Memories in verse

Harivansh Rai Bachchan will remain. In many of our memories as in the verses that aspiring poets will pen in times to come. For what will re...

Harivansh Rai Bachchan will remain. In many of our memories as in the verses that aspiring poets will pen in times to come. For what will remain is the sheer brilliance that the poet delivered through his works. A departure from tradition, it was Bachchan after all who connected Hindi poetry to the much ignored nuance of romance. A lot of Hindi poetry till that time approached romance in a rather holistic manner. And the only poetry that dealt with romance was written in Urdu or Hindustani.

Bachchan in his chaste Hindi weaved magic for readers 8212; ranging from towering politicians and striving students to bored housewives and the ordinary babus of independent India who needed a break from the struggle they had just been through. Bachchan, perhaps inspired by his own romantic inclinations, broke new path.

What fired imaginations further was Bachchan8217;s Madhushala 8212; a saga of intoxication that came from a teetotaller. Folklore has it that when he sang his verses, there were few who could resist being hypnotised. Truth is, with Madhushala, one did not need a drink to feel the overpowering feeling of 8220;being drunk8221;.

I still remember winter evenings in Dehra Dun, walking down the dark bylanes of the cantonment town, holding my father8217;s hand, to attend a kavi sammelan that would carry into the wee hours of the night. A small gathering in a dimly lit room, where my childhood felt further dwarfed when my father hushed my protests of discomfort with, 8216;8216;listen to the verses. You may not get to hear this kind of discussion again.8217;8217; This is where I first heard people discuss Bachchan Saheb8217;s poetry.

My memory holds clear the telecast of a poets8217; gathering on Doordarshan when my mother huddled us all out of bed to catch the maestro and his brilliance one more time. Dinner that night was served early and I remember the reverence that filmed our faces when we heard him recite his poetry. The many anecdotes from the poet8217;s life related to us till later into the morning hours. The smell from my father8217;s library and the copy of Madhushala that I sneaked into school to impress my Hindi teacher.

I recall the days in school when I chose Madhushala for the annual elocution and the little prize I won for that. The sense of pride and that I knew some of Bachchan senior8217;s poetry by heart.

Today, all of that, written so clearly on my slate, refuses to fade. And not without reason. The doyen is dead. Gone for ever. But for me, the dream called Harivansh Rai Bachchan lives on.