Taste for culture stomach for politics

Taste for culture stomach for politics

Karunanidhi. In Tamil, it literally means ‘a trove (a store of valuable or delightful things) of compassion’. Did he live up to his name? Oh yes, most certainly, even though his arch political rivals may have a different story to tell. But then, let’s face it, Muthuvel Karunanidhi was a wily politician who had to survive the vicissitudes of Tamil netagiri — which he did very well indeed, considering the fact that he managed to administer the state as Tamil Nadu chief minister five times, despite E V Ramasamy’s original party Dravida Kazhagam’s multiple fractures over the years.

While much will be written about Karunanidhi’s political legacy and his death leaving behind a political vacuum, the real loss is that he may be the last of a very select tribe of politicians who were not just connoisseurs of culture and litterateurs, but were also genuinely talented writerscum social reformists, who translated vital social and ideological reformist ideologies into popular templates — using media in the forms of print, audio and audiovisual in pre-digital times.

The movie became his most powerful medium, as he churned out intense screenplays and lyrics that enthralled generations who got roused enough to enrol in his party as loyal members. One wonders, what if Karunanidhi’s mastery with Tamil language, literature and culture had extended to the English language as well. Could he have then made a serious dent in India’s national political scene instead of remaining a regional giant?

All political parties suffer the affliction of corruption. But here’s an anecdote (a short amusing or interesting story about a real incident or person) that reveals another, softer side to this strong and unbending Tamil neta who had tasted both great success and crushing failure, and yet who did not allow either to disturb his equilibrium.

One evening in the late 1970s, when Karunanidhi was out of power, he set out in his car with his driver and two aides. On reaching his destination, he rang the doorbell. It was twilight, and he realised that there was a power cut, so he proceeded to knock on the front door. Considerable time passed before a young girl peered through the window to see who the visitor was.

“Yaaru?” (Who is it?) the girl asked, with the man’s features not visible in the dark. “Naan thaan, ma, kadavai thirakkalam,” (It’s me, you can open the door) Karunanidhi replied. “I don’t recognise you, and my parents are not home, so I can’t open the door,” the girl said from behind the closed door.

Once Karunanidhi introduced himself, the embarrassed girl quickly opened the door and ushered him into her father’s office. He chatted with the girl and asked the girl to pass on a message to her father, a very popular Tamil film actor known for being a political agnostic. (Someone who does not know, or believes that it is impossible to know, if a god exists) “Tell your father that I came to wish him on his birthday today. Do you know, your father is among the very few celebrities who continues to come to my place on my birthday to wish me well, whether I am in office or not.”

Such was the reverence with which the Tamil movie fraternity regarded Karunanidhi, who, to them — like Periyar and C N Annadurai before him — was a star in the firmament of literature, philosophy and social activism, rather than a mere politician or a minister. Not all Tamil actors were into politics the way M G Ramachandran (MGR) and J Jayalalithaa were. But they were all in awe of Periyar, Annadurai and Karunanidhi just as they admired Subramiania Bharathiyar, the revolutionary poet.

With the passing of Karunanidhi, what we have really lost is not just an astute (Able to understand a situation quickly and see how to take advantage of it.) politician — or a diehard Tamil loyalist who mooted the idea of a separate flag for Tamil Nadu — but a cultured man of letters, who espoused the cause of the less privileged. Not just with pen on paper, but on the ground as well.