S L Bhyrappa
Credit: DH Photo
It was a day in 2003. I was holding the steering of a Maruti Esteem car which was plying the Santeshivara-Nuggehalli-Bagur road. Seated beside me was S L Bhyrappa, and it was his car. My limbs trembled mildly by the presence of that goliath. I had still not come to terms with that unfamiliar car, and was also wary of the possibility of Bhyrappa reclaiming the steering if he noticed my timorousness. I was not for losing the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of being his chauffeur.
It was two months earlier that I received a telephone call from Lingadevaru Halemane of the Institute of Language Studies, Mysuru, enquiring if I would produce a documentary on Bhyrappa for them. I was delighted, but I spilled my anxiety before him. "I am game, but would Bhyrappa consent?"
"Leave it to me," he said, "He would surely consent considering that a national award-winning director is making it." He eventually informed me that Bhyrappa had consented, and that I was to meet him.
I held discussions in this regard with Bhyrappa in his house in Mysuru. I had read all his works and had made notes. All this took up six months. I then drafted the screenplay of the documentary. I met Bhyrappa again and asked if he wanted to read the screenplay. He excused himself saying that it was my medium, and my prerogative. Later, I led my team with camera et al to Santeshivara, and the said car ride with him was in this context. There remained one last anxiety, viz. the caution of Halemane. He had asked me to be careful with Bhyrappa, for he was a strict disciplinarian, and wouldn’t mind distancing himself if he did not see eye to eye with my ways. Halemane shook hands with me, wished me good luck, and smiled. I couldn’t help thinking if that mysterious smile wasn’t an appeal to somehow accomplish the mission! I was only to discover that Bhyrappa was rather very genial.
All along the slow drive, Bhyrappa indicated the towns, houses, trees, people, temples etc. that bore nexus with his childhood. If I was already anxious about my driving skills, I was now impelled to multitask: shift my sight from the road to the spots, and make mental notes of his talk. Nothing of what he shared was unimportant. Another screenplay was forming in my mind, for by then I had got accustomed to the car. I initiated a conversation.
"Sir, why were you christened Bhyrappa?"
"The family deity of my lineage is Bhyraveshvara. It is a practice in families adherent to this God to christen one of the male progeny with the name of that God, and I was the chosen one. In my childhood people called me Bhyra, Bhyranna. When I shifted from my village to Mysuru city to pursue high school, I developed discomfiture with that name. There was a classmate of mine whose feelings about his name matched that of mine. We decided to get our names changed. It called for consulting a lawyer and shelling up some fee. I couldn’t afford it, for I was struggling to make both ends meet. My buddy somehow managed to arrange money. I resigned to retaining my name. I even began liking it when a teacher of mine said, ‘What is in a name? We should lend credence to our names by noble deeds.’ And much time has rolled since. Even if I want to, I can’t get it changed now; rather my readers would not want it changed." Bhyrappa smiled. I regretted not possessing a camera at that moment!
Having earlier missed the chance of capturing Bhyrappa’s smile in my camera, I confess that I was in anticipation of one. But how could he smile when all his recounting was about his afflictions? We had camped in Santeshivara for three days. When we visited Channarayapatna, Bhyrappa took us to the Lakshmi cinema where he had served as a gatekeeper. "The movie Chandralekha was showing then. It ran for twenty-three days here, two shows a day. I watched all the forty-six shows. I committed to memory all the dialogues and songs therein."
Bhyrappa, in effect, took us on a tour through some sections of his autobiography Bhitti. Those landmarks were to become the nodal points of his creativity later on. I needed a lad for the role of a young Bhyrappa. How would Bhyrappa be in his 10th year of age? Nobody knows. No photo was available. Bhyrappa turned saviour again. He summoned his sister’s grandson and said, "I feel that I was thus then." We vacillated none. I signed him up for the role. I had his niece perform the role of his mother, Gauramma.
I continued to serve as his chauffeur some more. We drove to Mysuru with him in his car. We shot at the school where he had studied and the orphanage where he had lodged. I asked myriad questions to him. He patiently answered them all. But the smile that I was in anticipation of never lit his face.
I could never have dreamt that one day I would meet with Bhyrappa and have a protracted conversation with him. What more may a fan ask for? I have to recount my childhood some. If my memory doesn’t fail, the first SLB work that I read is Anveshana. I would be 15 or 16 then, and was studying high school. My native is Dandinashivara. This and Bhyrappa’s Santeshivara and are just about 50 km apart, belong in different taluks, but in the same coconut county.
I very much liked Bhyrappa’s writing style. The characters, situations, conversations, and idioms in his novels were typical of my native place. I have even come across many a character of his novel in my village. Hence I could easily identify with them, and therefore developed affinity with them.
I think it was his novel Anveshana. And I think the main character therein is Vishvanatha. Dejected in life, he once attempts suicide. He takes to pacing between the rails from Tiptur, and is in anticipation of a head-on train. Even after he has walked past the Karadi and Aralaguppe stations, he is not faced with a train. He walks on up to Banasandra station. No luck still. He rests some in the Banasandra station. He is assailed by conflicting thoughts. Eventually his decision to commit suicide takes a back seat. If Vishvanatha had continued his railway trek for another 3 km, he would have reached the Ammasandra railway station, and my Dandinashivara was less than a kilometer away. Engrossed in the novel that I was, I was disappointed that Vishvanatha had failed to walk up to my native village. I made a mental note to ask this of Bhyrappa if and when I met him any time.
I participated in the 'Padmavyuha' programme broadcast by Doordarshan. The chief guest of that episode was Bhyrappa. That was when I first saw him in person, but I could not near him then. I saw him at a few other events, but could not make contact. I had heard people remark that he is not easily approachable, and therefore I resigned to my hard luck.
Later, I directed the movie Munnudi. It was planned to be screened in Mysuru, and I desired to invite Bhyrappa to the show. I didn’t know how to go about it. I spilled my desire before Krishnamurthy Hanur, who was a common friend of ours. He said that Bhyrappa hardly watched movies, but he would still give it a try. It was a pleasant surprise for me the next day to see them at the theatre. Hanur introduced me to Bhyrappa before the show began. Not a single crease on Bhyrappa’s face punctuated. Not even when I stated that I belonged in his coconut county, Dandinashivara specifically. How then may I ask him about my musings on Vishvanatha of Anveshana?
After the show ended, I awaited him at the exit gate... My friend re-introduced me to him. Bhyrappa looked at me keenly. I thought he would say something about the movie. But his lips did not dislodge. Unable to bear the silence, I spoke up. "Sir, I am very happy that you came to watch the movie. This movie is based on a novel. I too am a student of literature. And you are my favourite novelist."
His stolidity still did not slacken. He lingered for one more second and walked away! I was disappointed. I felt dejected that he did not give an opinion about the movie — good or bad. Still, there was no let up in my veneration for him. I sought solace in the fact that he sat through the two-and-a-half-hour movie.
Munnudi went on to win the national award. My second movie Atithi also was awarded. I nursed the hope that at least now Bhyrappa would reminisce me; congratulate me. Nay! It was thereabouts that I landed that opportunity to produce a documentary film on him, and that marked the cessation of my yearning. I could presently meet him and speak to him often and to my heart’s content. I sent him the DVD of my third movie Beru. He watched it, and called me to congratulate me. He spoke to me for about half an hour, and that was a very happy moment.
Meanwhile, I produced a 10-minute documentary on Bhyrappa for the Department of Information of the Karnataka government. One day in 2018, he called me and conveyed to me that the Central Sahitya Akademi has plans to do a documentary on him. At first, Chandrashekhar Kambar wanted to direct it himself, but presently he was unable to. So, would I take it up? What else could be more endearing for me! Once again I did a road tour in his company. The very same Santeshivara, Bagur, and Nuggehalli but with more of memories and recordings. The smile still remained elusive.
An imperceptible smile
In this era of camaraderie with him, I permitted myself to express that stupid remark about Vishvanatha. "Sir, why did Vishvanatha of Anveshana check himself at Banasandra? If he had walked a few more kilometers, he would have reached my village. We would have rejoiced that development." Know what his reply was? An imperceptible smile! I was unfortunate again, for my camera had emulated the dodging ways of Bhyrappa’s smile! It was sometime later when I read his autobiography Bhitti, that I got to know what that imperceptible smile meant. I was aghast!
There seems to be special nexus between Bhyrappa and the visual media. By now his four novels are made into movies — Vamshavruksha, Tabbaliyu Neenade Magane, Matadana, and Naayi Neralu. Daatu and Gruhabhanga are serialised for TV. Bhyrappa’s storytelling is ideal for the visual medium. Why then are only a very few of his novels adopted for the screen? The reason is that Bhyrappa had not been liberal with consenting to such requests. And his reservations were not without reason. Though his stories have the potential for visual adaptation, he discerned if the director had such potential! In the 1970s, thespian Dr. Rajkumar desired to produce his Nirakarana as movie. He even discussed it with the author, and was game for whatever quantum of royalty. But Bhyrappa declined.
Two years ago, I produced a video feature called ‘Chintana-Manthana’ for the ‘Dr. S. L. Bhyrappa Sahitya Pratishthana.’ It featured 15 scholars from varied fields interviewing Bhyrappa on his works, life, thoughts, philosophy, music, and of course, literature. Thanks to the Covid-19 pandemic, I stuck to my studio and produced the audio book of Avarana.
During my association with Bhyrappa while I produced the documentary, I asked him this question: "In what way do you think that a reader should be receptive to your works?" He said, "A reader should reckon them as literature. It is not tenable for him to take to social reformation, political revolution, or contemplate to bring about sweeping changes to this and that. No literary work can achieve them. My works at best help in honing the readers’ life experiences."
Humans, fauna, and flora — the born must all die. But works of art? Mona Lisa of Leonardo da Vinci has been around for centuries. How may we say that it will meet with its end any time in the future? Many a sculpture, painting, literary work, music, and theatre (including dance, movies, TV, etc.) finds its way to the hearts of connoisseurs, and remains there, warm. So I believe, do Bhyrappa’s works.
P Sheshadri is a national award-winning filmmaker who has directed documentaries on the renowned Kannada writer S L Bhyrappa's life and work.
(This is an edited version of Sheshadri's article on his journeys with S L Bhyrappa.)