I loved the large terrace in front of the room where Kalida and I lived in Madras. The terrace had a low protective wall on all sides and was surrounded by tall coconut trees. Paniker, Paritosh Sen and Kothandaraman often came to see us in the evenings. We would sit on the low wall talking and listening to the soft murmur of the sea breeze blowing through the swaying leaves of the coconut trees. Sometimes I would play an evening raag on my bamboo flute and they would listen quietly, sitting like shadows in the gathering darkness of a matchless Madras evening. Kothandaram, Paritosh, Mukundadeb Ghose and Dutta, an engraver, shared a three-room upstairs flat in Pudupet, not far from where we lived. Paritosh and Mukundadeb were good cooks and quite often on holidays we used to get together at their place for lunch. On one such Sunday morning a whole lot of us had gathered there.
Devi Prosad Roychoudhury. |
Paritosh was cooking khichri with vegetables and Mukundadeb was busy making tea. The rest of us were just gossiping; “I really miss Gopal Ghose,” Kothandaram said. “Old Gopal, what a wild character and what a dedicated and wonderful artist. There is nothing more important to him than painting. He was possessed like some of those French chaps you know – Van Gogh, Gauguin. You know Sushil, he used to live here with us. There must be a cart load of his sketches still lying around somewhere. He used to go out to the villages and bring back a bundle of water colour sketches every day. Made us feel like lazy louts: Walking around eight to ten miles in the hot Madras sun, can you imagine the intensity of his inspiration? Choudhury heard about it and bought him a brand new bicycle. Good chap, our old man, Devi Prosad.”
“Yes”, Paniker said, “Gopal is not only talented but is also very sensitively aware of his special gifts as an artist. However, sometimes the way he acted was simply hilarious although he himself always appeared to be very serious. One day after a matinee show in George Town we both went to Harrison’s and had a couple of beers. It was late in the evening when we were returning home on our bicycles. Near the fruit market a policeman stopped us and asked us to light out lamps. Gopal, all of his five foot thin body straightened up and stiff, told the policeman, “What? Do you know who I am? I am Gopal Ghose the painter. Look at my eyes. They can see light better than anybody, the subtleties of light and colour, the mystery of tonality which you silly fools can neither see nor dream of. Go away, I tell you it’s not yet time to light our lamps.” The tall and hefty policeman was mad. He caught hold of Gopals’s thin wrist in a tight grip and shouted at him, “Ennada Thiradan – stupid thief, periya artist ni? Vaada Gosh vaada.” He wanted to take him to the station and charge him for obstructing justice. I had to plead with the policeman and tell him in Tamil that Gopal was a little off his nut. He finally let us go. Just a drop of alcohol and Gopal thinks he is six feet tall. Great chap, I miss him too.
Gopal Ghose later became one of the better known painters of India. We were good friends and whenever I visited Calcutta he was always very nostalgic about his art school days in Madras and remembered Paniker, Kothandaram and the other artist friends. As he grew older, Gopal Ghose started drinking heavily and ultimately died a very sick and lonely artist. But those of us who knew him well will always remember him as an intense personality and a true bohemian.
Mukundadeb Ghose was a friendly person but in some ways he was also a very funny man: We knew that he was not a homosexual but he used to dress like one, put rouge on his cheeks, lipstick on his lips, surma in his eyes and would act in a very effiminate manner. He was worried about finishing school and starting life as an independent artist. It was not easy for artists those days. “You know chaps,” he said, while brewing tea for us, “I’m finishing school this year, and don’t really know where I’ll go or what I’ll do for a living. I don’t have a home. I need some money badly. Devi Prosad has very kindly offered me an excellent commission. His friend Mr. Iyengar – you know the lawyer and collector of South Indian bronzes – wants a series of paintings inspired by the Kama Sutra but done in very realistic style. I need models for that you know. I’ve Thelma, she is quite willing to pose, but where can I get a man? I need a man and I’m willing to pay him well. Can anyone of you chaps tell me where I can get a sporting stud?”
Biswamohan Sen, the Oscar Wilde expert, said, “My goodness man! It’s a great offer and I’ll be glad to accept it. Why not? Combine business with pleasure and incidentally help a friend in need.”
Biswamohan’s acceptance of Mukundadeb’s offer was incredible. Paniker asked him, “Biswamohan, are you serious, man?”
“Of course, I’m serious, Paniker,” Biswamohan replied. “You know what Lord Henry says in Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray? He says, ‘Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about. But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory as my own. It belongs to nature, not to me. Pleasure is nature’s test, her sign of approval. When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy. Sin is the only real colour element left in modern life.’ So my dear friends, I accept Mukundadeb’s offer wholeheartedly. I’ll sin, I’ll have my pleasure, be happy and be good.”
Biswamohan Sen finally gave up art as a career. It was for the birds, he told us, for utter fools who glorified poverty and misery for the sake of art, or for the rich like the Tagores, who could afford it.
Several years later, he came to visit my wife and me with a basket of fruits which must have cost him quite a bit of money. He was doing very well, I was told, with the ‘money circulating society’ he had started in Madras. He had a car, but he had come to see us on an old bicycle.
“Where’s your car?” I asked him.
“Sh... sh, don’t ever mention it, don’t let anybody know about it, especially our artist friends. They are like leaches – of course there are exceptions like you or Paniker – but most of the others would sponge on me, borrow my car and ruin it. I never take my car when I visit my artist friends.” That was the last time I saw Biswamohan Sen.
Although we were not present during Mukundadeb’s creation of the realistic Kamasutra masterpieces with the help of Biswamohan and Thelma, we did have the opportunity of seeing the end results which turned out to be pretty good indeed. With the money that he made from the commission, Mukundadeb Ghose went off to Kashmir to paint mountains and populars. What happened to him after that nobody knew.
It was not until two or three months after I had joined Art School that I was invited to Devi Prosad’s house. The occasion was a party given by Mr. and Mrs. Roychoudhury to a select group of senior students. I was invited because Paniker and Paritosh had spoken to Devi Prosad, with friendly exaggeration no doubt, about my musical ability. Devi Prosad was a great lover of Hindustani classical music. He had never learnt music systematically, but a highly sensitive ear and a perceptive musical attitude had enabled him to develop the understanding necessary to enjoy even the most complex subtleties of a raag.
I still remember the excitement I felt as I entered Devi Prosad’s drawing room for the first time. The bedrooms and the drawing room were on the upstairs of the two storey house.
The drawing room was large with a highly polished red floor. There were a few Persian scatter rugs here and there on the floor, as well as a couple of stuffed tiger heads shot by him.
Along the north wall of the room under a big picture window was a low chowki covered with a beautiful red and blue Bokhara. On it rested a harmonium, a tanpura and a pair of tablas.
On the off-white walls at eye level hung some of Roychoudhury’s well publicised and well known paintings: ‘Harris Bridge at Night’, a pastel blue, green and orange projected his secretive imagination which made one point, went into another and wove a varied thoughtful texture, unfolding an intangible world which stirred the viewer and let him interpret it the way he chose: ‘Sumatra Birds’ and ‘Gold and Green’ in mixed media; ‘After the Storm’ – the wonderful study of a wet crow in black and white; ‘Nirvana’ – a dark, brooding composition of figures in dramatic light and shadow and his large, delicate water colours of mist and mountains. In one corner of the room, on a display block, was one of his finest portrait sculptures – Babuji – a head study of his father.
Seen against the backdrop of his time, Devi Prosad stands forth as somewhat larger than life – as one of those stormy titans who held an era transfixed by the extraordinary power of their imagination and the huge scope of their labours.
A man of unpredictable creative impulse, Devi Prosad’s work alternated between grim, gloomy observation, fanciful mystical flights of imagination and bright, colourful ebulliance. His affinities with literature, his aesthetic emotions at times tinged with sentimentalism, his language of gesture and a penchant for symbolism have become unfashionable now. But during his early days as a creative personality he was the embodiment of both vitality and change in Indian art. So we must not forget that Devi Prosad has a place, both as a classic end and a new beginning.
That evening, for the first time I met Mrs. Charulata Roychowdhury who was a Brahmo Samajist and an ardent admirer of Rabindranath Tagore. She greeted me and said, “Iris tells me that you are a good singer. Will you please sing a few Tagore’s songs for us?”
“Dolly,” Devi Prosad interjected, “I think we should let Sushil sing what he wants to. I would personally love to hear him sing classical music. I respect Rabindranath as a great man and a philosopher – for his poetry, for his profound thoughts on aesthetics but, frankly, I just can’t stand Rabindra sangeet. Why spoil such beautiful poems with hodge podge melodies?”
“Come on, we ladies would like to hear Rabindra Sangeet. You can have your classical music after that.”
Devi Prosad and Charulata were very fond of each other but they were also two, very different kinds of people. In spite of his fame as an artist and success as a man of the world, he always was a bohemian at heart, an artist who was never in tune with the upper crust of the soceity which constantly tried to court him. He often told us, “I can never be all manners and no man even to please my wife.”
His unconventional and at times wild manners (once at the opening of an exhibition he told a Western educated, flirtatious and talkative wife of a highly placed Indian Civil Servant that she knew nothing about art but had a delectable behind) sometimes embarrassed Charulata – a charming, sophisticated and educated woman whose concept of middle class morality and prim and proper behaviour was in sharp contrast to her artist husband’s.
The Indian and World Arts & Crafts is a journal we had never heard of till a well-wisher sent us a fascinating series of articles that appeared in it in 1985. They were by an expatriate artist and art critic SUSHIL MUKHERJEE, who in them looked back at his memorable days at the Madras School of Arts then headed by the renowned artist Devi Prosad Roychowdhury as well as painted a picture of Madras in the late 1930s and early 1940s. The series titled ‘Devi Prosad and His Disciples at the Madras School of Arts’ is featured in these pages in a somewhat abbreviated form. |
(To be continued...)
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