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Kamala Das

Politicians blotch up the landscape. Nobody knows how to clear the mess

Am I likable? Do the topics I fancy writing about interest others?

Such questions provide unease and delay the decisions.

This is to be a column directed at the largest audience imaginable.

What is common in me and in all of them?

Not poetry. Not art. Not even the political manifesto of a non-political person living in the small town of Cochin. An editor of a Bombay paper's weekend issue advised me not to write on Cochin in my column. Bombayites only like to read of their own city or of the metros of the west. The readers were anglicised and impatient with desk talk. The upper middle classes are more westernised today than their ancestors were, when the British ruled India. The dress might be ethnic but the dialect was most certainly a hybrid, with touches of Goanese.

"Yawl are good people, Mrs Das, although yawl are Hindus," said Maria, who had once been my youngest child's tutor. Later, she comforted me more by saying, "Yawl are Madrasis, but nobody can make out from your behaviour. Yes, Mrs Das, yawl are cultured people."

I do not dread the arrival of guests from other countries. They can adjust to the patterns of our routine. But I dread the westernised Indian who looks down upon the eating habits of Indians.

A lady with a painted face came to stay a week with me. She was my sister's friend's friend and had been given my address. When she joined us for lunch, she cried, "Mrs Das, where is the serviette? How can I begin eating without the serviette?"

Some tiny terry towels were brought out in order to let the lady eat. As a rule, I am insufferably informal and I have this habit of heaping everything into a thali and seating myself before the television to eat my supper. Westernised guests upset my cosy schedule. Formalities and polished talk eat into my precious time. I have no inclination to give after-dinner speeches either.

After the television programme, I go back to my writing desk. The easy-going, non-finicky guests can stay on for a month in my house and enjoy each day. He or she will get enough food to eat, a bed to sleep on and a bath with a geyser. There are no swanky serviettes here. No lace doilies either, the absence of pretty bric-a-brac or antique furniture might annoy the aesthete. But I have a clear idea of what I want in my home to make my life pleasant. I want space and fresh air. I want blank spaces on the wall that will relax my eyes.

I go to art galleries to inaugurate art exhibitions. I admire the dexterity displayed by the modern artists. But I shall never hang a gaudy, modern painting in my bedroom or study. Mine are tired eyes. I hang the reproduction of a Ravi Varma in my bedroom, a voluptuous woman holding her infant, a rotund gem.

More people speak English in India than in Britain, according to a British Council assessment. The young urbanites hardly ever speak any regional language. And, yet, there is a furore against English in almost every state of this country.

Instead of regarding English as one of the national languages, people would like to see it exit from the Indian shores. Then the exit door will open for scientific, medical and engineering education all of which will vanish with English. The best thing that the British gave to India is English. The railways came next.

Young Indians ought not to listen to the sentimental rigmarole dished out by the disillusioned politicians of the country. Even with a foolish remark, they are anxious to make an impact.

In Kerala, recently, some politicians have been accused of raping minor girls. There are other unsavoury activities this bitter breed indulges in. Politicians blotch up the landscape. Nobody knows how to clear the mess.

Kamala Das, one of India's bestknown poets, will contribute a weekly column to these pages.

Illustration: Dominic Xavier