Laughter in a harsh world: Selections from poet Siddalingaiah's autobiography

The pandemic has claimed Dr Siddalingaiah, the Kannada poet who deployed impish humour against a harsh world.

Here is a selection from S R Ramakrishna's translation of his autobiography 'Ooru Keri'.

Magadi and Manchanabele

Ours was the last house in the Dalit colony. There had once been a house beyond ours, but its roof had collapsed, and mud walls, three or four feet high, were all that remained of it. Like me, children from the other houses climbed onto the squat walls and peered into the distance for a glimpse of their parents returning from work. ‘Come back soon,’ we sometimes shouted to them. Whether they could hear or see us from such a distance we didn’t know.

One day, we noticed something. A man had fastened a yoke onto the shoulders of two other men, and was ploughing the fields. It was amusing to watch the two men trundle on like bullocks, while the third followed them, swinging a whip. When I realised that one of the men carrying the yoke was my father, a strange agony gripped me. Some women came up to us, and said things like, “What a plight has befallen poor Dyavanna!” This doubled my agony. When my father returned home after toiling like a bullock all day, my mother warmed up some oil and massaged his shoulders with it.

Read | Siddalingaiah’s poetry spoke for Dalits

Popular at school

Our teacher Nagappachar was bored in class one afternoon. He told the students to sing. One of the boys blurted out, “Sir, he can do inspector lips.” Intrigued, the teacher turned to me, and demanded, “What is it? Come on, show it to me.” I did as told. Egged on by my classmates, I enthusiastically mimicked the school inspector’s speech, gestures, expressions and gait. The teacher’s eyes welled up as he tried to control his laughter. Every day, after that, he would make me stand during the last period, and say, “Do something.” I was afraid I would get a beating if I mimicked Nagappachar. So I would entertain the class by squinting, contorting my face like a mad man, and grinning stupidly. Very soon, I became an important student in my class.

Story of two teachers

At Anekempayyana Doddi, the school had two teachers---a man and a woman---and we called both of them ‘sir.’ Four classes were conducted in a single room. The teachers sat side by side on chairs and taught us. One day, the master gave madam a stinging slap. She started wailing. We heard her say, through her sobbing, “You said you would get ear studs made for me, but you haven’t.” He snapped at her, “That’s the last thing you’ll get.” She became distraught. On such occasions, he would just sit around sulking. And then, suddenly, he would give her another slap. She would curse him in return. Sometimes, he beat her so hard that she ended up looking like a crushed coconut. This was good entertainment. Hiding our glee, and pretending to be scared, we would watch them squabble.

I lost interest in these squabbles after I found out that they were a married couple. Soon enough, it occurred to the teachers that the students were enjoying their fights. They started sending us out into the forest to collect firewood for their house. I didn’t enjoy walking in the hot sun and gathering fallen twigs and branches. I would set out from home as though going to school, but walk towards the riverside. I would place my slate and books on the bank, take off my clothes, and jump into the river. I loved keeping my head above water while the rest of my body went under; I did this for hours, until it was time to go home. Thus, my days in Manchanabele were spent more on the riverbanks and hills, and at feasts and weddings, than on studies.

Boys in high school

Some students woke up at four, took a bath in cold water, and started studying. They competed with one other. A few were busy trying to learn by heart notes given by their teachers. They would not speak to anyone. Sometimes, we heard English words in the middle of the Kannada prayers. Those caught up in memorising their lessons wouldn’t pray: their lessons were their prayers. A couple of them went mad.

Time out in the graveyard

Our house was tiny. I was outside most of the time. I once came upon a sprawling graveyard. I stepped in and saw tall old trees and colourful flowering plants. I gazed at the tombs in fascination, and developed a liking for the graveyard. I started visiting it every evening. I would sit on one of the tombs. Lines of poetry came of their own accord. I started jotting them down. I observed the stillness. In the beginning, the graveyard workers looked at me with suspicion. They later got close to me. I asked one of the elderly men whether ghosts exist. He shook his head to say no. “I’m a ghost myself,” he said.

I would be in the graveyard after six every evening. “Where is Siddalingaiah?” a friend once asked my mother. As was her wont, she said, “In the graveyard”. He imagined my mother was grieving and started wailing. My mother had to console him and tell him I was alive and well.

Periyar in Bangalore

Periyar Ramaswamy Naicker was visiting Bangalore. Some people had planned a protest. We were active in the Periyar reception committee. The moment he arrived at Town Hall, slogans denouncing him rent the air. We shouted slogans praising him. P Lankesh, who spoke at the meeting, said Periyar was not afraid of slogans denouncing him as he had grown in the midst of them.

Periyar’s style was mesmerising. He was a Kannadiga who had become influential in Tamil Nadu. Annadurai and Karunanidhi, popular leaders there, were his disciples. He began his speech in Tamil by saying, “There is no god, no god, no god at all. He who created god is an idiot. He who propagates god is a fool. He who salutes god is a wild beast.” He excelled at mocking the stories of the puranas. “If Ganesha with a fat belly sits on a little mouse, won’t it get squished?” he asked. “If Parvati could create Ganesha with the dirt of her sweat, how many years had it been since she took a bath?” He took no note of the symbolism in the myths.

That evening, Periyar and other leaders were immersed in a discussion at Yadava Hostel in Gandhinagar. Agrahara Krishnamurthy and I got bored and stepped out. Some Periyar opponents, waiting in the park outside, beat us up, and Krishnamurthy sustained injuries. My lip suffered a tear, and I had to limp because of a blow on my leg. The assailants had gone to the police station and lodged a complaint that we had beaten them up. The police arrested us. But unable to see our agony, they took us to hospital and got us treated. Prof Nanjundaswamy and Prof Dharmalingam intervened, and we came out of the lock-up.

Dalit Sangharsha Samiti

We founded the Dalit Sangharsha Samiti. I toured several places in Karnataka, making speeches and reading my poems. On many occasions, I reached a place in the middle of the night and slept on the street till it was morning. When I got off the bus at Aldur near Chikmagalur, it was midnight. I had to walk a long way to the Dalit Sangharsha Samiti camp. It was cold, and five or six people were sleeping on the street. To feel safe, I went and lay down by their side. They were beggars. “He is a thief. Be careful,” one of them said. The group started discussing me in whispers, and so I introduced myself.

They wouldn’t admit to being beggars. They claimed they were big landlords on a pilgrimage to Dharmasthala, disguised as beggars only to test people’s sense of charity. They gave me a friendly farewell in the morning.

A Dalit in Bangalore Rural district had been assaulted. He had a huge injury on his head, and it was bandaged. We told him to get a photo taken so that we could hand it to the press. In the photo, it turned out he was smiling. The photographer had said, “Smile”. The assault case thus became weak.

Working at a factory

(Siddalingiah claims to know winding and gets a daily wager’s job at a silk reeling unit. The supervisor soon realises the boy is no good at it, and gives him a slap. His heart melts when he sees Siddalingaiah standing mutely, and he sends him to a wedding nearby to wash utensils.)

When I was returning after emptying garbage, someone recognised me, and came forward to talk to me. Before he could open his mouth to say, “Aren’t you Siddalingaiah?” I contorted my already grimy face and put on a limp. After working in the house for a week, I got a tip and was sent back to the factory. The supervisor in shorts slowly taught me the job. I became good at winding.

Workers were paid once a week. With the money I earned, I bought a book by Ambedkar called Asprishyaru (Untouchables), translated into Kannada by Kumara Venkanna. Looking back, I wonder how much of the book I understood then, but I was overjoyed. I worked for three or four months at the factory and bought many good books. I occasionally went to a Bihari hotel to eat biriyani.

Boosa incident

With his provocative statements, B Basavalingappa had become a controversial minister in the Devaraj Urs cabinet. He once said Gandhiji didn’t know the meaning of truth. On another occasion, he told the Dalits to fling gods’ pictures into the gutter. This shocked the traditionalists. He said much of Kannada literature was boosa or cattle feed. His remark sparked what came to be known as the boosa agitation, with students demanding his resignation. The protests raged even after he explained what he had meant.

A car arrived at our hostel. Basavalingappa had sent for me. I met him. He told me about the agitation and suggested we issue a counter-statement in his favour. I agreed, and in consultation with D R Nagaraj and other friends, issued one. The trouble, instead of subsiding, got worse. But our statement prompted Dalit and progressive students across the state to demonstrate in support of Basavalingappa.

The responsibility of rallying Dalit students and taking out a procession fell mostly on me. After our procession, our opponents were to take out theirs. Twenty thousand had lined up on that side. We had about three thousand on our side. A clash was imminent. “Let’s see what happens,” Basavalingappa had said.

That idea of a street war did not appeal to me. I quickly ended the public meeting and indicated to the students to leave for their hostels. Ashwathnarayan, a student leader, rescued me from those waiting to assault me. The early ending of our meeting displeased Basavalingappa. He took me to task. I told him in humility that we only wanted to express support for him, and not take part in a street fight.

Basavalingappa's thinking was insightful. His aim was to shake up a stagnant society. He frequently made statements that jolted and stirred up people. At times, he would say scalding things in a soft, natural voice. He had to resign. His resignation made him popular among the Dalits.

Basavalingappa was ambitious. He aspired to become the president of India. He wanted to play the role of Rama, but society pushed him to play Hanuman. He did not like Hanuman’s role. Being a rebel, he chose the role of Ravana.

Love play

We were hosting a felicitation at the Central College for K S Narasimha Swamy, the poet of love. We went to City Market to buy a garland. A student leader, who had come along, was to garland him. Unfortunately, he spotted a girl at the market, and locked himself up in a hotel room with her. We kept knocking on his door, but he just would not come out. We went back with the garland. While the poet of love was being honoured here, our leader was making love there. I thus got an opportunity to garland Narasimha Swamy.

(Siddalingaiah's autobiography 'Ooru Keri' appears in three volumes in Kannada. These slightly touched-up excerpts are from Vol 1, first published in S R Ramakrishna's English translation. Brought out by Sahitya Akademi, Delhi, the translation was also called 'Ooru Keri'. 'A Word With You, World', published by Navayana, Delhi, brings together Vol I and II in translation.)