#muthiah

[dssolutionssg]

Watch #Maruthu in cinemas. #vishal #sridivya #muthiah #dimman #laysalaysa

[dssolutionssg]

Watch #Maruthu in cinemas. #vishal #sridivya #muthiah #dimman #laysalaysa

[krishvenkatesh]

The stuff quiet legends are made of

Photo courtesy: The Hindu.

Would it be appropriate to perch him alongside legends of publishing in India? A legend need not have attracted a lot of attention from the press. Two quality remembrances by stalwarts of the stature of Mr. S. Muthiah and Mr. T.J.S. George suffice. Mr. George’s words best describe him: “Outside the rarefied world of books, K.S. Padmanabhan was in all likelihood an unknown quantity. He was never flamboyant, he never projected himself, he claimed nothing. He was, as the poet said, in his simplicity sublime. But his vision made him, unheralded, a part of contemporary India's cultural history. He belonged to the class of P. Lal of Writer's Workshop and Shanbaug of Strand Bookstall -- men of imagination who made a difference to their generation.”

Mr. K.S. Padmanabhan was mild mannered, and his calm, smiling face reflected serenity that cannot be said in words. Little was I aware of his inner world of books and reading that Mr. Muthiah describes: “Shortly after he retired to the wilds of OMR, where he could peacefully do what he loved best, read all the time. Whether it was a pedestrian manuscript from an unknown author or it was the latest he could download on Kindle, he read it all with equal pleasure.” Biswanath Ghosh had profiled this publisher two years ago, as he took a bow at 75 from Westland, which was acquired by Tatas. That was my first and perhaps detailed understanding of this publishing veteran, tucked away from public memory and brought out in an interesting article. Bishwanath had called him Book Man of Madras. At 77, just in two years, he is no more with us.

I don’t know when I had met him first. I had become member of the Madras Book Club three years ago. Rare were instances when Mr. Padmanabhan was not there at the meetings, usually accompanied by his wife Mrs. Chandra (herself an author of bestseller Dakshin, a cookbook). When you gently asked for any information, he would say, “Ask Muthu [Mr. Muthiah].” His presence is best described by Mr. Muthiah in his tribute: “Though every meeting and speaker was a result of his efforts, he’d never take a front seat, standing somewhere at the back at almost every meeting with that even present gentle smile on his face, enjoying the interest shown by the audience.”  He would occasionally take charge of the proceedings, when Mr. Muthiah was absent. Of late, Mr. V. Sriram has begun to don the role of an MC (when Mr. Muthiah isn’t available) and Mr. Padmanabhan used to take a quiet seat “somewhere.” I never failed to say a hello to him at the Book Club meetings, to which a prompt smiling hello would be the response from him. He was reticent by nature, I would think, and would wonder how such a successful publisher keeps a low profile. Moreover, his manner belied his failing health.

I wanted to write about the Madras Book Club. When I asked Mr. Padmanabhan, he pointed me to Mr. Muthiah. I had met Mr. Muthiah, who told me the initial days of the Club are not known to him and the only surviving founder of the Club is “Paddhu.” So he said, “You speak to him first.” Twice, I requested for an interview. On the first occasion, he said, “I stay very far away in OMR. Hiranandhani.” I said that’s not a problem. The meeting hadn’t happened. The second request perhaps would remain in my memory for ever and this was at the launch of a book on Sarvepalli Gopal. I explained to him what Mr. Muthiah told me and asked him for a meeting. Going by the usual descriptions of the early days of the Club I put the question, “Was it at publisher’s canteens the meetings were held?” His reply was, “That’s not how it started. I will tell you about it,” with a twinkle in his eyes. That gave me a sense of how much he enjoyed the Madras Book Club. Before the meeting could take place after the date he specified, Mr. Padmanabhan had taken ill, was in the hospital fighting his illness, and had left the world, all quietly as was his wont. The Hindu, through which I found his profile and preserved it, was the one that gave the news of his passing away as well. It’s now difficult to think the meeting wouldn’t happen at all. I have missed a treasure trove of information that he would have given me on the Madras Book Club and on other matters. I thought I could gain a few pearls from his wisdom, which was not to be.

I think the glory of Mr. Padmanabhan will be better understood by authors who have worked with him. Vinuthaa Mallya, a friend and publishing consultant, wrote on Facebook how she was received warmly every time she went to meet Mr. Padmanabhan and how she is still preserving copies of Indian Review of Books Mr. Padmanabhan had gifted her. Mr. Muthiah was its editor, till financial constraints put it out of circulation. “A revival of Indian Review of Books would be the best remembrance of Paddhu,” writes Mr. Muthiah in his tribute.

Mr. George reflects the same sentiments when he writes: “Unpretentious, informal and genuine as he was, Padmanabhan would be happy to be quietly forgotten. But his associates have a duty, the kind of duty that J.R.D. Tata performed when Mulk Raj Anand returned home to Bombay after his prolonged stay in England. The novelist was fired by the ambition to start a magazine that would be a ‘loose encyclopaedia of the arts of India and related civilisations’. It was an expensive concept, but it became a reality because J.R.D. gave him a start-up fund along with ‘seven advertisements [per issue] and two rooms’ in the historic Army & Navy Building. Thus was born the quarterly Marg. Tata’s successors would honour the spirit of J.R.D. if they were to help revive their business partner K.S. Padmanabhan’s labour of love, the Indian Review of Books. Seven advertisements and two rooms can work magic even today.”

For a generation that has lost the pleasure of Indian Review of Books, its revival could bring back the vision it had, which is succinctly explained by Mr. Muthiah in his tribute: “He was very clear about what he wanted from the journal. The reviews should be in simple, lucid language that the average reader could understand and learn something about the book – making him want to read it and keep wanting to read more books.” 

For me, he ever remains symbolic of intellectual vigour and simplicity that personified many eminent men of his generation. Madras that is Chennai, and the Madras Book Club a bit tellingly, would surely miss the Book Man.

[ignhatyus]

with Muthiah

*mendua -_-