Coincidences may not have much meaning. Yet they are often a challenge to our intellect and to our claims to rational living.
They make us think.
Such coincidences have surrounded me ever since Kamalakar Sarang passed away.
One such coincidence is that two persons who were very close to me passed away while I was out of town. One of them was my father. And the other was Sarang.
When my father passed away in Pune I was listening to a musical concert in Bombay. I didn’t know that he was seriously ill. The telegrams sent to me were addressed to my place of work. But I did not see them because there were two consecutive holidays when they were delivered. I saw them and reached Pune by which time my father had been cremated and an additional day had passed. I couldn’t see him before he passed away.
When Sarang died I didn’t expect his death to occur then. When he passed away I was getting off my flight in Nagpur. He had been serious for some time before his death, and I had visited him twice in the Nursing Home in Chembur where he was being treated. After that I kept in touch with Lalan by phone for any news. The coincidence was that the day he died I was getting ready to go to Nagpur and didn’t call Lalan to check on his condition. It didn’t occur to me to check on that particular day.
As with my father I couldn’t see Sarang on the day he died.
By the time I returned Sarang was no more.
My father always wanted me around when I was small. My mother would tell me that my birth had brought about a great change in his hot-tempered disciplinarian ways. I’d never experienced the heat of his hot temper the way my elder siblings had. He satisfied my childhood whims as much as he could within the limitations of his lower middle class economic status. Still, I felt closer to my mother. I grew up as a mama’s boy. Later, during my early youth there were days when my father and I had to live away from my mother. My father looked after me and loved me a great deal. He took care of me as my mother would have done. But I always kept my distance from him. Often, I’d be angry with him. For instance, we’d always travel to Pune together. Neither were there auto-rickshaws in Pune in those days, nor a bus-service. Father wouldn’t engage a tonga and would instead make me lug my bag all the way from the station to our home. We carried our own luggage. I didn’t want to walk all that distance carrying luggage. But I couldn’t persuade father to hire a tonga. He’d say that walking is good for one’s health and one should be used to hard work – he was referring to the luggage. Besides, it saves the money we would otherwise spend on a tonga. He’d walk fast with luggage in hand. I’d follow him, dragging my luggage. Carrying the luggage made my arms ache. In my mind I’d be angry with my father. I used to think, “What kind of a father is he?” In Bombay we used to live in a storeroom for books. I used work shifts in a newspaper office. By the time I reached the storehouse, after finishing my 2 p.m. shift, it would be late and the eateries would be closed. Father would keep some fruits for me so that I wouldn’t go without food. Most of the time the fruit he’d choose would be chikku, and I disliked chikku. I’d be angry with father and would say so. He’d listen to me and explain how that particular fruit was good for health. It only served to raise my temper on an empty stomach. I’d often be angry with him but he never got angry with me. To the very end I never returned his affection for me.
How fond Sarang was of me I’m able to see now as I page through the two books written by him. One of his books which became well-known was “The Binder Days” (Binderche Diwas). The other book is “Anubhav” (Experiences). This is a collection of essays written by Sarang. Not many have read it. But this book contains a fine affectionate essay on the well-known popular actor Kashinath Ghanekar, who died an untimely death. As an actor he was very troublesome, but after reading Sarang’s essay one falls in love with him. I also knew Kashinath very closely, but I would not have been able to write about him as objectively or affectionately as Sarang did. Counting the number of references that Sarang makes to me in his two books will give an idea of the extent of his involvement with me. It’s not that I was unaware of his sentiment toward me, but I understand the extent of his involvement much better now. I feel overwhelmed when I now read anew of the fight that he put up for my play (Sakharam Binder) in his book the “The Binder Days.” I begin to wonder whether I or the play really deserved all the affection he had for us. I never felt this doubt until I read this book. Even before that, right from his college days, Sarang has recounted his memories of me in his book “Anubhav” which I came to know for the first time as I read this book. Have I ever returned that great affection he had for me? Did I have the same strong affection for Sarang?
It’s not that I had no affection for Sarang, but compared to his affection for me it fell far short. I now remember the many occasions when I disagreed with him, the times that I didn’t cooperate with him – perhaps for valid reasons—the times that I behaved in a matter-of-fact manner with him, the times I took him for granted. In my view, he was just one of my Directors. Though I was a writer, I now have to admit that I didn’t have the acute sensitivity that Sarang showed towards me.
This was the second coincidence that brought out the similarity in the relationships that existed between my father and me and between Sarang and me. Both of them gave me a lot. I also responded, but nothing compared to what they had given me.
The third coincidence. Since his death many photos of him have appeared in the newspapers. When I look at his eyes in these photos I’m reminded of my father’s eyes. This is the first time I noticed this similarity. Now when I see Sarang’s photo I look only at his eyes and feel as though my father is looking at me through those eyes, or that he’s looking at me through my father’s eyes.
I didn’t inherit my father’s eyes. I believe none of us in the family inherited those eyes. They were not large eyes. But they had in them a special intensity that Sarang's eyes had. A great enthusiasm for life in those eyes. A great curiosity. They were not the eyes of a man who keeps things to himself. They were frank and transparent eyes. Anyone who looked into them was transformed. He was frank by temperament, outspoken, gallant and forever seeking to benefit others. He was emotional. Behind his smile there was the innocence of a child. In his final days I could see in his eyes the fresh wounds he had had to suffer. But he never developed the bitterness of temper that most of us develop as a result of undeserved suffering.
The more I look at Sarang’s photograph the more I begin to see the similarity between him and my father.
It’s now over three decades since my father died. I don’t think of him very often now. I don’t have his photograph in front of me to remind me of him. I’ve been searching for a good photograph of him for several years but haven’t found any. Many photographs had been taken on different occasions. I haven’t left out any place where I could have found a photo of him. I often wish that he should be with me at least in the form of a photograph. As I age I feel the need for it even more. There is a picture of him with my brother in Pune. It has been magnified from a small, old print less than an inch in size. I had it enlarged from that small print by a student artist. But that is only a resemblance, not a photograph of him. That picture does not resemble my memory of him. And with time my memory of him is becoming faint. I can remember his words but not his voice. I’m able to see Sarang’s photographs since his death, and though there is no marked similarity between the two, I see my father in these pictures. I sense that I meet my father through these photographs.
My father died at the age of sixty-seven. I was then in my twenties. I’m now in my sixty-ninth year. So if one takes my father’s age at death I’ve passed the age by which I should have been dead. But from the day I learnt of Sarang’s death I’m beginning to feel more acutely the fact that my father died without my being aware of it. I remember my father’s death as though he’d died just a few days ago.
With the death of Sarang I feel as though my father has died again. And an old wound is becoming fresh again.
For days after my father died I couldn’t believe that he was not alive.
The same thing might have happened in Sarang’s case, but I’d seen him in a very serious condition, where he was surviving on oxygen. So I’m able to accept his death and the fact that I’m not going to see him again.
I first learnt that he was ill with Parkinson’s disease from Ajit Chitre, Dilip Chitre’s younger brother. Ajit was Lalan Sarang‘s younger sister’s husband. He was Sarang‘s friend. He’d warned me of the gradual deterioration that Sarang would go through, and said there was no cure for his condition. That prospect was frightening. I don’t know if this had been explained to Sarang, but when I met Sarang afterwards I was amazed at his natural self-confidence and felt that the scenario Ajit described was false.
But that prediction proved right. Sarang began to get older and more disabled by the day. And this was happening when Sarang was barely in his fifties. There was no remission in Sarang‘s disease. But Sarang was fighting its final assault with the courage of a born fighter. He was losing in this battle. He lost a lot of blood. The people around him were worried, but he didn’t allow himself to be mentally disturbed. He’d keep an even temper and get out of the loss he suffered every day, and struggle to recover what he had lost bit by bit. In his life he’d helped many others, but it wasn’t in his make-up to ask or accept help from others. He’d wave aside a hand extended to help him cope with his growing weakness. He also displayed my father’s insistence on being self- reliant. He suffered quietly without asking anyone for any help. He’d fought hard to protect the right to stage Sakharam Binder. He had a few people helping, but Sarang was the one who had to do all the running around. There were many who’d advise about what needed to be done, but no one but Sarang to do it. Sarang never begged for help from anyone. He did all the work without any complaint. He listened to all the free advice that was being proffered, but was never bitter about anything anyone said. “Sakharam” was cleared by the court and then got caught in the clutches of the Board of Censors. He had to start another battle. It meant new effort, new worries. But Sarang accepted it all with amazing strength as though he was made of steel. He wouldn’t think of backing off. I used to wonder, with a measure of guilt, whether his present condition, and the disease he now suffered from was not at least partially due to the strain he’d suffered during the struggle he put up for Sakharam Binder. I’d often feel that I was responsible for his deteriorating physical condition.
I’m not normally very sensitive. I’m aware of many of my failings. But they never bother me. I don’t remember ever feeling guilty in the context of the storm that arose round my play Sakharam Binder. Many were troubled by that play, but I don’t remember feeling guilty about it. Maybe, in such moments, the mind develops a certain insensitivity. But Sarang became pale and broken, and looking at him I began to feel guilty.
When I last saw him in the nursing home he was on oxygen, with a network of tubes woven round him. One of these went into his nose, another into his chest and a third into his hand. He’d become a log of wood as he lay on the hospital bed. He was unable to even move his finger. His eyes had disappeared behind his brow. He was struggling for every breath. There was a rasping noise coming out of his chest. Lalan, who stood by, with her eyes swollen, said, “Talk to him." He’s able to understand everything though he’s unable to speak. He might feel better if you speak to him. She moved closer to Sarang and said, “Look, Mr. Tendulkar is here to see you. Will you speak to him?” Sarang was unable to move his neck. He was unable to move his eyes toward us. In the midst of the rasp from his chest I felt I heard a weak sound. I went and bent close to his ear. There was so much I wanted to say. But I went dumb. I couldn’t say a thing. Priya, who was with me, spoke for me instead. While she was speaking I noticed a change in the expression on Sarang’s face. Her words seemed to have reached him. What I wanted to say was, ”Sarang, forgive me. I feel guilty about you.”
When it became clear that the court verdict in the Sakharam Binder case would go in our favour, Sarang came out with me into the gallery outside the court. I still remember the sob that escaped him. He must have suppressed it for months. He was now shedding tears and for a minute or two he wept like a child. His eyes were dry; they just looked red now, as though they’d shed blood. He said, “Let’s go in.”
Those tears were not tears of joy. They were tears of fatigue and tears of strain. He had suffered a great deal and borne the strain and the attacks against him without any word of complaint. His accumulated strain was now flowing out in the form tears. As I remember that situation I now feel very guilty. He had had to face that storm because he had undertaken to produce my play. If Sakharam Binder had not been written, Kamalakar Sarang’s life would have been very different. It might have been so much easier and happier.
When my father died and I reached Pune I saw him at night. In the darkness he was standing by my bed. His expression was peaceful and somewhat sad. In the emotion of the moment I said, “Please forgive me.”
I don’t need to be told that one can’t see one man in another. But I am still not convinced. I see my father in Sarang.
The pain caused by Sarang’s death will gradually wane. It might again suddenly crop up, will disturb my mind and then all will be quiet again. But at this moment I feel a great sense of guilt.
Was I right or wrong in writing Sakharam? Why did I write it? But I did not write it for Sarang. I didn’t even have him in mind when I wrote the play. I wrote it in a state of intoxication. I was physically writing it but it was writing itself. It might have been produced by someone other than Sarang. Maybe Dr. Shriram Lagoo would have produced it. Or maybe it would’ve just stayed with me for some years. Sarang came to know that I’d written a play. He came to me. I told him that this play may not prove to be good business. It’s not meant for you. He said, “Just allow me to read it. If you like, I won’t take it home with me. He read it right there in Kumud Mehta’s house, sitting on the swing in the drawing room. He read it and said, “It’s not good for business. But I’d like to do it. I asked him why he’d like to do it. He said, “I can’t tell you why, but it has taken possession of me.”
He walked into the calamity that was Sakharam on his own. I got tired of telling him not to do it. But I finally agreed to give it to him to produce.
Was this fate?
My father was religious. He had a strong faith in God. He spent a good part of his morning in a corner of his small house in front of family gods, saying his prayers and meditating. No matter how noisy it was around him – and it was bound to be noisy since we were living in a chawl in Girgaum – he wouldn’t allow his concentration to be disturbed . Mother prevented all of us at home from speaking loudly or making any loud noise while my father was engaged in his devotions.
Sarang was not religious like my father. He had a business sense which my father never had. But once he decided to do something he’d stand firmly behind it like a crusader and pursue his objective without any business calculations. Sakharam Binder was one notable example but there were others where he’d gone and taken a position without expecting any profit, and where he’d suffered losses which he bore silently. He would never even mention them. If he did, it was never with a sense of complaint or bravado. He’d mention it as an amusing incident. I’d rarely met this quality among other people. He was truthful without his being aware of it. He’d always take care not to be unfair to others while speaking. If someone else was unfair to him, it would trouble him. But if the person who was being unfair to him happened to be someone whom he respected, he’d point out the mistake but never quarrel about it. There was one such incident relating to Sakharam Binder. He said that Dr. Lagoo said something in one of their meetings. The Doctor did not remember the incident. Though Sarang was faultless in his recollection of the incident – I was a witness to it – Sarang did not strongly protest against Lagoo. It’s worth reading how skillfully he deals with this incident in his book The Binder Days. A person who speaks justly even when speaking about a person who has been unjust to him is, by my definition, a naturally religious person.
Sarang was a fighter, but he was also an emotional person; a person who was easily moved, and an intense person. He was like my father in this as well. My father was emotional. I’ve seen him crying when his elder brother was ill.
Both of them were totally honest. Once, my father and I were travelling together by train. My father had bought his ticket; I had a pass. The ticket checker entered the compartment. My father began searching for his ticket but couldn’t find it. The checker was getting closer and closer. My father became very restless. On his own he went to the Checker and said that he’d bought a ticket but was now unable to find it. He paid the fine that the Checker levied. Even then he was feeling embarrassed about what other passengers might say about him. He couldn’t look up again throughout the journey.
Sarang was in the theatre business. In this business there were ups and downs. But he saw more ‘downs’ than ups; yet I never heard that he had failed to pay anyone he owed money to. His accounts were clean. If it wasn’t possible for him to repay he’d tell the person about it beforehand. So if things went wrong, there would be no misunderstanding. But once a promise had been made he’d always pay. It was a rule he’d set for himself. In his case his word was legally binding. It was a sin to break one’s word. My father was the same way. And he kept true to his principle till his last day. Not to pay a due – even if it was a due to the government – was a sin by his code. He’d pay even if it meant borrowing temporarily from someone else. Sometimes it meant hardship at home, but he slept an easy sleep when he’d met his commitments.
Sarang began his career as an office clerk . But he wasn’t involved in the clerical job. My father’s job was also a clerical one. Sarang rose to become the chief clerk; but he was still not happy in his clerical work. He was fond of literature and drama. His friends were from these two fields. After working at the office all day, he’d do roles in a play at night. He used to direct plays. These were all amateur plays. At the time there was a prejudice against those who were engaged in acting roles in plays. He didn’t care. Among his friends was Nath Madhav. He published some of his books. They didn’t sell. He willingly paid the author something out of his meagre income as a clerk. And he saw to it that what he paid was no less than what Nath Madhav would have got in the market. These unsold books were arranged on shelves in the room and in the kitchen. They were also my toys. My father also wrote books, but he realized that what he wrote was inferior to what other writers wrote; so he made his own decision to burn them. When he was in a good mood – which wasn’t often – he’d sometimes read out entire passages to me from his books. He’d be lost in reciting those passages. He’d read out soliloquies from his plays. He’d sing out his songs. In the midst of his family problems and his business failures he’d spend pleasant moments in these memories.
Sarang also wrote plays. He used to say that it was his need as a businessman. If he was able to acquire the rights to a play written by one of his favourite authors he’d never remember his own plays. He met with some economic success that my father never had. He gave up his job and engaged himself in his favourite field. Apart from occasional business worries I don’t think he had any other worries. In Lalan he had an able wife , who also wished to make a living on plays and acting in them.
Had he not been devoured by Parkinson’s, Sarang might have lived a good life. He wanted to produce plays. He wanted to produce serials for television. He wanted to direct movies. I’d once written a story for him. The heroine of this movie was incapable of speech and most of the movie we’d visualized was without dialogue. We’d even wandered around and located some spots for shooting. In his younger days Sarang also used to write poems. He wrote about it during his illness. During his illness he’d often like spending his days in Malvan where he’d spent his childhood. He’d find the atmosphere there peaceful. He’d written about that as well. He was still hopeful that he’d win his battle against his disease. He was physically tired of life but he wasn’t bored with it. He still had the wish to fight and defeat his illness and do something worthwhile. Disregarding the decreasing capacity of his brain, he brought a computer into his house and began to write. He’d incorporated the Devnagari script into it. He began to walk around the house without anyone’s help by holding on to the wall. His practical mind had understood the seriousness of his disease, but his desire to live an active life was stronger than his illness. He was trying to restore his health bit by bit, but later on, what he lost to the disease was greater than what he could gain from it. Sarang must have suffered a great deal in his totally dependent condition. It was painful to see him in that condition.
If Sarang had been physically fit and had bought a house on the sea coast, and been able to spend his life there—even by himself—he might have lived there happily. He wouldn’t have minded Lalan not being there with him, and would have liked her to live her own life as always.
My father also came from the Konkan, but he was from Ratnagiri. He left behind everything that he had inherited and came to Bombay by himself. He went to school by eating his meals in other people’s houses by turn. He passed his High School examination but his fancy for drama cost him his college degree. He had to take up a clerical job. He spent his whole day in a job that he didn’t care for and spent the night doing what he liked most: literature, poetry and drama. He divided the hours of the day in this fashion. Later, he left his job and Bombay, and preferred to settle down in the unfamiliar town of Kolhapur. And after that he moved us all to Pune with the idea of getting involved in the book trade. He couldn’t manage it. So later on in his life it became important for him to earn his livelihood. Though it wasn’t his age to work as an accountant he took up one such job and came back to Bombay. His family was in Pune and he lived alone in Bombay, spending his night in a storehouse. I was with him in Bombay working as an apprentice in a newspaper office. When he found that he was required to falsify the accounts, my father left his job without any thought of what he would do next. He returned to Pune and opened a library-cum-bookshop. The idea was that he would stay in touch with the literary world. The enterprise didn’t prove to be a success. He sold his shop and accepted work as a proofreader. He continued this job even in his old age—till the very end—and died in Pune.
Sarang’s home town was Malvan. My father had lost a home town in both a psychological and physical sense. He’d lost his roots in Bombay long ago.
Sarang might have been more fortunate in that respect. But he was not fortunate. Before he had crossed fifty he met with Parkinson’s.
Both of them tried to understand and cope with their respective problems. They used to cope with difficult situations peacefully. But both of them had to face situations which would have made those living around them feel terrified.
I’ve seen Sarang getting angry. Everything seemed to go wrong during the stage rehearsal of Sakharam. In those days there was a belief among drama people that if the rehearsal went wrong the first show would prove successful. And if the rehearsal was successful, the first show would be a failure. Whether among drama professionals or amateurs groups, there was a lack of punctuality and discipline about doing things on time in those days. As a result, no one could say how the play would be received until the stage rehearsal. In fact, even when the first show was staged, the play would still be at its rehearsal stage—and that’s why this blind faith. Sarang, like my father, liked everything to be done systematically and properly. But if the people you work with don’t subscribe to the same belief what could a director do? The time set for the rehearsal was after midnight because the Rangbhavan stage had been rented for some other programme till then. The Rangbhavan theatre is huge like a stadium. Its open auditorium was large. That auditorium was empty except for those few of us who were connected with the play. Even the stage was large and we had difficulty in blocking off that part of it we didn’t need. It was already past midnight, and our rehearsal got delayed. . It took a long time to set up the stage. When the set was up it wasn’t what the director had specified. This was also not unusual in those days. Very often the sets wouldn’t be ready till the day of the rehearsal. The set that would be built didn’t match the original specifications.. It had to be set up in the best way one could manage. The items placed on the stage would be set up by convenience. Some of the items were there and some weren’t. The actors had to adjust to these unexpected variations. As a result it would often be a happy coincidence if the first show of a play turned out satisfactory. Sarang’s set was barely ready by the time of the stage rehearsal, but it wasn’t the same as the one used for earlier practice sessions. Some of the props were missing. There was much discussion about why they weren’t on stage. The lighting arrangements posed problems. The heavy lights had to be shifted from one point to another and this was a considerable waste of time. No one was willing to accept the responsibility for the mistakes. They’d blame each other and try to pass the buck. As I listened to them, I thought that if they’d used the same energy to do things properly there wouldn’t have been any problems. Sarang was watching all this with surprising forbearance. Time was wasted. The night was half over. The actors, who had their faces painted and their costumes on, were whiling away time smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. As the play progressed there were errors in the memorized dialogues. Sarang corrected some of them and made a note of the others. There was no life in what was taking place on the stage. Everyone was tired because they had practiced the same play during the day. I was present as the author of the play. I was troubled by the changes being made in the dialogues I’d written. So I interrupted the practice from time to time. (I then realized that the errors were so many I stopped correcting them.) Sarang put up with this too. The first show of the play was scheduled for the following afternoon. So many suggestions were being received for alterations, and that too at such a late stage, that the actors were naturally getting irritated. There were many scene changes in the play, and the lights had to be switched off before every change. Sarang was trying to reduce the interval between scenes changes. But every change was taking up too much time. There was a lot happening that should’ve angered Sarang. But he kept his cool. The result being that even by dawn the practice session wasn’t finished. The actors needed to rest before the first show which was on that same afternoon. Sarang also wanted a quick rehearsal before the actual play opening. This meant that the actors would have to reach the theatre long before the play began. This was difficult even from a technical standpoint. On top of it all this was the first occasion when Nilu Phule, who was basically a folk theatre actor, was to appear as a stage actor. He had difficulty memorizing the dialogues, and wasn’t used to the limitations imposed by the space available on a stage. In the midst of all this Sarang managed things with the patience of a yogi. I lost my head once or twice, but Sarang was cool. The third act was on and there was some error in the wing. It was a minor transgression and Sarang had made a note of many such errors before; he let them pass without further interruption. But during this whole period Sarang must have come to the end of his patience, and suddenly lost control and shouted angrily at someone. The person he shouted at was thoroughly shaken. Sarang‘s eyes were spitting fire and his whole body was shaking with anger. It lasted only a moment and I never saw it again. But Lalan must have seen it several times before. Maybe those who worked with Sarang were used to it. But I saw this side of him only once. If I’d seen him act like this during the time the battle for Sakharam was being fought, it wouldn’t have surprised me. Sarang had fought through that long period with great mental poise, with his strength fully summoned. There were many incidents which should’ve made him angry but he never lost his temper. He felt he had to write about all the toil of that period later on, but even in writing about it Sarang was always restrained; just and true to the facts. I never knew that a man could manage things in this fashion.
I’d always seen my father acting with constraint and forbearance. I rarely saw him talk back to anyone. During his last days I saw my mother doing everything that needed to be done, but I also saw her make him listen to all she had to say. While listening to her I felt troubled, but I never saw my father talking back to my mother. He would just listen. But my elder siblings give a different account of his reactions. He was never like this before. They said he was a very hot-tempered person. As evidence of this I have a memory from my very early childhood. It is like one of the very early memories that one carries. The house was dark because the door was closed. My mother was standing in a corner holding me tightly—and angry. I can still remember the tension of her body. My father stood in front of me, with rage showing on his face. Everything else is vague. That’s all. I never saw my father in that mood again.
Sarang may also have been hot-tempered and frightening once. He may have mellowed later for a variety of reasons and become understanding and peaceful. I never had to face that question again. The question had arisen for the first time. Or had he always been like this?
I also wonder why I thought of my father when I decided to write about Sarang. I don’t think of him often for days on end. Then why did I think of him just at this moment? Was there really some similarity in their temperaments or is it only my imagination? No two persons have the same eyes. Then why should I see my father’s eyes in Sarang’s eyes? And that too only after Sarang died, when I looked at his photographs as they were flashed in the newspapers.
This much is true: though Sarang has left the world, he has not yet left me. |
