(written 15.04.2024)
“Shouri”, “Showrie”, “Shourie” — that was the name he was called at home, and by those who knew him well. My infant tongue could only manage “Thouduli”; my children called him “Dui”, sometimes adding “tata”. That a man of such distinction and achievement would happily let everyone, of all ages, address him so casually speaks of his self-assurance and inner confidence. He rarely talked down to people, no matter what their standing, treating even young children as equals when conversing with them.
Paradoxically, this man of letters had a reputation for reticence, choosing silence over empty talk — if he was a man of few words, the words were carefully chosen. But when he was with his close friends, especially those from his college days, his conversation could be sparkling with witticisms and anecdotes.
To this day I miss the twinkle in his eyes that would show when he was enjoying something — food, music, a movie, a joke, a work of art, or the company of his grandsons. I never heard him raise his voice. I recall one occasion, when he was being rudely badgered on the phone by a junior colleague, his voice became extremely soft as he even more calmly and gently put the person in his place.
Very early in his life did he seem to give up having expectations of people, which I supposed saved him from the toxin of resentment. He instinctively avoided confrontation and argument While he was an excellent teacher, he did not try to change people, especially if they did not measure up to a task, but just didn’t engage too much with them. If he came across as aloof or indifferent to some, it was perhaps for this reason.
He had two workplaces at home: One was the round dining table with no fixed seats, where he read the newspapers marking them with a blue pencil, and ate his simple meals — vegetable-rich pulusu- or chaaru-annam, perugu-annam, or chitranna, with vegetables on the side. He was no autocrat at the table, and for him eating together was a way of communing. The other was his study table, to which he went when he needed the solitude to craft speeches or write articles. He also had an amazing ability to multi-task: listening to classical music, playing Scrabble with Kamalamma, doing the Herald Tribune crossword, or reading through the latest book that had come out. Despite his punishing work schedule, he managed to read through, and often review, at least a handful of substantial books a month, fiction and nonfiction.
What amazes me to this day is how he, who lived as busy and demanding a work life as can be imagined with a fair amount of travel, seemed to squeeze time out to not only write very regularly to his parents, siblings, and a vast circle of friends, but to spend quality time with us. On weekends or holidays, he would drive us (and any visiting relatives and guests) to different historical sites across Delhi and take us to music concerts and art exhibitions, dog shows, libraries, public gardens, as well as regularly visit close friends and relatives in different parts of Delhi. He had an intimate and natural knowledge of all his hometowns — Bengaluru, Mysuru and Delhi (and possibly Bombay as well -- I never went there with him)— and the buildings, the history, the soil, the flora and fauna — trees, flowers, birds. This knowledge was not the kind that came from study and research, but was somewhat innate (like that of his dear friend Shivarama Karanth).
Shouri and Kamalamma were both steadfastly self-reliant — washing their own clothes, doing the dishes, cleaning the car, dusting the house with its countless books and artefacts, cooking. This was very unusual in bureaucratic Delhi, with its absurd hierarchies. Kamalamma, of course, complemented Shouri with her expansiveness — she was lively when he was quiet, she was passionate where he was equanimous. Housework and word games — and dancing the kolaata — was how they bonded. (When Kamalamma passed away, a dear family friend sent me a most eloquent 1-word condolence message: “Scrabble”).
Shouri’s love for his family was not demonstrative at all. Rather than expansive hugs, except perhaps to the grandchildren, his affection was expressed in the little things he did for us, or how he recalled small events from our childhood. His love for his mother ran very deep, his eyes welling up on seeing her photo just days before he passed away. Towards his father he had a sense of duty and a protective instinct. And he loved his siblings — which they reciprocated with sheer adulation towards him. Not that he was not cognisant of the foibles of all of us in the family, but he seemed to accept us for who we were.
Shouri lived a simple life, making few demands on the world and people around him, caring deeply for his environment, but without any overt show of this innate concern. And yet that very simplicity embodied an elegant minimalism, an aesthetic exercise of choice — for the functional form, abjuring meretricious — in his writing, his clothes, his food, his manner, his values.
