(Continued from last fortnight)
When school opened after the vacation, we still had no money for either food or train fare to go to school.
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. |
Paniker came up with an idea. “Paritosh, you and I will tell the old man that we are planning a figure composition for our final exam and we would like to study Sushil’s back. We want him to pose for us. Sushil would tell him that he would pose, but on principle he must get paid as a model. We are final year students, I’m sure he will not turn us down. If Sushil gets paid three bucks a day like any other male model, then we’ll have enough money every day for food and train fare and at the end of the week if we are careful our savings will enable us to buy our monthly passes and provisions for at least a couple of weeks.”
Thanks to Devi Prosad, Paniker and Paritosh were allowed to have me as a model. I posed for five days before the entire senior class and thanks again to our understanding guruji, I was paid a fee of five rupees a day instead of the usual three a day for male models. However, according to government regulation a student of the school couldn’t be employed as a model. So my name was changed to Chinnaswamy by Paniker. Twentyfive rupees those days was quite a large sum of money. It solved our food and transport problem for nearly a month.
* * *
Paniker was a wrestling enthusiast. Once we went to see an exhibition of professional all-in wrestling in which some of the stars of the time like King Kong, Dara Singh and Kartar Singh were taking part. On our way back home we dropped in to see Devi Prosad. As was usual with him, after a hard day’s work he was sitting on the veranda of his studio with a bottle of brandy and practising target shooting with his air-rifle on tin cans hanging from the branches of a tree in the school garden. Paniker started talking excitedly about the wrestlers. Devi Prosad listened to him for a while and then said, “Paniker, those fellows are really not good wrestlers in the traditional sense, like Gama, Gobar and other great Indian pahelwans. They are showmen and their wrestling is only for show business. I know a little bit about wrestling. I learnt it from a pahelwan when I was young.”
“Then, why don’t you teach us sir? We would love to learn wrestling from you.”
“Well, how many of you would be interested?”
“Besides me and Sushil, I’m sure we could persuade four or five others to join us.”
And so Devi Prosad agreed to teach us wrestling. An akhada (wrestling pit) was dug under the neem tree behind the studio, the expense for it met entirely by Devi Prosad. Other staff seeing this wondered, “Is this an art school or a lunatic asylum?”
* * *
The wrestling fever gripped us for over two years: Devi Prosad was a formidable wrestler. Under his tutelage we became more disciplined, learned some of the finer points of the sport and its usefulness toward achieving physical fitness. One day in the spring of 1940, Paritosh, Paniker and I sat under the neem tree and chatted with Devi Prosad. “Do you know,” he told us, “next week is Holi in North India. No Holi here in Madras, but we should observe it this year, right here in the akhada. Holi is an important festival for wrestlers in Benares. I’m going to invite a few of my friends – unfortunately males only. You three are invited.”
Among the guests that evening were two nephews of Sir Mirza Ismail, one was Dawood and the other’s name I don’t remember. They were a suave, sporting and sophisticated pair. The other guests were Jackson, the editor of Madras Mail, and Banerjee, the very anglicised manager of Connemara Hotel. Every guest was given a new dhoti, an angavastram and a Holi thread. The guests threw gulal at each other and drank champagne. There was a lot of laughter, fun, joviality, and feeling of camaraderie.
Late in the evening, at about nine or ten, a big black limousine pulled up near the akhada, out of which alighted the Maharaja of Pithapuram. Devi Prosad greeted him with folded palms and introduced him to all of us and then took a handful of gulal and rubbed it on his head and face. Pithapuram got very upset. “Stop it, stop it, Chowdhury, you can’t do that to me,” he shouted, and added, “You know I am a Brahmo. We don’t believe in these primitive rituals.”
“What?” Devi Prosad was taken aback. “Don’t be a philistine. You think Holi is primitive? Tagore is a Brahmo too, but don’t they celebrate Holi at Shantiniketan?” And so saying he rubbed some more gulal on Pithapuram’s head. The Maharaja, really angry, turned around and without taking leave or saying a word got into his limousine and drove away.
After the departure of Pithapuram, a totally sloshed Benerjee started an argument with Devi Prosad. “You know Chowdhury, sometimes you’re too bloody egoistic. Never gave what’s his name, the Maharaja, a ghost of a chance ... poor chappie. Awfully unsporting of you old chap. Now you say you’re big, right? I’ll bet a rupee for a paisa you can’t beat me, man. I’m too big for you, see too big. I’ll beat you any day.” Devi Prosad tried his best to calm him down. “Take it easy Banerjee. You’re too tipsy to stand on your hind legs. We’ll wrestle some other time.”
“Come on, Chowdhury, you brag too much. You know I’m sober as a judge. I’ll beat you any day, wanna bet, man?”
“You are insulting me in front of my students and guests and you’re my guest too. This is not nice. But guest or not, tipsy or not, you flabby old cow, I’ll have to take you on and teach you some good manners.”
The silk sheets were quickly removed from the akhada and they stood face to face in the centre of the arena a few feet away from each other. Suddenly, Banerjee, the taller and bigger man, charged with his head down straight at Devi Prosad. With the grace of a matador. Devi Prosad effortlessly sidestepped the on-rushing man and planting his left foot firmly before his opponent sent him helplessly cartwheeling over his thigh and into the air. Banerjee fell flat on his back, dazed but not hurt. It was a clean and sparkling exhibition of wrestling skill and there were spontaneous cheers from everybody.
* * *
Paritosh and Paniker finished school in 1940. Paritosh was appointed the art master of Daly College in Indore. He was also responsible for starting the Calcutta Group with Prodosh Das Gupta, Gopal Ghose and Rathin Moitra.
Paniker and I joined four other chaps from Kerala and rented a house on Gengu Reddy Street in Egmore. The other four of our fraternity were Kutty, who later became a well known cartoonist in Delhi, Kesava Menon, a clerk and an amateur artist, P.S. Menon, a radio engineer, and Radhakrishna Menon, a bright young lecturer at Pachaiyappa’s College. Paniker and I were the poorest of the lot.
Paniker didn’t have a job and made ends meet mostly by doing heartbreaking commercial work. Once in a while he was able to sell his watercolour landscapes to aesthetically undemanding English civil servants, who bought them more for sentimental, nostalgic reason rather than for any aesthetic needs. I was still a student at the Art School and my main source of income was selling an occasional painting and broadcasting flute recitals on All India Radio once in two months.
Paniker’s sensibility after finishing school, both as a man and as an artist, had undergone a devastating change. He was no longer the bright, optimistic and witty person he used to be.
One afternoon, Paniker and I sat on the balcony sipping tasteless tea. “You know, Sushil,” Paniker said. “I think I’m finished, finished as a man, finished as an artist. I feel so terribly worthless.”
“Come on, don’t be so melodramatic. What in hell is the matter with you? What’s bugging you?”
“I’m not being melodramatic at all. I’m telling you the honest truth. Have you seen me even pick up the brush lately?”
“No, but that’s because you have been feeling depressed. One of your usual, moody, low spells. You’ll snap out of it soon enough.”
“Not so simple this time, I’m afraid. I can’t paint even if I want to. I’ve terrible tremor in my right hand. I can hardly hold a brush, let alone paint.”
“Listen, you must see a doctor. I’m sure something can be done about it. Let’s go and see Doctor Krishna Pillai today.”
“No it’s useless. It’s not physical. It has something to do with my mind. I’ll never be able to paint again.”
“Nonsense, you’ve another hand, haven’t you? Some time ago I read about an artist in America who became a paraplegic after a car accident. He now uses his teeth to hold a brush. You’re much better off. Try to paint with your left hand.”
So it was that Paniker started to paint with his left hand. At the outset it was rough going. I remember him with a brush in his left hand standing before the canvas and murmuring to himself, ‘Steady lad, steady’ and then trying to paint which obviously required tremendous mental and physical effort. But slowly he overcame his handicap and, after a while, was able to paint with his left hand as well as he did before with his right hand. Paniker had a strong will and a tremendous drive to be successful.
* * *
One evening, Paniker and I were in Devi Prosad’s studio admiring his latest mixed media painting, The Defender of The Faith, when a message from the Director of Industries was delivered to him. Devi Prosad read the letter and smiled, “I’m really glad. Finally they have approved it. It’s so difficult to convince those philistines in the Department of Industries. They think of The Art School as a waste of money.”
“What’s it, sir?” Paniker asked.
“Yes, yes, you should be interested, Paniker. They have finally approved of a new painting instructor’s post I’ve been fighting for a long time. It will be in the papers next week. Bring your application personally to me. You know I’ll do all I can for you, but do keep it a secret.”
For that one job, artists from all over India had sent in their applications. Jobs for artists were practically non-existent those days and for a serious painter, a job in an art school was like a dream come true. Artists, except for a very few successful ones, were considered the waifs and strays of society.
Among the applicants for the job were a few who were well known and had studied art abroad in England and France. Paniker became increasingly more despondent after submitting his application.
On the day the selection tests started, Paniker came to me and said, “Hey you pattar, put a little curd dot on my forehead for good luck. You may be bad Brahmin but a Brahmin after all and good friend I hope.” And so I put a little dot of curd on his forehead and he went off for the test.
(To be concluded)
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