K.P. Purnachandra Tejasvi (1938-2007)
Biography
It is perhaps one of the peculiarities of post-independence Kannada literature that a trio of authors emerged whose lasting mark on the literary landscape of this regional Indian literature endures to this day. The three writers differed considerably in origin, biography, and — not least — in their handling of language. Alongside U.R. Ananthamurthy (1932-2014), who made a name for himself even beyond India through his English essays, his many stays abroad, and successful English translations of his work, this trio also includes P. Lankesh (1935-2000) and K.P. Purnachandra Tejasvi. It is the latter who will be introduced here.
Born on 8 September 1938 in the village of Kuppali in the state of Karnataka, Kuppali Purnachandra Tejasvi seemed destined for writing from birth. His father, Kuppali Venkatappa Puttappa ("Kuvempu"), is revered today across the Kannada-speaking region as its "national poet". Yet Tejasvi managed, already with his earliest works, to step out from his father's shadow.
After studying in Mysore, he acquired a coffee and cardamom plantation in the Western Ghats near the district town of Mudigere. Many of his works are set in this mountain region, also known as Malenadu. This applies in particular to his novels Nigūḍha Manuṣyaru (1976), Karvālo (1980), Cidambara Rahasya (1985), Jugāri Krās (1994), and Māyālōka (2007). In his novels, Tejasvi frequently draws on the stylistic devices of the most varied genres — from crime novel to thriller, from the socially critical philosophical essay to the village farce. His humour, at times biting but never inhumane, is another of Tejasvi's trademarks. Beyond his literary work, he developed his own philosophy, which might best be described as "eco-humanism". He engages repeatedly, and just as intensively, with the relationship between humans and nature as with relationships between people of different social backgrounds.
The novel Karvālo, available in German translation since 2018, is probably Tejasvi's most successful work. From a strongly autobiographically inflected perspective, it first describes life in the area around Mudigere in the Western Ghats. Just as the first-person narrator has grown weary of country life and wants to sell his unsuccessful plantation, he meets a series of people, the most important of whom is a certain Professor Karvalo. After a number of entertaining episodes involving beekeeping, a village wedding, and a moonshine-distilling trial, a motley crew of men gathers around Karvalo and the narrator to head into the jungle in search of the legendary flying lizard. The expedition provides the backdrop for philosophical reflections on the complexity of the environment and on the evolution of life on earth. It is also an occasion for the protagonists to confront themselves and to probe their own relationship to the natural world.
Like his colleague Ananthamurthy, Tejasvi began his literary career under the banner of the modernist navya movement. In the further course of his work, however, he made a significant contribution to paving the way, through several creative works, for the socially engaged navyottara movement of so-called "protest literature" (baṇḍāya) — in particular with his second collection of short stories, Abacūrina Pōsṭāfisu (1973), whose title story, like many of Tejasvi's works, was also adapted for film.
Tejasvi received numerous prizes for his literary work, including some that specifically honoured the distinctive creative originality of his prose.
Alongside his literary work, Tejasvi's popular-science writing is also of social significance. While an educational aspiration is clearly evident in his novels and short stories, he put this into explicit practice, for instance, in his publications on the flora and fauna of the Western Ghats. The same applies to his large-scale "Millennium" series, in which he sought to make current scientific findings accessible to a broad Kannada-speaking readership.
K.P. Purnachandra Tejasvi died on 5 April 2007 at his home near Mudigere, Karnataka.
After his death, his wife Rajeshvari published not only a biography of her husband but also his first novel, Kāḍu mattu Kraurya, which he had written at the age of 24 and never published. Tejasvi's works remain a firmly established part of the curriculum in Kannada studies at Karnataka's universities and continue to see regular new editions.
Katrin Binder
Works
Novels:
- Svarūpa (1966)
- Nigūḍha Manuṣyaru (1976)
- Karvālo (1980) — German: Die fliegende Eidechse, 2018
- Cidambara Rahasya (1985)
- Jugāri Krās (1994)
- Māyālōka (2007)
Short-story collections:
- Huliyūrina Sarahaddu
- Abacūrina Pōsṭāfīsu (1973)
- Kiragūrina Gayyāḷigaḷu (1991)
- Parisarada Kate (1993)
- Ērōplēn ciṭṭe mattu itara kategaḷu (1993)
- Pākakrānti mattu itara Kategaḷu (2008)
Published in German
- Die fliegende Eidechse. Translated by B.A. Viveka Rai and Katrin Binder, Heidelberg 2018 (in German)
Excerpt: Opening of the Novel "Die fliegende Eidechse" (The Flying Lizard)
Retranslated into English from the German edition.
By the time I walked through the door of the Mudigere Beekeepers' Association, the start of the rainy season in Malenadu already lay a few months behind us. The whole town was one great expanse of mud and slush. I simply strolled in — with athlete's foot between my toes, a cold in my nose, and wet trousers. While I was still wondering whether the sign outside shouldn't read "Beekeepers' Aid Society" rather than whatever clumsy phrasing it actually had, I looked around. A large hall and a small room led off the veranda. Since there was no one to be seen in the hall, I headed for the small room, which I took to be the office.
My father had written that he needed some honey, and since honey was expensive in Mysore, he asked me to check whether it might be cheaper in Mudigere. Some Ayurvedic doctor had advised him to drink a spoonful of honey dissolved in water every morning, so he needed half a jar of honey a month. I had calculated that at this rate he would need seven jars of honey a year, budgeted ten rupees per jar, and had come with seventy rupees in my pocket.
When I poked my head into the office, two young men were sitting there writing. One of them looked up, noticed me, and gave me a questioning look. I had barely said "honey" when he shot back like a gunshot: "We're not buying honey right now. We won't be buying any for the next two months either." As he spoke, the other young man also stopped writing and looked up. He evidently recognised me. Startled, he jumped up and called out to the other, "Hey, hold on!" Then he turned to me: "Come in, sir, please come in." It pleased me greatly that he had recognised me. Inwardly I cursed my filthy clothes. I stepped in and sat down on the chair he indicated.
"That was your film, wasn't it, sir?" he asked, grinning.
"No, no, the film wasn't mine. Only the story it was based on was mine."
The one who had spoken first now looked embarrassed at having been so clumsy: "Good day, sir. I didn't recognise you. I thought someone had come again to deliver honey."
"I haven't come to deliver honey, but to buy some. I'd like seven jars."
"We're afraid we don't have any jars, sir. Have you brought something with you? We can fill it with honey for you," said one of them.
The one who had recognised me now introduced himself and the other: "Sir, this is Mandanna. He's a beekeeping apprentice. My name is Lakshmana. I've only just started working here." Mandanna stood up, greeted me, and sat back down. It was clear he still hadn't recognised me. Lakshmana turned to him: "Hey, Manda, don't you know who this is?" Mandanna rocked his head as if to say, "Of course I do!" My honour was saved. I looked at them both and smiled.
"Honey in jars costs ten rupees a jar, sir. We can give you honey from the pot, which is a good deal cheaper," said Mandanna.
I asked them to explain exactly what the difference was between honey in jars and honey from the pot. Mandanna immediately launched into a little lecture: "When we bottle the honey into jars, we press it out with the machine. With the pot honey, we do it by hand. Pot honey looks a bit cloudier. With a bit of experience you can tell jar honey from pot honey just by its sheen." One could tell from his words that he had only just begun his training. He spoke as though reciting a memorised lesson in an exam.
What did the sheen of honey mean to me anyway! My father didn't know enough about it either to identify the type of honey. I told them to give me honey from the pot.
But I had no idea how much they were charging for the pot honey. They would probably just give me a whole potful.
Lakshmana asked: "How much would you like?"
I answered: "I have seventy rupees on me. Just give me whatever that'll get me." Both their expressions changed at once. Astonished, they asked, "That much! Why, sir?" "Well, how much does that get me?" I asked back. Lakshmana said: "Look, sir, just add another eight rupees. For seventy-eight rupees you get a whole canister."
By kind permission of Draupadi Verlag, Heidelberg
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