Spoke to father's elder brother's wife, Kamala, who is eighty four, and her faculties are clearly in sound condition. She is a short and burly woman who spoke in a low voice. I wanted to know from her how father was in his childhood since she grew up as part of the family. As a child she played with father and his brothers and sisters, for she was after all related to grandmother, her maternal aunt. But my attempts at engaging her to talk about my father failed to elicit enough to get a clear picture of father in his younger days when he was under the care of his elder brother after grandmother's death from cholera, which occurred exactly ten years after grandfather's accidental death. She spoke of father very little and offered little to help construct a readable story of his early life. There was also the matter of a disagreement between the brothers over father's involvement in the political turmoil at that time, which prevented him from completing his school, and dashed his brother's hope of producing an engineer or a doctor under his care. She did not mention the disagreement, though; but stated her husband's disappointment in no uncertain terms.
Kamala aunt keeps a handbag full of medicines which she says keep her alive and kicking. She lives in a small house situated in a dirty unkempt locality with her younger son. She spoke a lot about the family problems, the property matters and the many relatives who lived at that time. Father's elder brother became the youngest breadwinner in the family after the sudden demise of grandfather. He was fourteen when the family burden fell on his shoulders. He wanted to pursue studies but there was no other source of income - women did not go out to work and father was only nine - and he was under pressure from grandmother to accept the job of his father. She mentioned that the rail company of which grandfather was a station master offered jobs to all his sons and agreed to hold the job until they completed their studies. Father due to his political activism could not complete his studies, nor was he interested in that job. Kamala aunt recalled this matter in a matter-of-fact manner and simply expressed her husband's displeasure and disappointment at father's unconventional interests.
She mentioned a diary kept by grandfather, which is now in the possession of her grand daughter. I must remember to collect it from her. The diary she says contained the exact dates on which his children were born. Grandfather had eleven children in all in his short life, which made grandma Kanaka Durga to run to her maternal home almost every year.
Aunt Kamala also gave some idea about life in her early years before her marriage to father's elder brother. My next account will be an attempt to describe that period as well as I can.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Father's book
A lot of new material surfaced with regard to father's friends and works. A booklet he wrote shortly before his demise comprised of two biographical sketches of two stalwarts of his time, who fought in the trenches against the might of the Nizam's police, undeterred by the terrifying atrocities of the razakars. the book entitled 'Torch bearers of the Freedom Movement' profiled the lives of Hayagreevacharya and Katam Lakshminarayana whose selfless and dedicated efforts added a significant chapter in the history of the Freedom Movement in Hyderabad, of which father too had taken part from very early in life.
Also gathered names of a couple of father's close associates during that dark period in the history of Hyderabad - men with whom father worked closely and who could throw light on his early life, from the home front to the political arena in which the youth of that period sacrificed their lives of safety and comfort of the home to the life-threatening situations of the freedom struggle and spent more time within the confines of a jail than in the comforts of their home.
The book to me represented a precious representation of his writing style, for all that he ever wrote is now buried in the numerous dailies of the time. The style of writing, owing no doubt to the subject, was strong and came to me with a force. He minced no words in expressing the feelings of his subjects and the facts of their time, which incidentally was his own as well. As a consummate journalist and freedom fighter, he chronicled not only the lives of two eminent personalities, but also sketched in strong bold strokes the picture of the political situation which was unique in itself - while the whole nation fought the British, the people of Telangana were waging both open and covert war against the declining sovereignty of the Nizam, amidst the horror unleashed by the MIM.
Also gathered names of a couple of father's close associates during that dark period in the history of Hyderabad - men with whom father worked closely and who could throw light on his early life, from the home front to the political arena in which the youth of that period sacrificed their lives of safety and comfort of the home to the life-threatening situations of the freedom struggle and spent more time within the confines of a jail than in the comforts of their home.
The book to me represented a precious representation of his writing style, for all that he ever wrote is now buried in the numerous dailies of the time. The style of writing, owing no doubt to the subject, was strong and came to me with a force. He minced no words in expressing the feelings of his subjects and the facts of their time, which incidentally was his own as well. As a consummate journalist and freedom fighter, he chronicled not only the lives of two eminent personalities, but also sketched in strong bold strokes the picture of the political situation which was unique in itself - while the whole nation fought the British, the people of Telangana were waging both open and covert war against the declining sovereignty of the Nizam, amidst the horror unleashed by the MIM.
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Friday, July 9, 2010
From Raj - 1 (Early Life)
Now all I know is according to what came out of dad's own mouth: he always loved school and loved learning new things and enjoyed reading all the good and great books of his times. Loved poetry and literature and praised many great writers and poets and recited famous works often. Loved reading and whenever found new
words, jotted them down in a list. This he did in all the languages he was learning at the time. Then he would learn their meanings and use those 10 words and write something that would fit those. That's how he improved his vocabulary.
I thought he was learning telugu on his own coz it was not part of the school. Yet I thought if iam not mistaken he talked about his telugu teacher who was extremely insulting and sarcastic to the children about their writng or performance in the class in general. Once when they had to write an essay which was very long on a topic i do not remember, he did tell me though, daddy wrote it as usual with a lot of interest and enjoyed every bit of that experience but had no guts or hated to face his criticism and gave his notebook to his friend and got it delivered to class and stayed back home. To his surprise the teacher loved his essay and showed it to the class and made some boy read it aloud and shouted at the others to learn to write like that and called it the best writing ever and missed him badly in class that day for not being able to congratulate him personally. This he repeated often whenever anybody spoke about how he got into journalism.
He was already actively writing for newspappers and magazines about current affairs and was seriously getting involved in the political developments and attending meetings and gatherings and getting to know big names personally in the field. To his advantage he was a tall boy and very knowledgeable, mature for his years and respectful and looked older than his age so could pass for an adult easily. All his teachers loved his shy and respectful nature and his enthusiasm for learning. His fellow students also respected him and looked up to
him a lot. He was absent often for a lot of reasons. The home front too was tough with his brother incharge of their finances so dad kept himself out of the house most of the time and went home only when it was inevitable. His mother was worried about his health coz he was so shy, picky with food and so lean that she didnt know how he would survive outside so much, but cooked for him with care as long as she could.
words, jotted them down in a list. This he did in all the languages he was learning at the time. Then he would learn their meanings and use those 10 words and write something that would fit those. That's how he improved his vocabulary.
I thought he was learning telugu on his own coz it was not part of the school. Yet I thought if iam not mistaken he talked about his telugu teacher who was extremely insulting and sarcastic to the children about their writng or performance in the class in general. Once when they had to write an essay which was very long on a topic i do not remember, he did tell me though, daddy wrote it as usual with a lot of interest and enjoyed every bit of that experience but had no guts or hated to face his criticism and gave his notebook to his friend and got it delivered to class and stayed back home. To his surprise the teacher loved his essay and showed it to the class and made some boy read it aloud and shouted at the others to learn to write like that and called it the best writing ever and missed him badly in class that day for not being able to congratulate him personally. This he repeated often whenever anybody spoke about how he got into journalism.
He was already actively writing for newspappers and magazines about current affairs and was seriously getting involved in the political developments and attending meetings and gatherings and getting to know big names personally in the field. To his advantage he was a tall boy and very knowledgeable, mature for his years and respectful and looked older than his age so could pass for an adult easily. All his teachers loved his shy and respectful nature and his enthusiasm for learning. His fellow students also respected him and looked up to
him a lot. He was absent often for a lot of reasons. The home front too was tough with his brother incharge of their finances so dad kept himself out of the house most of the time and went home only when it was inevitable. His mother was worried about his health coz he was so shy, picky with food and so lean that she didnt know how he would survive outside so much, but cooked for him with care as long as she could.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Father's Anecdotes - 1
1. The reporter who was sent to cover a public meeting returned, but did not file a report. When asked by his boss, he replied simply, 'The meeting did not happen.' It did not occur to the reporter that that was news too.
2. A couple had a long argument in their bedroom without a hope for a compromise. Unable to bear each other's presence they walk angrily towards the door, but reach it at precisely the same time. The irate husband says tartly, 'I don't step aside for fools.' The wife steps aside and retorts, 'I do.'
3. The expression in Telugu to ask a guest at home to eat without feeling shy involves using the word 'siggu', literally meaning 'shame'. So the host in his newly acquired English asks his shy guest to 'eat shamelessly'.
2. A couple had a long argument in their bedroom without a hope for a compromise. Unable to bear each other's presence they walk angrily towards the door, but reach it at precisely the same time. The irate husband says tartly, 'I don't step aside for fools.' The wife steps aside and retorts, 'I do.'
3. The expression in Telugu to ask a guest at home to eat without feeling shy involves using the word 'siggu', literally meaning 'shame'. So the host in his newly acquired English asks his shy guest to 'eat shamelessly'.
President - APUWJ
As a working journalist, father had been quite active in the matters of the journalists' union. The union of working journalists was started in Andhra Pradesh in the late fifties and continues to the present day as the Andhra Pradesh Union of Working Journalists (APUWJ). Father presided over its activities seven times; at one time he had been both the president as well as its general secretary. The only person who had been president for so many times in the history of APUWJ, sometimes consecutively -
1964-65, 1965-66,
1970-71, 1971-72, 1972-73, 1974-76, [longest running president - 7 years]
1983-85
The union years had been taxing to him to say the least, especially when a schism threatened to undermine the long years of effort to bring it to a state of a recognized and respectable body in representing the working journalists. The then press club of Hyderabad located its offices in the new building called Desodharaka Bhavan adjoining the Lal Bahadur Stadium. In the first year of its operations in the new building in 1970, father was the president of the union. Unfortunately, his unstinted effort in heralding a new chapter in the Union's activities largely went unnoticed in the annals of the state press, owing in part to the split that occurred after father served it as president for the last time before his death six years later.
1964-65, 1965-66,
1970-71, 1971-72, 1972-73, 1974-76, [longest running president - 7 years]
1983-85
The union years had been taxing to him to say the least, especially when a schism threatened to undermine the long years of effort to bring it to a state of a recognized and respectable body in representing the working journalists. The then press club of Hyderabad located its offices in the new building called Desodharaka Bhavan adjoining the Lal Bahadur Stadium. In the first year of its operations in the new building in 1970, father was the president of the union. Unfortunately, his unstinted effort in heralding a new chapter in the Union's activities largely went unnoticed in the annals of the state press, owing in part to the split that occurred after father served it as president for the last time before his death six years later.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Thirty years in three paragraphs
To talk about a filial relationship in terms of time may appear odd. However, it is important to keep the time in perspective because it played a significant role in the relationship between me and father.
Our life together on earth spanned a mere three decades. I was about thirty one when he passed away. In the first decade he was at the peak of his journalistic career. He was a prominent journalist of his time, a thorough professional with great regard for the work he did and with a keen sense of responsibility towards his profession. In matters of sartorial taste and correctness for the occasion, he was impeccable. He was punctual in his appointments. He did his home work before he went to meetings. His work was considered outstanding; the number of drafts that preceded every time he wrote a story for the newspaper attested to his diligence and professionalism. He was also at this time immured in the work related to the journalists' union, which he steered adroitly giving direction and momentum to its activities. This period of ten years of my boyhood had been to him a chapter of high significance to him not just professionally. In his personal life also, he was equally busy arranging matters of importance such as taking in the children of his dead sister and raise them on par with his own. He was also a mentor to the children of two other sisters, who sought his help in providing avuncular guidance and support to them. Uncle Sarma was also sharing home with his family of a wife and two kids. I came at a time in his life which clamoured for his attention in myriad ways, and so I grew up largely in an atmosphere of a herd. Father had little time for me alone, for obvious reasons, which drove me closer to mother and into myself. This decade did not help bring father and son close to each other.
The second decade saw me in a big school and I found myself, a small fry from a small school, thrown into a sea of foreign faces and teachers in long white gowns who wielded authority with a cane. Father and I never spoke about school or discussed my subjects and the fact that I felt lost in an alien world did little to alter the filial relationship. On the contrary, it became worse and alienated me further. The gap between father and son grew gradually. Although I passed out of primary school with distinction from the small school closer home, the new big school did not acknowledge my genius and kept me below par. Naturally, it infuriated father, who had to deal with it as only a busy and beleaguered man would do: he threw the report card in my face accompanied by acerbic remarks. I trembled to go near him. When he spoke I never looked at his face, leave alone into his eyes. My miserable performance at school drove him to despair and the gulf between father and son widened. I finished school and entered the University. I spent time with books, friends and studies. This decade too went without a meaningful or memorable relationship between father and son.
The last decade sent me packing from home. My first job, which I got through father's help (for I was fearful of people and never felt at ease in interviews), took me places across India, far from home. Father to me as a background image, and so was I to him. We had nothing to talk to - there was nothing that I could share with him and likewise he did not relate with me socially. We were poles apart. I never had to oppose him, or defy him in any way. We just never crossed paths - our worlds orbited independently of each other. When he fell ill from a heart attack and was hospitalized, I came down 700 KM to visit him. He had asked me to pray, but I could not. No words of prayer came to my mind. After a silent struggle within myself to recall a prayer, I gave up. I don't know how he felt about it, but he never asked me again. I saw him during my flying visits home. His health deteriorated, he became frail and bony, the charm in his face was gone and the cheer which once brought laughter in his company disappeared completely. He was going away, far away where we could not reach him. The gulf became a continental divide, an unassailable chasm which nothing could bridge at this late hour. He became weaker by the day and for a man of intense outer activity he must have found it extremely difficult to stay at home and do nothing. One day when I was travelling cross-country from east to west, the train halted at the Secunderabad railway station. Mother and father came to see me off. He had come to see me, ignoring mother's protests on account of his feeble health. He sat close to me on that railway platform, giving his entire attention to me. I sensed his presence acutely, there was no mistaking it. He was there for me, to be with me, to listen to me as I spoke to mother, for I felt uncomfortable in his presence and exchanged only customary talk. After I left him and mother and continued on my journey, I saw an old man, quite aged compared to father, a fellow passenger. He appeared to be in good health as he began to eat from a food packet. All of a sudden I felt a stab of pain for my ailing father, I think I envied the old man before me his sound constitution and tears welled up in my eyes and suffered for father who I left behind on that bleak platform frail and beyond help, beyond all possible reach and comfort, and aid and succour. There was no way we could come together again. The relationship ended. The divide increased to planetary proportion. He died within days of that encounter on a January afternoon when I headed west and the Sun had set on his life.
Our life together on earth spanned a mere three decades. I was about thirty one when he passed away. In the first decade he was at the peak of his journalistic career. He was a prominent journalist of his time, a thorough professional with great regard for the work he did and with a keen sense of responsibility towards his profession. In matters of sartorial taste and correctness for the occasion, he was impeccable. He was punctual in his appointments. He did his home work before he went to meetings. His work was considered outstanding; the number of drafts that preceded every time he wrote a story for the newspaper attested to his diligence and professionalism. He was also at this time immured in the work related to the journalists' union, which he steered adroitly giving direction and momentum to its activities. This period of ten years of my boyhood had been to him a chapter of high significance to him not just professionally. In his personal life also, he was equally busy arranging matters of importance such as taking in the children of his dead sister and raise them on par with his own. He was also a mentor to the children of two other sisters, who sought his help in providing avuncular guidance and support to them. Uncle Sarma was also sharing home with his family of a wife and two kids. I came at a time in his life which clamoured for his attention in myriad ways, and so I grew up largely in an atmosphere of a herd. Father had little time for me alone, for obvious reasons, which drove me closer to mother and into myself. This decade did not help bring father and son close to each other.
The second decade saw me in a big school and I found myself, a small fry from a small school, thrown into a sea of foreign faces and teachers in long white gowns who wielded authority with a cane. Father and I never spoke about school or discussed my subjects and the fact that I felt lost in an alien world did little to alter the filial relationship. On the contrary, it became worse and alienated me further. The gap between father and son grew gradually. Although I passed out of primary school with distinction from the small school closer home, the new big school did not acknowledge my genius and kept me below par. Naturally, it infuriated father, who had to deal with it as only a busy and beleaguered man would do: he threw the report card in my face accompanied by acerbic remarks. I trembled to go near him. When he spoke I never looked at his face, leave alone into his eyes. My miserable performance at school drove him to despair and the gulf between father and son widened. I finished school and entered the University. I spent time with books, friends and studies. This decade too went without a meaningful or memorable relationship between father and son.
The last decade sent me packing from home. My first job, which I got through father's help (for I was fearful of people and never felt at ease in interviews), took me places across India, far from home. Father to me as a background image, and so was I to him. We had nothing to talk to - there was nothing that I could share with him and likewise he did not relate with me socially. We were poles apart. I never had to oppose him, or defy him in any way. We just never crossed paths - our worlds orbited independently of each other. When he fell ill from a heart attack and was hospitalized, I came down 700 KM to visit him. He had asked me to pray, but I could not. No words of prayer came to my mind. After a silent struggle within myself to recall a prayer, I gave up. I don't know how he felt about it, but he never asked me again. I saw him during my flying visits home. His health deteriorated, he became frail and bony, the charm in his face was gone and the cheer which once brought laughter in his company disappeared completely. He was going away, far away where we could not reach him. The gulf became a continental divide, an unassailable chasm which nothing could bridge at this late hour. He became weaker by the day and for a man of intense outer activity he must have found it extremely difficult to stay at home and do nothing. One day when I was travelling cross-country from east to west, the train halted at the Secunderabad railway station. Mother and father came to see me off. He had come to see me, ignoring mother's protests on account of his feeble health. He sat close to me on that railway platform, giving his entire attention to me. I sensed his presence acutely, there was no mistaking it. He was there for me, to be with me, to listen to me as I spoke to mother, for I felt uncomfortable in his presence and exchanged only customary talk. After I left him and mother and continued on my journey, I saw an old man, quite aged compared to father, a fellow passenger. He appeared to be in good health as he began to eat from a food packet. All of a sudden I felt a stab of pain for my ailing father, I think I envied the old man before me his sound constitution and tears welled up in my eyes and suffered for father who I left behind on that bleak platform frail and beyond help, beyond all possible reach and comfort, and aid and succour. There was no way we could come together again. The relationship ended. The divide increased to planetary proportion. He died within days of that encounter on a January afternoon when I headed west and the Sun had set on his life.
Remembering father
Father had been a figure who inspired awe in me - a strange mixture of respect and fear. Like a live electric wire. You don't go near it. You don't get too close because it may hurt you. It commands respect because you cannot ignore it, nor handle it sloppily. Father meant quite as much to me and more. He was very knowledgeable - the range of books that lined the shelf in his study attested to it. He was never seen to be doing nothing, never spent any time in idle chatter or indulged in any kind of indolence. If he was not hammering away on his typewriter, he was reading a book. Rarely was he at home, except for dinner and sleep. He ate out in the day and preferred a quick light meal and got on with his work.
The lack of closeness, the absence of intimacy, between father and me is rather remarkable, since the experience of my sisters is quite the contrary. So to say father was aloof and reserved would be quite off the mark, though I must certainly say that he was a man of few words. This is true, which seems quite paradoxical if you consider the fact that he spent his whole life among words doing nothing but writing.
He was a voracious reader of books. He kept a notebook in which he copied passages from the books he read which interested him a great deal. There were in it several quotations from authors as varied as the books themselves. He read history, biography, politics, novels, classics and even comics in lighter moods.
I kept myself out of his sight and got closer to mother and used her often to mediate with father. When it was time to get his signature on the report cards, I literally pushed mother to place it on his table and wait at the door for the inevitable reprimand, sharp and biting, followed by the signed report which would come flying at me, having been hurled by father in anger at my poor performance.
I don' remember having a jolly time with him until I became an adult, even then it was to me not an easy encounter with him. At the dining table, when sometimes we all ate together, father would relate interesting stories from his news beat. He was a good raconteur of short and funny anecdotes, which he loved to relate to family members.
Mother told me that once when I refused to go to school (I think I was in class 2 then), father was so upset and angry that he hit me. I hurt badly and ran a temperature probably out of fear. He later took me to a clinic and faced a reprimand from the family physician. Father never hit me again; he did not hit any one ever again. That was the first and the last time he got physical with his children. I would like to think, though I couldn't be sure, that my fear of people stemmed from this experience, and hurt my self-esteem. His reticence perhaps prevented him from coming close to an introvert like me, who preferred his own company.
The lack of closeness, the absence of intimacy, between father and me is rather remarkable, since the experience of my sisters is quite the contrary. So to say father was aloof and reserved would be quite off the mark, though I must certainly say that he was a man of few words. This is true, which seems quite paradoxical if you consider the fact that he spent his whole life among words doing nothing but writing.
He was a voracious reader of books. He kept a notebook in which he copied passages from the books he read which interested him a great deal. There were in it several quotations from authors as varied as the books themselves. He read history, biography, politics, novels, classics and even comics in lighter moods.
I kept myself out of his sight and got closer to mother and used her often to mediate with father. When it was time to get his signature on the report cards, I literally pushed mother to place it on his table and wait at the door for the inevitable reprimand, sharp and biting, followed by the signed report which would come flying at me, having been hurled by father in anger at my poor performance.
I don' remember having a jolly time with him until I became an adult, even then it was to me not an easy encounter with him. At the dining table, when sometimes we all ate together, father would relate interesting stories from his news beat. He was a good raconteur of short and funny anecdotes, which he loved to relate to family members.
Mother told me that once when I refused to go to school (I think I was in class 2 then), father was so upset and angry that he hit me. I hurt badly and ran a temperature probably out of fear. He later took me to a clinic and faced a reprimand from the family physician. Father never hit me again; he did not hit any one ever again. That was the first and the last time he got physical with his children. I would like to think, though I couldn't be sure, that my fear of people stemmed from this experience, and hurt my self-esteem. His reticence perhaps prevented him from coming close to an introvert like me, who preferred his own company.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Six going on Seven
Father was one of the six surviving children of Lakshminarayana and Durgamai. He was the fourth child of his parents and the second male child in the family. Grandfather was a station master in the Nizam's Guaranteed State Railway and relocated often owing to transfers. Grandmother would make a trip every two or three years to her maternal home, also in Jaggayyapeta, bearing the unborn and return to grandfather after delivery. Like all his siblings father too was born in the spacious bungalow on Brahmana Veedhi in the small town of Jaggayyapeta situated on the banks of Munneru, a tributary of the river Krishna. He was born on Nagula Chaviti, a day considered auspicious by the Hindus and celebrated by pouring milk into snake pits and offering prayers to Adiseshu the Lord of the Snakes. It is customary to name the new born with a name that was synonymous with a snake. Hence the name of my father - Nageswara; a shortened form Nagam was used to call him at home.
Nagam treated his sisters affectionately, though he kept himself beyond arm's length of his elder brother who was about five years older. He was closer to his younger brother Sarma with whom he sometimes went to the playground, but otherwise their interests differed a great deal. The brothers had little in common and so rarely got together. When grandfather died in a rail accident, Nagam was seven and it is not clear how he took the sudden loss of his father. Uncle Sarma was too small to understand the implication and Murthy peddananna was just 14 when the burden of running the family fell on him. Grandmother Durga received a rude shock - she had probably spent more time making babies than being with grandfather. The loss apparently affected her greatly and she lost faith in the gods - never again the image of a god or goddess adorned the walls of her home. She went back to her maternal home with her seven kids (the last one did not survive his eleventh year). After the last rites of grandfather, the talk goes that relatives did not treat her properly and so she travelled to Hyderabad and settled down with the help of other relatives and well-wishers. That is how father came to Hyderabad, leaving his ancestral home and property for good, in which incidentally he spent very little time. His father's home was a stone's throw from his maternal home, but due to his father's travelling job, he did not spend much time there either. And so the story of his life from now on would unfold in the town of Warangal and the city of Hyderabad.
Nagam treated his sisters affectionately, though he kept himself beyond arm's length of his elder brother who was about five years older. He was closer to his younger brother Sarma with whom he sometimes went to the playground, but otherwise their interests differed a great deal. The brothers had little in common and so rarely got together. When grandfather died in a rail accident, Nagam was seven and it is not clear how he took the sudden loss of his father. Uncle Sarma was too small to understand the implication and Murthy peddananna was just 14 when the burden of running the family fell on him. Grandmother Durga received a rude shock - she had probably spent more time making babies than being with grandfather. The loss apparently affected her greatly and she lost faith in the gods - never again the image of a god or goddess adorned the walls of her home. She went back to her maternal home with her seven kids (the last one did not survive his eleventh year). After the last rites of grandfather, the talk goes that relatives did not treat her properly and so she travelled to Hyderabad and settled down with the help of other relatives and well-wishers. That is how father came to Hyderabad, leaving his ancestral home and property for good, in which incidentally he spent very little time. His father's home was a stone's throw from his maternal home, but due to his father's travelling job, he did not spend much time there either. And so the story of his life from now on would unfold in the town of Warangal and the city of Hyderabad.
Early Life 2
Nagam as young Nageswara Rao was called had started a magazine when he was still in school. It was a hand-written affair, for there was no support from the school to print it. Undaunted, he would take it out regularly and made sure his fellow students turned in their piece. He would ask them to write on specific topics which they obliged, having some regard in his acumen in oratorical and writing skills.
He was an avid reader of books and spent a great deal of his free time in public libraries. He was also taking at this time a keen interest in the political developments in the Hyderabad state. He would join groups that discussed politics and attended rallies organized by the political parties. He disappeared from the family home for days to attend public meetings or join private meetings among friends and like-minded people. He was known to have been quite drawn by the daily meetups organized by one Dr. Upender Rao, who invited and moderated informal debates on the political fortune of the Nizam and the future of the princely state of Hyderabad.
It was not all work, though; he was also inclined towards laughter and play. One day he went to a playground near his home as usual with his younger brother Sarma. There was a steel pole from which steel chains hung from different levels. Children would take a chain and revolve round the pole's center which would rotate and fling the chain and its holder high in the air in a circular motion. Because the chains were at different heights there was no chance of two people running into each other, for they would be set apart by some distance. However, when one of the swingers left the chain and dropped off before the pole stopped, it was likely hit the one behind due its uncontrolled motion. Nagam did just that and the chain which he let abruptly go hit the boy behind him. The boy was hurt badly on the nose; it had started to bleed. Nagam was terrified and fled from the scene for fear of a backlash from the injured boy's relatives. He never went to that playground again. Sarma Uncle recalled this incident after 70 years and laughed as he reminisced over it.
He was an avid reader of books and spent a great deal of his free time in public libraries. He was also taking at this time a keen interest in the political developments in the Hyderabad state. He would join groups that discussed politics and attended rallies organized by the political parties. He disappeared from the family home for days to attend public meetings or join private meetings among friends and like-minded people. He was known to have been quite drawn by the daily meetups organized by one Dr. Upender Rao, who invited and moderated informal debates on the political fortune of the Nizam and the future of the princely state of Hyderabad.
It was not all work, though; he was also inclined towards laughter and play. One day he went to a playground near his home as usual with his younger brother Sarma. There was a steel pole from which steel chains hung from different levels. Children would take a chain and revolve round the pole's center which would rotate and fling the chain and its holder high in the air in a circular motion. Because the chains were at different heights there was no chance of two people running into each other, for they would be set apart by some distance. However, when one of the swingers left the chain and dropped off before the pole stopped, it was likely hit the one behind due its uncontrolled motion. Nagam did just that and the chain which he let abruptly go hit the boy behind him. The boy was hurt badly on the nose; it had started to bleed. Nagam was terrified and fled from the scene for fear of a backlash from the injured boy's relatives. He never went to that playground again. Sarma Uncle recalled this incident after 70 years and laughed as he reminisced over it.
Early life
B. Nageswara Rao (1928-1991) was a well-known journalist from Hyderabad, Andhra Pradesh. For his outstanding contribution to the profession of journalism, he received the Patrakar Ratna award. Posthumously, a Best Journalist award was instituted in his name and every year this award is given away to meritorious journalists. B. Nageswara Rao was fluent in Telugu (his mother-tongue), Urdu and English. In the early years of his journalistic career, which spanned more than four decades, he wrote to Telugu and Urdu dailies, in addition to English newspapers and journals. Throughout his career, he worked assiduously for securing the rights of the journalists and the workers in the press. He headed the state Union of Working Journalists several times and during his tenure initiated the establishment of a press club called Desodharaka Bhavan in Hyderabad and became one of the founder members of the first Journalists' Colony in Banjara Hills. He also presided over the activities of the Indian Union of Working Journalists as Vice President.
Born on 20, November, 1928 (Nagula Chavithi) in a sleepy little town Jagayyapeta in Krishna district of Andhra Pradesh, he relocated to Warangal and Hanumakonda (about a hundred kilometers north of Hyderabad) in his youth, where he worked on a printing press. Later he moved to Hyderabad and worked ceaselessly in his profession until death prematurely claimed him in 1991 at the age of 62.
Nageswara Rao's early life is interesting for two reasons: one, he actively participated in the political events of his time; two, his personal life story is a series of struggles personally as well as professionally.
Politically speaking, Hyderabad was on the boil. It was a princely state and Nizam the VII ruled it with the aid of the British who helped him militarily in securing his dominion. However, in 1947 when the British left, the Nizam found himself surrounded by the Indian Union and the pressure to accede to the Union grew day by day. There were several political parties at that time and prominent among them were the Communist Party, the Majlis-e-Ittehad-ul-Muslimin (MIM) and the Indian Congress. The communists sought violent means to put an end to the princely state. The MIM raised a posse of armed volunteers called razakars avowedly to fight the Indian army, but ran amok like marauders hurting Hindus and put pressure on the Nizam to desist from accession to the Union. The Nizam himself wanted to remain independent and explored all possible means to secure it. The congress party made political speeches against the establishment and roused the masses to revolt. Nageswara Rao, then a fiery youth in his bubbling teens, entered the political arena and made speeches. In one of the first speeches he made, he questioned the authority of principal of the school he was studying in, wherein the principal could arbitrarily suspend students from appearing for the board examinations. Offended by Rao's public denouncement of his authority, the principal detained Rao and refused him permission to sit for the board exams. Rao left school and joined the mainstream of political agitation against the Nizam. Along with his friends and fellow orators at public rallies, the Nizam's police arrested him and sent him to Chanchalguda jail. Later Rao was imprisoned in the Warangal jail and released after 14 months of incarceration. After the police action of 1948, free India released all political prisoners. Nageswara Rao came out empty handed, without even a school certificate, let alone a job for survival. From now on began a significant chapter in his life: an illustrious career of a veteran journalist.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
My father B. Nageswara Rao
Father's life has been fraught with vicissitudes and some outstanding achievements in his chosen profession of Journalism. Here are a few things that ought to be written about.1. Father spent the greater part of his life in events that touched the lives of a great many people, while pursuing his passion to write
2. He did his work with complete devotion, honesty and hard work, driven as he was with passion and a deep sense of responsibility to the public as well as his profession.
3. He was revered not only by the family members, but also by people both in and outside his profession.
4. As a recognition of the excellence in his work and the outstanding contribution he made to his profession, an award had been instituted posthumously in his name and aptly called the Best Journalist award.
5. There is also a personal element in the whole exercise. I wanted to bring out the man and his work to a personal scrutiny and also bring him closer to my idea of him who had largely been to me a distant and feared authority.
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