Rau is India’s ablest journalist. His integrity is beyond question, ability never in doubt. Money often spoils people, but even if the National Herald becomes prosperous, it wilt not affect this journalist in any way. He is very shy. He never pushes himself forward. Even at this function when he should be on the dais he is hiding somewhere.”

M. C. was one of the most remarkable journalists India has produced. His contribution to the press was deep and abiding. With his passing away, an era in journalism has ended.