H Narsimhaiah: The man in the khaddar cap

“Mane illa, matha illa... hendathi illa... makkalu illa….” (No home, wife, children...)

“So why should I siphon off college funds?” he laughed. We were seated in the kitchen on two newspapers spread on the floor.

“Newspapers do have their uses,” he added mischievously.

This was an interview with H Narasimhaiah (HN) in 1984 when he was awarded the Padma Bhushan. He had invited me to the “poor boys’ home” of the National High School for a meal of anna, saaru and majjige—his diet since 1935 when he arrived here.

He had walked 85 kms barefoot from his village for two days and two nights to reach his destination. He had completed half a century in this institution as a student, lecturer, principal, professor, president and finally the architect of several affiliated schools and colleges.

But, HN did not change with time or circumstances. He remained the son of a poor labourer in Hosuru near Gauribidanur, sitting on the kitchen floor and eating a sparse meal. As head of Bangalore University, “the barefoot Vice-Chancellor” walked the corridors without footwear.

Schooling was the beginning of a long journey for HN. After completing the Master’s degree in Physics, he returned to the National College in a new avatar. From there, it was just one step away from a doctoral program at the Ohio State University in the US. A big leap for a village lad who could read, write and speak only Kannada throughout his primary school days.

“Come and see my terrace”, he said after lunch. We stepped into a tiny enclosed space adjoining the kitchen. Hanging on a clothesline were a khadi shirt, panche and towel—HN was a brand ambassador for Gandhi’s homespun khaddar cloth. A Gandhian in the purest sense, he lived a spartan life. His belongings could still fit into the small black trunk he carried
from his village.

“I am saved the trouble of locking my door,” he quipped.

HN’s easy humour was a part of his persona. I remember how he held up his hand when the audience clapped at an impressive university gathering, and whispered: “Don’t disturb the people sleeping in the back rows!”

Again, during a minister’s speech in his college, I asked him “Do you mind if I leave?”

He retorted: You mean “escape”?

The president’s office in the National College was always open. No one guarded its doors. HN sat at a long table with his Gandhi cap perched jauntily on his head. Students, teachers and admission-seekers walked in and out freely.

A visiting journalist recalled how he saw this director of twelve institutions coolly climb onto the table to retrieve a file from the top of a cupboard.

That spoke volumes about a man whom power or rank could not corrupt.