Not about his poetry

He had surprised us all when he said, ‘I don’t care too much about poetry. What I care most about is human relationships.’

This photo is from 10th April 2023

When asked why he wrote poetry then, he told us, ‘I write because I have to, but the emotions do not go away. They stay, choking the throat, dimming the vision, making the voice tremble.’

‘We learn to live with contradictions. Every morning I see thelas packed with bleating pitiable goats and lambs being led to the slaughterhouse, yet do we give up eating mutton? We don’t.’

‘What do you do when the contradictions become too much?’ 

'I write about them. I have never shied away from speaking out on social issues affecting us.'

That was a big battle. Yet there was something so fragile, so 'zerbrechlich'  about this quiet unassuming man who stood in front of us.

He was remarkably open and honest. ‘I tried writing even earlier but didn’t succeed. And I enjoyed Physics while I studied it and taught it. It taught me discipline, it taught me rigour, it taught me precision and it taught me perseverance.’

When asked about the secret of his youthful vigour even at 70, he replied, ‘I have no expectations from anyone. Therefore I am never disappointed.’

Then turning to me, he said, ‘Be happy with what you have, my dear. Don’t ask for too much from yourself or from those around you. If you do, you are bound to be disappointed.’  

I asked him why he thought so, he replied, ‘I can see that you are too much of a perfectionist, you push yourself too hard.  What is more, you expect others to behave in the same way as you do. But the world is made up of all kinds of people.  Most of them never measure up to your expectations. And that disappoints you. So you stop trusting others and land up doing all the work. But that cannot be good if you have to do it all the time.’

The words hurt then but I quickly forgave him for I could see that every word of what he had said was true. I was amazed at how he had discovered so much about me in such a short time, for we had met for the first time just a couple of days ago.  The answer was self-evident – keen observation.

His words also showed that I had gained his affection and his trust. He could have ignored us all – he was big enough to have got away with anything. But he had watched me quietly as I had gone about doing what I had to. And he had figured me out accurately.

But how could one so big and famous remain so normal, so totally untouched by the fame and the adulation?

‘I love to be with young people -- they keep me going and fill my life. There are many young boys and girls who visit us all the time. We are friends,’ he said with a smile on his face and the twinkle in his eye.

There was this childlike innocence to him, there was something youthful in his restlessness, even in the way he dressed. His quiet smile, his gentle presence and soft voice, invited trust and friendship.

As I waited for him on the verandah of the Circuit House facing the river, on his last morning in Guwahati, I watched the mighty river go by, and something made me compare this wonderful 70 year old poet to the mighty river. Just as the waters of the river flowed on regardless, cleansing and purifying all that came in contact with it, taking upon itself the burden of all our dirt and sin, it seemed that in a similar manner, Jayantada had chosen to take upon himself, by inviting us to open up to him, the burden of our youthful uncertainties and anxieties, leaving for us only the soothing, healing warmth of his affection and his kindness.

And in parting he said, ‘I would like you to consider me as just another friend, a friend who believes in you.’

P.S. The piece above was written more than 20 years back when I first met Jayantada.

Recently when I called him to ask how he was keeping in these corona-times, he said, ‘Sometimes I am amused at people’s reactions to the pandemic. It seems to have caught everyone by surprise. But haven’t we raped our earth enough? What else did we expect?’

When I asked him how he spends his time during the lockdown he told me, ‘I try to learn a new word every day.’

Jayantada is over 90 years old now. We have remained friends.