In the tributes that have poured in for the late, great cartoonist, RK Laxman, the humour of his work has been emphasised over and over again. But it's commonplace for cartoonists to produce humourous drawings. That's what distinguishes them from illustrators after all. Laxman, by contrast, was first and foremost a brilliant artist. The chuckle is a bonus.
The word "cartoon" did not originally mean a funny drawing at all. The word came to English via French and Italian, and was the name for a kind of "strong paper, heavy paper, pasteboard"(http://www.etymonline.com) that might be used by artists for making preliminary sketches. For this reason, there's a famous "cartoon" by Leonardo da Vinci, of a man's head, drawn in a reddish crayon. It was intended as a study for a mural and is a wonderfully vivid sketch, but it has no potential for jokes or humour. The modern usage began in the mid nineteenth century, in magazines and newspapers.
Even though we all smile at them, a high proportion of Laxman's cartoons are sad, perhaps even tragic. For instance, there's one from January 23, 1953, (*TIMES OF YESTERDAY/RK LAXMAN), in which a citizen is shown ascending a flight of steps leading towards the Parliament building. He is shown with his chest puffed out, smiling with pride on the first step. Written on that step is the word "HOPE". The next step reads "HOPE AND FAITH". As he proceeds upwards, he grows increasingly bedraggled. By the fifth step, which reads "HOPE, FAITH, DEVOTION, COURAGE and SELF-SACRIFICE", he is shown in tattered clothes, stooped with age and absolutely bewildered. The Parliament building is still many steps away and out of his reach. The caption reads: "Too many demands on the common man who is on the path to a free republic." And that was 60-odd years ago, at a time when optimism in India's infant democracy was high.
Another one, some 20 years later shows the Common Man garlanding a triumphant Mrs Indira Gandhi with the assembly election results. He and the lady beside him, presumably his wife, are both dressed in tattered clothing. Though her expression is angry and disapproving, Mrs Common Man says, "There we are, again affirming our faith in your performance, Madam!"
Yet another shows the Common Man being ushered into a bustling space centre. The title of the drawing is Man On The Moon Project. An excited scientist is introducing the diminutive, dhoti-clad arrival to the rest of his colleagues with these words: "This is our man! He can survive without water, food, light, air, shelter …"
The bitterness implied in all these and in so many other cartoons is surely very deep. I don't believe Laxman ever willingly championed the rich against the poor. In his cartoons, he stood alongside the downtrodden and the underprivileged. He never ceased to lampoon the chicanery, venery and bottomless greed of politicians and industrialists. Other cartoonists have certainly done the same. Indeed, it's the rare comic artist who champions the rich against the poor! But while other artists wield sarcasm as a weapon, using jagged pen strokes and harsh images to make their point, Laxman's lines are soft, curving and lyrical. They are, I believe, the result of brushstrokes rather than hard pen nibs. While researching images online for this article, I was surprised to find the work of several other cartoonists displayed alongside Laxman's drawings, some of them clearly created as imitations. Nevertheless, it's quite easy to tell his apart from the counterfeits because of the painterly quality of his lines. Other cartoonists draw to earn a living out of short-lived snickers. He drew for posterity.
Aside from the quality of his artwork, there's also the precision of his observation. He was never satisfied with merely representing, for instance, the formidable Mrs Gandhi in a sari, bearing the white flash in her hair like a bolt of captive lightning. When he drew her, it was with a keen awareness of the way in which she wrapped her sari, the fact that she favoured crisply starched, hand-loom weaves, the faint sheen on her heavy lidded eyes. He threw darts at all politicians but he gazed with equal attention at each one. Even when he exaggerated their least attractive features — their warts, their hooked noses, their gap-toothed leers — it was with an artist's instinct for spinning gold from straw, for making an ugly thing beautiful by touching it with his own grace.
He was also amongst the few Indian cartoonists who could draw women without feeling the need to mock womanliness. This wouldn't seem like a major achievement except that graphic designers and illustrators everywhere often draw women, especially young women, with highly exaggerated sexual features — tiny waists, giant breasts, five inch high-heels. By contrast, Laxman's Mrs Common Man moved about with her head up and her gaze steely. She was built along generous lines, but she wasn't especially buxom. She did not have to sport long eyelashes, nail polish or lipstick to convince us of her femininity.
On the other hand, even as I write this, I wonder if his standards of gentlemanly behaviour might, in today's gender-complex world, be regarded as anachronistic. Perhaps, today's forward-thinking Miss wants to be represented with her assault weapons in clear view. Perhaps LGBT people find the simple binaries of Laxman's world oppressive: his Common Man appears to be straight, married and clothed in a traditional villager's garb. If he is shown with children, they are presumed to be straight too. And there can, of course, never be a "Common Woman", as the term is too suggestive of twilight rites. Even the idea of according women some form of special dignity might be seen, through feminist lenses, as inverse discrimination.
So: rest in peace, Mr Laxman. We will miss you. The world you created in your wonderful drawings was infinitely sweeter, kinder and more compassionate than the one you have left behind.
The writer is an author and artist and creator of SUKI