Veteran journalist T.J.S. George’s words best describe him: “Outside the rarefied world of books, K.S. Padmanabhan was in all likelihood an unknown quantity. He was never flamboyant, he never projected himself, he claimed nothing. He was, as the poet said, in his simplicity sublime. But his vision made him, unheralded, a part of contemporary India’s cultural history. He belonged to the class of P. Lal of Writer’s Workshop and Shanbaug of Strand Bookstall – men of imagination who made a difference to their generation.”

Padmanabhan was mild-mannered, and his calm, smiling face reflected a serenity that cannot be put into words. Little was I aware of his inner world of books till reading what S. Muthiah, another senior journalist, recorded: “Shortly after he retired, he moved to the wilds of OMR, where he could peacefully do what he loved best, read all the time. Whether it was a pedestrian manuscript from an unknown author or the latest book he could download on Kindle, he read it all with equal pleasure.” Bishwanath Ghosh profiled this publisher two years ago, when he bowed out at 75 from Westland, which has been acquired by Tata’s. That was my first encounter with this publishing veteran, tucked away from the public eye till then. Bishwanath had called him ‘The Book Man of Madras’. At 77, just two years later , he is no more with us, and I lost the opportunity to meet him for an interview he had promised me.

I don’t know when I had met him first. I became a member of the Madras Book Club three years ago. Rare were the instances when Padmanabhan was not there at meetings, usually accompanied by his wife Chandra (herself an author
of a bestseller, Dakshin, a cookbook). When you asked for any information, he would softly say, “Ask Muthu [Muthiah].” His presence is best described by Muthiah in his tribute: “Though every meeting and speaker was a result of his efforts, he’d never take a front seat, standing somewhere at the back at almost every meeting with that ever present gentle smile on his face, enjoying the interest shown by the audience.” He would occasionally take charge of the proceedings, when Muthiah was absent, but of late he had asked V. Sriram to don the role of MC (whenever Muthiah wasn’t available) while he took a quiet seat “somewhere”. I never failed to say a ‘Hello’ to him at the Book Club meetings, to which a prompt smiling ‘Hello’ would be the response. He was reticent by nature, and I would wonder how such a successful publisher kept such a low profile.

I wanted to write about the Madras Book Club. When I asked Padmanabhan, he pointed me to Muthiah. When I met Muthiah, he told me the initial days of the Club were better known to ‘Paddu’ who had played a leading role in the founding of the Club. “You speak to him first,” he said. I told him what Muthiah had said and asked for a date to meet him. Before the meeting could take place Padmanabhan was in hospital and then he had left the world, quietly as was his wont. It’s so difficult now to think that meeting wouldn’t happen at all, that I have lost a treasure trove of information on publishing in India and his contribution to the history of the Madras Book Club.

Padmanabhan’s contribution to writing will be better understood by authors who have worked with him. Vinuthaa Mallya, a friend and publishing consultant, wrote on Facebook how she was received warmly every time she went to meet him and how she still preserves copies of the Indian Review of Books he had gifted her. Muthiah was its first editor. “A revival of Indian Review of Books would be the best remembrance of Paddu,” wrote Muthiah in his tribute.

George reflects the same sentiments when he writes: “Unpretentious, informal and genuine as he was, Padmanabhan would be happy to be quietly forgotten. But his associates have a duty, the kind of duty that J.R.D. Tata performed when Mulk Raj Anand returned home to Bombay after his prolonged stay in England. The novelist was fired by the ambition to start a magazine that would be a ‘loose encyclopaedia of the arts of India and related civilisations’. It was an expensive concept, but it became a reality because J.R.D. gave him a start-up fund along with ‘seven advertisements [per issue] and two rooms’ in the historic Army & Navy Building. Thus was born the quarterly Marg. Tata’s successors would honour the spirit of J.R.D. if they were to help revive their business partner K.S. Padmanabhan’s labour of love, the Indian Review of Books. Seven advertisements and two rooms can work magic even today.”

For a generation that has lost the pleasure of Indian Review of Books, its revival could bring back the vision it had, which is succinctly explained by Muthiah in his tribute: “He was very clear about what he wanted from the journal. The reviews should be in simple, lucid language that the average reader could understand and learn something about the book – making him want to read it and keep wanting to read more books.”

For me, he ever remains symbolic of intellectual vigour and simplicity that personified many eminent men of his generation. Madras that is Chennai, and the Madras Book Club a bit more tellingly, will surely miss The Gentle Book Man.