Legacy of a literary giant

Once, a friend who edited an anthology on the heritage of Kozhikode invited me to its release. I was surprised to see M T Vasudevan Nair’s name listed as the chief guest, for it was a dream even for established writers to have their books released by him. Known for his discretion, MT was always wary of people taking undue advantage of his presence. On stage, he spoke only about the publisher—a lanky, dark young man who had long been a travelling book vendor, selling books door to door. The anthology was his first publishing venture. MT had come solely to appreciate the man’s love for books.

The ripples stirred by the passing of the literary giant M T Vasudevan Nair, endearingly called MT, are yet to subside. Social media overflows with memoirs, images, and videos celebrating his immense contributions to literature, cinema, and literary journalism. Commemorative meetings continue across Kozhikode, and I had the chance to attend a couple of them.

These were not mere gatherings of literati nostalgically ruminating on his unparalleled legacy. Common people, many of whom had never read his works or had seen only a film or two, assembled to hear speakers unravel the essence of the man and his creations. Despite their limited exposure to his oeuvre, a profound sense of loss was evident on their faces.

MT was a man of few words, preferring to speak through his works. For Kozhikode, the City of Literature, he was more than a literary figure; he was a shared treasure, belonging to everyone. His novels and films transcended generations, crafting characters that were strikingly relatable. He wielded words like a magician, conjuring stories with effortless ease. His prolific contributions to Malayalam literature stand as enduring proof of his unparalleled talent. The more he wrote, the less he spoke, leaving his political leanings shrouded in mystery. His works never betrayed his ideological moorings, offering no definitive answers but inviting endless interpretations. For instance, his award-winning film Nirmalyam can be viewed both as a leftist critique of orthodoxy and a poignant lament for an oracle’s family grappling with the societal upheavals caused by Kerala’s land reform movement.

As he aged and gained stature, his home, Sithara, became a magnet for the high and mighty visiting Kozhikode; politicians, film stars, and literary icons alike. The next day’s newspapers would carry a familiar image: MT in his dhoti and half-sleeved cotton shirt, the top button undone, a pen ever-present in his pocket, seated in his iconic chair by a curtain-less window, greeting guests with a simple Namaste or a smile.

In an age where we attempt to bracket people, MT refused to be hyphenated. As speakers at the gatherings tried to decipher the man behind the words, the mood grew introspective, laden with the weight of unanswered questions. MT lived as an enigma; and in death, became even more enigmatic.