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Showing posts with label Classicism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Classicism. Show all posts

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

The legacy of Tamil thatha

The classicism of Tamil literature and the masterpieces that make it so bring to mind great palaces, poets endowed with immense talent, and an immeasurable appreciation of what the quills sang. To think all these are preserved in one 68-year old library, with inadequate funds, in Thiruvanmiyur can be a bit of a letdown.

However, the U. V. Swaminatha Aiyer Research Library is one of its kinds in South Asia, both in terms of its history, its contents and its potential.

Dr. Swaminatha Aiyar lived in a time that possessed an incomplete awareness, let alone knowledge, of Tamil literature. Once, after a chance encounter with an associate, he received a frail document to decipher, a document he quickly realized with a shock was the Jeevaka Chintamani, one of the five great epics, the Aymperum Kaappiangal.

His discovery prompted him to search for other lost epics of Tamil literature. Soon, he was going from door to door in hundreds of towns and villages in and around Tamil Nadu, begging for the Tamil people to give up any old manuscripts they might have had to be preserved. The alternative then, unamusingly, was for their use in cooking fires.

Kalyansundaram Aiyar, his son, offered the entire treasure trove after the passing of his father Rukmini Devi in 1942.

On the advice of her husband, Dr. George Arundale, she accepted the gift and initially stored the collection in the Theosophical Society's library. With grants from the central and state governments, a building was constructed in Thiruvanmiyur to house the collection in 1967.

Formally established in 1943, one year after the death of Dr. Aiyer, the research library bears fitting tribute to a man of great intellect and even greater perseverance. This was demonstrated when he collected all five of the epics, the others being Silappathikaram, Thirukkural, Kundalakesi and Valayapathi, apart from over 21,000 books and 3,100 palm leaf manuscripts.

In accordance with the facilities at the library’s disposal, the books are categorized into three: transcribed and published, transcribed and unpublished, and non-transcribed. The latter already number on the greater side of 400. With dwindling interest in the services of this remarkable facility, their preservation is beginning to pose a tremendous problem – both to the administration as well as to the language itself.

V. Jagannathan, an independent Tamil scholar, has used the library and admires it fervently – both for what it is and what it could be. Many a time making use of the transcribed works to aid in his translations of the Silappathikaram and the Thirukkural, he says, “These are works that cannot be found anywhere in the world. They are preserved in their original forms here. It is really depressing to see them so uncared for.”

He explains that the transcription and lamination processes were begun later than they should have, in 2006. Even now, Dr. Jagannathan observes, the influx of funds remains a concern. Enough has been provided by the government and the Kalakshetra foundation for micro-filming and fumigation of the texts. “However, with the internet, the library has the fantastic opportunity to make these texts quickly available for free and in a form accessible to many youngsters.”

[caption id="attachment_20413" align="aligncenter" width="376" caption="A statue of Dr. Aiyar outside the Madras Presidency College, Chennai"][/caption]

What does the future look like, then? The title of Mahopadhyaya was conferred on Dr. Aiyar in 1906, meaning “the greatest of the great teachers”, and how have we honoured his lessons?

M. V. Pasupathy, honorary curator of the library, has emphasized the need for virtual libraries abetted by awareness programs on history and heritage that draw in more people to sustain its preservation. The hope, evidently, lies with the hundreds of scholars and their use of the library every year. It is from the appreciation of their efforts that we can embark once more upon a journey that will revive the splendour of Tamil classical literature as well as our beloved Tamil thatha.

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

Why I Could Walk, And Why I Might Not

I don’t like walking. It’s a witless excursion.

I’d much rather look outside from my steel window; after all, it has become easy to reassure myself that there is no such thing as fresh air. When I set forth, the texture of the road feeling uncharacteristically affable, the occasional patch of gravel picks at my skin, and I feel like a condemned showpiece, a necessary fixture of society chained firmly to showmanship and the like–I can feel the stares, an invisible sneer, a finger pointed anywhere but, somehow, also at me. I feel open, like a lone journeyman on a long journey with the yawning distance nagging at me to cover it.

If I must walk–which fate I hope doesn’t befall me soon–I will because I have to. It won’t be an ailment of the legs but, strictly speaking, a yearning of the heart that’s going to get me off my arse. Yet again, there’s a sizable dose of toil left to be dedicated, to oil the joints and other rusting levers and so forth, and set forth like a Wodehousian “bird in the sky”.

When I walk, I only want to walk. I don’t want to pause and wonder which way to turn when faced with a fork, I don’t want to negotiate puddles and jaywalking urchins determined to run into my legs. A walk must preferably be in the shadows of a cherry blossom, an offering of apples, or a silent and waiting pine, with no faculty dedicated to any trivialities–I’m neither a lion nor a warrior. I only want to walk with all the purpose of walking left in me.


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It only seems stupid to romanticize such matters, even though it’s so easy to draw parallels to the image of a man walking with his chin thrust into the heavens, a picture “which draws forth reserves from the soul to be what it is–an image of oneself that the world sees”. Unfortunately, the same convention is extended to many matters that I’d rather be left alone.

For example, I know how it can be hard on someone when he’s judged by the shoes he wears, the wine he relishes or his standing in society, but it’s a tough world out there and someone or the other is going to the bottom. Otherwise, you see, being at the top makes no sense.

There’s no time or obligation for anyone to wait to read and judge the preferences of others. A civilization’s as smart as its stupidest businessman. We just have no way of knowing who that is, and as it turns out, it makes all the difference. This obsession with romanticism is deleteriously postmodern on the face of it.

However, just as this practice works detrimentally in the one direction, it could be put to good use in the other, something like subjecting it to a taste of its own medicine. If something about being human is romanticized, then it does make good sense to be romantic. Speak swiftly, be just, and ensure that your actions are impregnated with purpose, walk with a gait not noticeable awkwardly in a crowd yet one of a kind in its demeanour.

Do everything without regret or hesitation, as if the place of your actions in society is just as important as inalienable as place of the stars in the night sky, and backed by impeccable reason and judgment. Allow no room for doubt; keep the road straight and the end in sight. The voice of reason is nothing but the truth of words, its timbre but the quality of the language, its universality but the statement itself!