Fond memories of an iconoclast

The first time I met her, I was completely speechless. I had read her autobiography of course, and her poems. She embodied,   for all women writers, the independence and fearlessness that we dreamed of. Her uninhibited writing on issues that were considered taboo, including the thwarted or suppressed sexual desires of women caused her to be derided by the chauvinists and admired  by the rising generation of women writers at the same time.
Thanks to ‘connections’ at work, I had got her to edit the poetry page for my magazine.

And I was thrilled to note that she was prompt and exacting. Later, by letter, I had made bold to send her some of my poems, which came back  ‘selected’, though all I had asked for was an opinion. She sent a glowing letter of praise along with the manuscript. I saved the letter as a keepsake, and printed the poems.

And now here I was, meeting her in person. The lift to her house stood waiting, but I climbed the steps, slowly. It would give me time to work out what I would say to her. The exercise was of no use: I stood speechless in her presence. She opened the door, welcomed me. And praised my writing. One does not expect praise from someone of her stature; someone with an international fan following, who had created new frontiers and established herself as a fearless writer in every form of literary expression, across two rich languages. But praise came easy to her. As did her ability to shock.

She saw me to the lift, and bade me come again when I visited Cochin, where she lived. The next time I went there was with many others, journalists mainly, and we were of course determined to make the pilgimage to her house. She greeted us like a queen holding court. She sat crosslegged on her bed, resting against a bank of cushions, her eyes shone with fire and her hands moved like a dancer’s. For an hour she regaled us with stories, with her opinions, and when she wanted a change, tried to match-make for some of the younger girls with her nephew who was visiting her at the same time! It was an unforgettable baithak.

I did write to her a few times after that, but she got busy becoming Surayya and trying her hand at politics, and I was equally lost in quite a different orbit, and the communication waned. Then her son Jaisurya, who had moved to Pune told me she had come to live with him. Her health was feeble, she was lonely and would welcome me, should I find time for a visit.  I am ashamed to say, I did not act on that invitation immediately. But when I did go to Pune last year, I drove across to see her.

Once again, she rendered me speechless. I knew she was bedridden, and hoped to be able to cheer her up with small talk about common friends. She smiled at me. Summoning her Woman Friday, she had herself lifted to sitting position and held out a cool, small hand to take mine. We chatted for an hour, and she told me of other visitors, and of her latest work. Her skin glowed and I could not but make the rather personal remark that she looked like a 20 year old.

“It’s all the forced rest I am getting,” she said. “And, since an old friend like you was coming, I have put on my favourite lipstick, the Dior …. I preserve it for special occasions,” she added. “I don’t have much of it left, and don’t know where to find the shade.” She plied me with eats and made me feel like I had come home to someone I had lost along the way.

I left with her latest book, signed to me, and a wetness in my eyes, at the majesty of her dignity. I promised I would find the lipstick shade and bring it to her. But when I asked around, I discovered  that Dior had discontinued that line of lipstick. They don’t make that shade any more.

Nor do they make women like Kamala Das Surayya…