The artist who spoke

By Mahesh Dattani

At one time, I saw Girish Karnad almost every morning

In the early 2000s, we had the same footpath in JP Nagar, a quiet suburb of Bangalore. The park would be filled with ordinary suburban middle clbad people who were breathing healthy air in the morning before cars grabbed roads around this green space.

The morning audience was composed of retired officers, men in skullcaps, women in saris and sneakers, the occasional writer Oddball like me and the only celebrity in our midst – Girish Karnad. The residence of the chief minister was right at the top of this forest.

But there were more and more people in the park looking for an audience with MK Girish who would see the unwritten sign – Do not disturb.

Almost everyone honored this invisible signage around his person. I was even afraid to smile at him as our path crossed. Sometimes he stopped and exchanged some subtleties with me. But it was clear that he had to be the one who would break protocol when he wanted to, and not me. Here is a man who has not let his greatness compromise his honesty in his social interactions.

I remember. The first time, I met him closely – probably at the very first show in his play, Nagamandala. It was a magical evening, under the stars, in the Chitrakala Parishath open air auditorium. An ideal setting for this charming fable told by dancing flames (the sutradhar of this lyrical piece). Arundhati and Shankar Nag played the roles of shy protagonist Rani and his snake lover.

It was amazing to see such great people on stage. It took me a while to understand that the playwright was sitting right next to me! Too late. The play was over and the grateful spectators had become hysterical fans of the stars on stage and among us.

Girish was as beautiful as Shankar Nag. The latter was a Kannada film star with indescribably raw charisma, while the former had a softer, more sophisticated aura and, in a stranger, more charming and innocent way.

It could easily have been mistaken for a morning idol, but it was clearly made for much more than that.

Over the years, we have exchanged more, especially thanks to his wife Saraswati, who has helped a lot to break the ice between us. Girish and Saraswati were kind enough to come to my plays and publish my anthology of plays. He always treated me as his artistic equal, even sometimes I did not feel like it.

The last time I met him was at a party after the premiere in English of his last play, Benda Kaalu on Toast (translated from his original Kannada, Boiled Beans on Toast), a tribute to Bangalore, the city ​​he loved and lost. After two decades, I gathered the courage to ask him for a picture with me. He seemed sincerely sorry when I told him that we had never taken a picture together.

Before he knew what was coming, I did the unthinkable. I've transgressed the limit marked by the unwritten sign that was written on it: "Do not disturb". I put my hand on his shoulder just in time for the camera to capture this moment of intrusion.

Many people will remember him for his movie credits or his sensational commentaries on other writers.

For me, it will always be a lonely traveler who would care enough to go beyond social rectitude. . I can not say that I knew the man. But I can say that I knew an artistic giant who dared to say what he thought.

The author is a writer and director laureate of a Sahitya Akademi award.