My Master Garu

July, 1938. Friends advise me to join the Loyola or the Presidency at Madras to do B. A. (Honours) in Economics or Literature. But my father insists that I go to Waltair, partly because of his admiration for Dr. C. R. Reddy, and partly because of the growing reputation of the Andhra University as a good centre for social sciences. I dutifully obey the old man and arrive at Vizag one not very fine morning and (at about 6) check in at a choultry. I’m totally uncomfortable in this new town where I don’t know a single soul. An idea occurs to me. Why not see the Head of the Department of History, Economics and Politics and find out from the horse’s mouth whether I’m eligible at all for admission to the Honours course, though I’m fully confident I’m, on the strength of my high First Class in the Inter Exam. In fact I’m so vain as to think that I’m too good for the Andhra University. Anyway, I decide to see him. But who is he? Where is he? How does one contact him? Of course, I can go to the university and see him in his office. But 11 a. m. is too far away. My enquiries at the choultry at last give me the information I require. His name is M. Venkatarangaiya and he lives at Maharanipet and what is of particular interest to a nervous stranger in his teens desperately looking for at least one friendly face in a totally cold, impersonal town, is that he is a very kind-hearted man. But I’m also warned that since Dr. C. R. Reddy and he don’t have a rapport, I had better be discreet in my approach to the professor.

Now where the hell is Maharanipet? I keep going into and coming out of street after street till at last I land right at his very doorstep. I knock on the door. A tall, lean, hungry-looking man opens the door and says, “Yes, please”. I introduce myself, and say that I have come to meet Prof. M. Venkatarangaiya. He replies graciously: “Oh, please sit down. I’ll be in a minute.” And he is in less than a minute with a cup of steaming coffee for me. What warmer welcome could I have expected in my present dark mood? I feel thoroughly comfortable and tell him about my mission. He sees my mark sheet and says approvingly: “No problem. See me at the university at about 11a. m. If you have any difficulty in finding your way about, I can pick you up: you give me your address.” To avoid causing further embarrassment to him, I decline his very gracious offer and return to the choultry.

Somehow I reach the university campus well in advance and wait for the professor’s arrival. About hair hour later he takes me to his office, and gives me the forms only for my signature; he has already filled up the columns on the basis of the informa­tion furnished by me. His humility and generosity are simply divine. After going through all the formalities on my behalf with the help of the office staff, he says: “Now you are enrolled. You may attend classes from tomorrow.” Before taking leave of him I enquire whether I can expect any financial assistance from the university. He says non-committaly: “I’ll have to find out. Would you like to join the hostel?” I say Yes and he secures my admission to the hostel also. A week later, after the class, he takes me with him to his office and announces: “You have been given the Anantapur District Board Scholarship: Rs. 350 per annum”. Overwhelmed with joy, I bend to touch his feet. But stopping me he says: “No, don’t do that. You deserve the scholarship. Study well. My best wishes.”

Thus began my three year long student-teacher relation with him. He enriched my experience in its totality. I learnt so much from him not only in the class-room but outside. He had mastered the art of concealing his profound scholarship and uncompromising intellectual integrity beneath his affection and compassion. He would analyse any intricate problem into its barest essentials and explain IJ8 implications in a language within the reach of even a child. He was unique in his style of exposition in the sense that he unmasked profundities of scholarship and made them seem utterly lucid and commonplace. As we students were busy consulting reference books in the library, he would watch us from behind and suddenly disappear behind the shelves toreturn with more books of relevance to our study. He would invite our attention to particular passage in those books and advise us to meet him later for a discussion. He took such a keen interest in his students that they felt thoroughly comfortable and earned for in his presence. He was strict without being stern, firm, without being rigid, sympathetic without being sentimental, profound without being pedantic, and self-respecting without being super­cilious. He was deeply emotional, highly intellectual and transparently lucid in expression. Whenever I had any personal or academic problem, he was the one and only one to solve it gracefully and realistically.

After leaving the university I remained in close touch with him. When I started a cultural monthly in New Delhi in the 40s, called Our India, he was my mainstay. Whenever I wanted an article on educational or international topics, he would send it to me within a week at the most. He never failed me. When he was at the University of Bombay as Professor of Political Science, once he had some work in Delhi. He wrote to me asking me if I could arrange for his accommodation. I sent him a telegram inviting him. When I made him share a room with that famous painter, Sailoz Mookherjea, he gracefully accepted the arrangement. The two became so fond of each other that when after four or five days Professor Venkatarangaiya had to leave Delhi, Mookherjea shed tears. Consoling him the professor said “You shouldn’t cry. You will be with me spiritually all my life. You have taught me so much modern art and I have taught you so little political science that you are from now on part of my intellectual makeup.”

As Editor of the “Illustrated Weekly of India” also I used to seek his advice and guidance whenever I had to organise features of academic interest. Earlier, my editor, C. R. Mandy, had become so fond of his writing that he would ask me to approach the professor for articles on political and international affairs. The beauty of Professor Venkatarangaiya’s writing lay in its brevity, clarity, elegance of expression, precision and incisiveness. His style was almost bland, but it had inner refinement and depth. He was never rhetorical or assertive. He was cool, objective, analytical and gently persuasive.

Whenever I visited Madras, as editor of the Weekly, I would visit him at his residence in Kasturbanagar and go with new vigour, confidence and optimism. He had such an unfailing genius for making people discover their own inner resources and reserves. He was, in my opinion, a teacher in the best of Gurukula traditions.