Legacy: Letters from eminent parents to their daughters

by Menon, Sudha

I wonder what it was when you were in your early teens in school that gave you the sense of purpose to start on your interesting academic journey. Was it your love of reading, through which you experienced many worlds vicariously, or your realization that it was scientific accomplishment and contribution to humanity that was more important to chase than monetary goals? Whatever be the trigger, the transformation of our child into a focused young woman intent on succeeding in her Bharatnatyam dancing, her literary accomplishments, and becoming the Head Girl of the school in addition to finishing among the top graduates in the all-India ICSE exams has been nothing short of extraordinary. I must confess, that it was with a feeling of trepidation that we let you choose your path and fly off alone when you were still shy of sixteen years to High School in the US. But we had then, as we have now, the confidence that your own intelligence, common sense, and strong sense of values and purpose would keep you secure and focused on the vision you had set for yourself.

  Dear Karuna, values are themselves a transient phenomenon in a world where social mores, acceptable forms of behaviour, and the expectations of one’s peers keep changing. Our family itself has moved from extreme orthodoxy and somewhat dogmatic beliefs to a fairly liberal view of the world and we have let you choose your own road and follow your heart and mind without fear of reprobation or disapproval. The width and depth of knowledge you have acquired, not just in your chosen scientific discipline but in a variety of areas, have enabled you to build strong convictions that have, in many cases, rubbed off on our own beliefs. I grew up as a spiritual, God-fearing man but your company and our various debates during cherished family vacations around the world, have finally made me an agnostic!

  Karuna, both your mother and I have worked hard over the last few decades, setting up new companies and pursuing with a passion many new projects. This has also made me feel that maybe some of that time we spent was borrowed from time that we could actually have been with you. But then again, your mother and I think too that we showed you by example, what it is to follow your heart and take your dream to fruition. If our relentless involvement in our work—one that is very essential to our well-being—has played a role in forming the intelligent and independent young woman that you are today, I am happy. Seeing your own devotion to your calling and your work ethic makes us extremely proud today. Medicine is a calling that can change so many lives, Karuna, and we are proud you have made that call to change people’s lives for the better on your own.

  Karuna, if the measure of success is the ability to bring about a betterment in the lives of people, then you are already on the way to becoming a very successful person. Your mother and I have always tried to help people in our own individual ways because we are aware that life is a transient journey and the productive time at one’s disposal to contribute to other people’s lives is really short. We all have the opportunity to make a difference and yet, so few of us actually go on to do something for others without expecting something in return.

  Achieving success in life is certainly not easy, Karuna, but then, nobody promised you a shortcut to success either. Part of being a successful person is also the ability to relate to people, build enduring relationships, and help other people achieve their goals. Your mother and I personally know and take an interest in the people who work for the organizations that we built in the last decades.

  You yourself have spent more years away from your country and your family and have been the recipient of the kindness of countless people that you have come in touch with along the way, so you know how important it is for each of us to reach out to those around us and lend a helping hand. Be good to people, my dear. If the only way to success is by trampling on other people, there is no point in it. Competition will always be part of our lives but our success should not and need not be at the cost of other people’s happiness. I am convinced that money, success, recognition are by-products of your life goals and life missions.

  Karuna, your mother and I have worked hard to ingrain in you a sense of how important a family is in the larger picture of our lives and we are hoping that when you start your own family someday, you will remember to keep them at the centre of your priorities too.

  So what are my hopes and dreams for you, dear Karuna, as you embark on the next stage in your career which will see you emerge as a mature member of an elite physician-scientist cadre? You should and will be successful in your own pursuits and I hope you will retain the love for humanity and the bonding with your colleagues that are always as important as individual career success. I am sure that in your own life partnerships and family matters, you will choose well and build a nest that will nurture and keep you happy in the midst of all the pressures that your global career will surely entail. But most importantly, I am sure that three generations of family who have been successful in their own right but still remained good human beings will give you the power to be a wonderful inhabitant of this planet in your own right.

  I wish you all the best and the power to be the best you can be and realize all your dreams.

  With all my love,

  Appa

  Jatin Das

  atin Das is one of India’s foremost contemporary artists. Born in pre-independence India in 1941 in the village of Mayurbhanj, Orissa, the acclaimed painter grew up in a joint family amid a large bunch of siblings. As a young boy, Das developed a keen eye and a passion for art and would spend hours in the fields and woods around his ancestral home, keeping himself immersed in drawing and painting. Often, he would wander around the village craft fairs, returning home with prized possessions—handcrafted, lacquered toys fashioned by impoverished artisans in the colours of the rainbow.

  When he ultimately told his family about his intention of pursuing his passion for art, they were disappointed, partly because in those days, art was not an accepted profession to follow for sons from respectable families. A career as an artist was also seen as a low-paying job, not remunerative enough to support a family. Regardless of the opposition he faced, Das decided to leave home and study art at Mumbai’s prestigious JJ School of Arts. Those were tough days and money was scarce, but the young man revelled in his passion and got other treasures along the way—artist friends from around the world and friendships that have endured to this day and have changed the way he looks at the world.

  With an illustrious career spanning over half a century, Jatin Das is revered for the honesty and boldness of his work. He is credited with 55 one-man exhibitions in different parts of the world. Das is also a keen teacher who has lectured at art and architectural colleges and museums like the National School of Drama and the Jamia Millia Islamia University, among others. A humanitarian sensitive to the human condition, he has often expressed his strong views on incidents of social injustice in the community on public platforms.

  His fascination for traditional Indian handicrafts continues to this day. He is currently consumed with his grand passion, the JD Centre of Art at Bhubhaneshwar, Orissa, a private, non-commercial institution which celebrates tribal, traditional, and contemporary Indian art. The Centre will eventually house his large personal collection of handcrafted pottery, terracotta, old utensils, folk and tribal crafts, toys, tools, and jewels.

  Over a quarter of a century ago, Das was presented with an antique, handcrafted fan (pankha) in Rajasthan.The beauty and the ingenuity of the pankha fascinated him enough to set him off on a quest to collect pankhas from all over the world. Das is today the proud owner of over six-thousand five-hundred fans and is on the way to setting up a dedicated fan museum in New Delhi. Along the way, his fan collections have been exhibited at the Fan Museum, London, the National Art Gallery, Kuala Lumpur, the Reitberg Museum, Zurich, and the National Museum, Manila.

  In 2012, he was conferred with the prestigious Padma Bhushan award for his contribution to the field of art. But he believes that his journey as a student of art and life is a work in progress.

  Getting hold of the elusive artist was in no way an easy task and took
many months of first tracking him and then persuading him to write the letter.

  At over seventy years of age, Das is a delightful man, fired with a passion about art and life in general, that people half his age would find hard to muster.

  When I first mooted the idea of writing a letter to his daughter, he categorically refused, delivering a stinging lecture to me on the media and its intrusive ways. He castigated the folks who actively seek out the media and let their life hang out with all its warts and moles in public space, just so that they can get their names featured in newspapers.

  The relationship between a parent and a child is a very private thing and not something he would want to share with the rest of the world, he explained. Not wanting to give up easily, I cajoled, trying to explain to him that this was an inspirational letter not just for his dear daughter, but for all the women in this country who could take life lessons from his experiences. I think that did the trick, along with the fact that I urged his actor daughter, Nandita, to contribute to the book as well. He would, I think, have smarted and bristled if the pressure had come from someone else but coming from his daughter, it was a request he simply couldn’t say no to. When he did write the charming letter, he insisted that I call it a ‘note to her’ and not a letter, which is more of a personal exchange between a father and a daughter.

  I am delighted to present the note that he wrote—full of nostalgia, memories of his own childhood, of the years that he spent raising his children, and of his growing concern about the direction in which our world is headed.

  In a world where balance sheets and bottom lines have taken control of our daily lives, this letter reminds us all that there is a world beyond the call of money, one where honesty, decency, and concern for the people around you still matters.

  A NOTE FOR NANDITA

  Preface:

  One’s family is a private space. The media today is intruding into the private lives of people, and the people at large are not shy or hesitant to spread themselves thin and expose themselves and their personal lives to the public. I, for one, strongly believe in the sanctity of the private space.

  Children are very special to their parents and vice-versa, especially when they are little. And I reminisce those moments very dearly.

  My dear Nitu,

  I know you will be surprised to see a typed note by me, one being printed and read by others even though it is meant only for you.

  Your childhood was spent in small flats, travelling between the urban cities of Bombay and Delhi. Contrastingly, my childhood was spent in the old, princely state of Mayurbhanj, in a large family consisting of five brothers and a sister. We grew up in a big house with a garden extended with ponds and a farmland where I spent my time until I was seventeen years of age. I remember my mother saying, ‘No one has come today, I don’t feel like eating’. Sudden visitors were always welcome with open arms.

  When I moved to Bombay in the sixties, many of my friends came and stayed with me, though I was staying in a single room flat at the time. At twenty-six, I got married to your mother. You were born in Bombay. Eventually, we decided to move to Delhi and six years later, Siddhartha was born.

  We lived in Nizamuddin, in a first floor flat with terra red flooring which I got polished and smoothened so that you were comfortable when you crawled. This ‘house’ became ‘home’ to all my artist friends who came and stayed with us. You knew all of them well and received their affection and caring.

  My studio always occupied the largest room in the house. You grew up with the smell of turpentine and saw a painting grow day by day. I always painted bare figures and both you and Siddhartha were never shy about it. Poets and artists breezed in and out all day and friends from Bombay, Calcutta, and various parts of the world came to stay with us. Slowly, the Nizamuddin home in Delhi became a guest house.

  I hope you remember all the happy times we spent in that flat. I was housebound because my studio was at home. I was not only the cook and the gardener, I was also the babysitter, changing nappies and feeding you all. Since your mother was working full time at the National Book Trust, I was fully in charge of the house. You may not know I changed your nappy many a times.

  I remember my friend Paritosh Sen would always come and stay with us and would babysit you when we went to parties. At other times, we would bundle you up and take you with us to exhibitions and get-togethers. I taught you paper cutting and tooth brush painting on stencils. I vividly remember when we were at an exhibition showcasing artist J. Swaminathan’s work at the Kanika Chemould Gallery and you told me, ‘Look, look baba—Swami Uncle is also painting like me, the way I spray on stencils with a toothbrush.’

  Many of my artist friends’ children and you grew up together. Ramachandran and Chameli’s daughter, Moli, and Paramjeet and Arpita’s daughter, Boban, were your best friends. We had a lot of shared meals together and I still have several black and white photographs of that time.

  For all festivals and vacations, we went home to Baripada, our hometown in Mayurbhanj, Orissa where you and Siddhartha (Nitu and Babul) spent quality time with my mother, brothers, cousins, and their children. At our home, all cousins were considered brothers; there was really no concept of a ‘cousin’ as such. When my mother was ill, you stayed back for a month to nurse her back to good health. After my mother died, our visits to Baripada became less frequent. But the innumerable photographic mementoes were enough to remind us of the good old days. With both my parents gone, the family slowly disintegrated. Everybody moved to other parts of the country, and here in Delhi, we found a home away from home.

  When you were tiny, I remember you trying to pull out a leaf from a plant. I had gently twisted your little finger and you had said, ‘It hurts’. ‘It must have hurt the plant too’, I remember telling you. I never forced you to study or do anything. For me, you learnt and imbibed everything yourself. Whenever you got a chocolate, you first shared it with the maid and then ate it yourself.

  You went to Sardar Patel Vidyalaya (SPV) instead of Delhi Public School (DPS) or Modern School. Your school had a very progressive curriculum that put a lot of emphasis on the importance of studying art and culture. Many of our friends’ children studied there as well.

  You did well in your studies and always had varied interests. You even studied Tamil and went to a village adopted by your school to do shramdaan. That is probably from where your notion of social work developed further.

  I am sure you remember we had a Morris Minor, the round baby car which we had to push to get it started so it could take you to school. But since the battery would be weak, it would often die and I had no money to replace it. You would get angry as it had to always be pushed to start, in the process of which you would inadvertently get late for school. It was shell white in colour and as we drove past the neighbourhood, the children would always shout, ‘Here goes the mendhak (frog)!’ I have the Morris Minor all done up and bedecked now.

  Do you remember for one of your birthdays, Leela (Leela Naidu, acclaimed Indian actress and wife of Dom Moraes), who had also designed your dress, bedecked you like a fairy to dance in her garden in Nizamuddin? Do you remember Dom was your godfather whom you would affectionately call Uncle Dome?

  You learnt Odissi from Madhavi (Mudgal) for many years. It’s a pity that you gave it up. I remember you joined the street plays of Safdar Hashmi’s Jan Natya Manch. You took them very seriously. I went to see a few of those plays. They were very touching. I knew Safdar because I taught in the art department at Jamia Millia Islamia. He was a wonderful and gentle person, killed by political hooligans because his plays were strong, outspoken, and forthright. You were supposed to act in that same play when the goons attacked. But you were away at Rishi Valley, teaching. We were all shocked and stunned.

  I never do paintings about events. But I did a large canvas in oil on Safdar, which was auctioned in Delhi at the Lalit Kala Akademi, and the money was jointly shared between SAHMAT (Safdar Hashmi Memorial Trust), Alkazi Founda
tion for the Arts, Habib Tanvir, and many others that had been set up in the memory of Safdar. It was the voice of the creative community.

  You have always been actively involved in social work. I remember you travelling to the tribal pockets of Orissa and Gujarat to work for the women and children there. You also learned pottery at Sardar Gurcharan Singh’s famous Blue Pottery in Delhi. Later, you made a documentary on him called Imprint in Clay.

  I never had anything special to give my children, kept no bank balance, no nothing. The only thing I did have to give them was my affection. But somewhere I’m sure you both share the ethics and concerns that I nurture. After your Master’s degree, you took a year off and went to teach at the Rishi Valley School and travel across the country. You have worked on various films on social concerns, even with first-time directors, in different languages. But your first directorial debut Firaaq got me worried because of the socio-political undertones in the film which was based on the aftermath of the Gujarat riots. Though I respected your conviction and courage, at the same time I was scared for you because of the prevailing political situation.

  On your first trip to London, you had lived with a very dear friend of ours—Maurine Ravenhall—and one day she had asked you to cook. Although you had never cooked at home, you had the taste of good food in your palate and you must have cooked a meal from this memory of yours. They raved about it.

  This also reminds me of your first trip to New York when you had called me. I had told you, ‘Beta, keep your head on your shoulders’ and you had replied, ‘Baba have you ever compromised? Neither will I.’

  While I am writing this note, so much water has flown under the bridge. You have all gone your own ways. Now you are a mother and you are going through what I went through with you. Nursing your child.

  I had never asked for favours all my life and I am glad my children have grown up with similar values.