The World of Masti

In a quick changing world, Masti, short for Dr. Masti Venkatesa Iyengar, recipient of the Jnanpeeth Award, represents a time-frame of reference.

He is as old as the hills, and has hardly changed. Only his face has deeper furrows. His smile is charming and he speaks in near whisper. He is warm, easy, informal and is hardly con­scious of his age. He follows his daily routine, irrespective of the season. He walks briskly, his umbrella follows him wherever he goes, in sun and in rain. A visit to the club in Basavangudi is a ritual without which an evening is incomplete. He talks about everything under the sun. He holds your attention – he has the sweetness of honey, but can also sting like the bee. He is placid, but can also be roused. He is clear-headed. No half-way houses for him. He is firm in his convictions, and makes no bones about them. He does not mind offending men; his loyalty is to truth, as he sees it.

Masti’s modest house in Gavipuram looks as it looked years ago. You are greeted by his pet: a parrot, not a dog. He works upstairs. The place is lined with books. It is the study of a writer who has given more than seventy years to writing – a prodigious amount by any standards. More, if you remember that when he started writing as a pioneer, our store was meager. He presides over a large family. Drop in any afternoon and you find him at play with his grandchildren or great-grandchildren. There is something childlike about him. Incapable of hurting or malice. He puts you at ease. He can converse with a prince, a philosopher or a layman with equal sympathy. The man is a legend.

In fact, Masti has a legendary ground. Masti is the name of a hamlet in Kolar, the district which once gave Mysore the reputation of the “land of gold.” “Chinnada nadidu Mysooru”, said B. M. Srikantiah in his ode to the Kannada land. But the hamlet acquired the name, long ago, in commemoration of one of Masti’s kinswoman’s self-immolation. The legend is that one of his forefathers was Dewan to a Sultan, and he died when the irate Sultan served him a glass of milk that was poisoned. In grief the Dewan’s widow committed self-immolation. She was praised as a woman of virtue, or Maha Sati. In course of time, Maha Sati became Masti and the name stuck to the hamlet. And now Masti has put the unknown hamlet on the map of Kannada letter. He had given it the immortality that the bard gave to Avon.

The legend of Masti begins there. But for Providence, he would have been lost like the poet’s “full many a gem of purest ray serene.” In spite of want and poverty the boy pursued school­ing in nearby villages and completed his matriculation in Mysore. He throve on scholarships, he got his B. A. from the Central College in Bangalore. He set his heart on M. A. To raise the money, he taught in the Central College for three months. At the Presidency College, Madras, he qualified for the Master’s Degree in English. He was awarded a gold medal. The journey from the log cabin to the White House was over when Masti topped the list in the Mysore Civil Service examination. He joined the charmed club of Probationary Assistant Commissioners. He served long and with distinction. He became Rajasevasakta. He retired voluntarily three years sooner as Excise Commissioner. It was Masti’s way of protesting against a wrong done to him. His three-volume autobiography “Bhava” gives an account of his career.

Masti was 19 when he wrote his first short story. In fact, he is familiar as the father of the short story as a literary form in Kannada. He began writing in Kannada when it was not considered literary enough. His early stories caused a minor sensation. They were a curiosity like a calf with two heads. In “Rangappa”, Masti created a character that endures like Sam. The stories recreated the social setting of an age that is now as strange as Rip Van Winkle’s world. Masti’s humour is innocent. The newly ­married husband seeks romance, his unlettered spouse just knows enough to enquire about his health. Urged to write a long letter, she writes a love letter, the like of which is unknown in any other language – she is well, the cow is well, its calf is well, etc., Masti’s contribution to the short story is impressive. There are several collections, Srinivasa Kathegalu, after the pseudonym he adopted “Srinivasa.” That the Sahitya Akademi, Delhi, gave him the award for the short story was in a way appropriate.

If you remember, Masti should have got the award for his historical novel “Channa Basava Nayaka.” The fierce controversy that surrounded it is an unhappy memory. Literary judgement was overshadowed by extra-literary notions of Amour propre. TheJnanpeeth Award for “Chikkavira Rajendra” makes more than ample amends. It recognises Masti’s contribution to the novel. “Chikkavira Rajendra” was the literary rage when it appeared nearly thirty years ago. It is set in Coorg, and depicts the story of the last king. The novel is prized highly as one that can stand comparison with the best in any language. It brought pride of place to Kannada.

Masti’s versatility is matched by the wealth of his literary output. He is known as a poet and playwright. Among his well-­known plays “Yasodhara” and “Kakanakote” are moving theatrical experiences. His radio play “Bhattani Magalu” ­congeals grief. It has been repeated so often that listeners know the play wards. As a film “Kakanakote” was a success. ­

The Ramayana and the Mahabharataare the spiritual centres on which Masti’s world moves. “Sharata Tirtha” and “Adi Kavi Valmiki” were among his early scholarly works. His biographical studies of Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Rabindranath Tagore became instant classics.

For over 20 years Masti edited a literary journal which he called “Jeevana.” His monthly notes kept a record of events. He kept vigil for Kannada, and was quick to take up any cause when Kannada interests were hurt. Did the Sahitya Akademi overlook Kannada for want of a book of sufficient merit? Masti would raise the banner of protest.

Looking , what is Masti’s contribution to Kannada? One would think of his prose, so near to the spoken word. There is a remarkable identity between what he writes and what he speaks. The short sentence in Kannada is his invention. The muse moves about his pages with the lightness of foot you associate with a ballerina. Masti has made the short sentence do all that he wants. He can move you to laughter and tears, he can transport you to another world, he can put terror in your heart, he can whisper sweet nothings in your ear, he can rouse you to a passion. It is Jack that kills the giant. So does his verse. Easy like everyday speech he employs familiar words. But in Masti’s hand they undergo a strange transformation. They sparkle like stars in the horizon.   

It is time to remember that Masti’s mother-tongue is Tamil. Kannada is singularly fortunate. Its literature has been enriched by Kannadigas who acknowledged Tamil, Telugu, Marathi, Malayalam, Tulu, Konkani as their mother-tongue. It is an expression of the Kannada genius for assimilation.

Masti has more decorations than wrinkles on his face. As one of the crusaders of the Kannada movement in the decades before independence, he was honoured by the Kannada Sahitya Parishat in various ways. In later years he received new honours as Vice-President and then as President of the Indian PEN. He was conferred a Doctorate in Letters by the Karnataka University. The Sahitya Akademi, Delhi, elected him a Fellow, and now Jnanpeeth has decorated him.

Go for a moment to 1891 and think of the hardships Masti as a boy endured to school himself. He lost his father early but he did not give up his quest. Like an architect he fashioned his life. He could have lost himself in office but he knew his real calling was literature. The Maharajah decorated him. But he does not sport it. So unassuming, so modest, like a traveller, he is more conscious of the road ahead than of the road behind. He had endeared himself to the Kannada people so far that dear Masti has gone into a proverb, “Masti Kannadada Asti.” It means that Masti is a precious asset of Kannada.

That is the ultimate test of a writer’s genius. He is remembered by what he had written. You take any work, Subbannafor instance, a short novel on the life of a musician. Long after you have read, the memory endures like the poet’s vision of a rainbow or a dam. And for Kannadigas, this is a fine hour.

–COURTESY The Hindu