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 admiredby 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 discoveredthat Dior had discontinued that line of lipstick. They don't make that shade any more.
Nor do they make women like Kamala Das Surayya...
All About Kamala Surayya
Kamala Surayya aka Madhavikutty (31 March 1932 – 31 May 2009) was an Indian writer who wrote in English as well as Malayalam, her native language. Her popularity in Kerala is based chiefly on her short stories and autobiography.
Born as Kamala Das in Punnayurkulam Thrissur District in the state of Kerala, she was the daughter of V. M. Nair, a former managing editor of the widely-circulated Malayalam daily Mathrubhumi, and Nalappatt Balamani Amma, a renowned Malayali poetess.
Das openly and honestly discussed and wrote about the sexual desires of Indian women, which made her an iconoclast of her generation. On 31 May 2009, aged 77, she died at a hospital in Pune.
She spent her childhood between Calcutta, where her father was employed as a senior officer in the Walford Transport Company that sold Bentley and Rolls Royce automobiles, and the Nalappatt ancestral home in Punnayurkulam, south Malabar. region.
Like her mother, Kamala Das also excelled in writing. Her love of poetry began at an early age through the influence of her great uncle, Nalappatt Narayana Menon, a prominent writer. However, she did not start writing professionally until after she married and became a mother. When Kamala wished to begin writing, her husband supported her decision to augment the family's income. She would often wait until nightfall after her family had gone to sleep and would write until morning: "There was only the kitchen table where I would cut vegetables, and after all the plates and things were cleared, I would sit there and start typing". This rigorous schedule took its toll upon her health.
She was noted for her many Malayalam short stories as well as many poems written in English. Das was also a syndicated columnist. She once claimed that "poetry does not sell in this country [India]", but her forthright columns, which sounded off on everything from women's issues and child care to politics, were popular.
Her eldest son, M D Nalapat, is married to a princess from the Travancore Royal House. He holds the UNESCO Peace Chair and Professor of geopolitics at the Manipal Academy of Higher Education. He was formerly a resident editor of the Times of India.
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