Opinion Canon, critic, contrarian: The many lives of Kannada writer S L Bhyrappa

It was January 2014. The annual literature festival Sahitya Sambrama was about to begin in Dharwad, Karnataka. Literary enthusiasts, writers, scholars, and artists from the Kannada cultural world had gathered. Ananthamurthy, who had accepted the invitation to inaugurate the event, was seated in the front row. Amid the hushed banter and buzz, Bhyrappa walked into the auditorium, dressed suavely in an elegant blue-striped shirt and beige trousers. Mischievous smiles spread across the room as Bhyrappa walked toward Ananthamurthy and extended his hand. Ananthamurthy reciprocated with his signature charm. They shook hands and smiled.

In the wake of his death, while media reports discuss what Bhyrappa has left behind — from his novels to his controversial will — it is equally pertinent to reflect on what he took with him. Among his many achievements, Bhyrappa was perhaps the last of the old-school Mysuru writers who could shake hands and share a cup of coffee with those he fundamentally disagreed with. At a time when families split over ideologies in WhatsApp groups, the possibility of someone like Banu Mushtaq —a Muslim sodari — hosting Bhyrappa while he worked on his most controversial novel Aavarana (2007), fully aware that she may not agree with his views, seems like a desirable impossibility. Even as Bhyrappa’s staunch critics label him conservative and stubborn, the life and personality of a man of his stature cannot be reduced to such simplifications.

It is crucial to remain wary of reductive attempts to bracket an author of Bhyrappa’s stature within a singular ideology. Certain utterances — whether appropriated or deliberate — may have fed such narratives, but his intellectual breadth far exceeded those traps. Santeshivara Lingannaiah Bhyrappa, born to Lingannaiah and Gowramma in 1934 in Santeshivara village of Channarayapatna Taluk, Karnataka, led a life deeply textured by experience. Named after the deity at the Kalabhairava temple in Shettykere, Bhyrappa survived the bubonic plague — unlike his siblings —after his mother placed him in the lap of Mahadeviah, a wandering monk, as a final act of hope.

In his autobiography Bhitti (1996), Bhyrappa’s reflections on his mother and sister offer a broader, more nuanced view than critics often allow when analysing his portrayal of women. He credited his mother as the source of his strength and creative spark; his affection for his sister is equally touching. From walking to Channarayapatna to attend school, to working as a gatekeeper at Lakshmi Talkies, to surviving on varanna meals in Kote-area households, Bhyrappa grew ever more attached to life — and eventually, to literature. His memory of a wayward father inciting households not to feed him because he hadn’t undergone upanayana (sacred thread ritual), or of his uncle, a priest at the Nageshwara temple in Bagur, beating him regularly, were formative experiences.

His struggles — as a gatekeeper in Channarayapatna, a porter in Mumbai, and as a child subjected to violence — along with his mother’s sheer will to survive, planted early seeds of thought in Bhyrappa’s mind about life, divinity, and relationships. The death of his mother and his later encounter with the Kathopanishad led him to contemplate mortality. His authorship remained closely tied to lived experience throughout his life.

In his fiction, Bhyrappa wrestled with themes like the loss of faith, the crumbling of belief systems, and the violence often lurking beneath traditions and histories.The disillusionment with the performative masculinity of the matador in Bhimakaya (1958), the hollowness of Srinivas Strothri’s legacy in Vamshavriksha (1965), the moral decay appearing as idiocy in Gruhabhanga (1970) or as villainy in Sakshi (1986), and the alienation in Tabbaliyu Neenade Magane (1968) — all reveal the sincerity of a storyteller deeply invested in exploring the anxiety and fragility of identity and practice.

Bhyrappa worked with the meticulousness of a researcher. For a novel like Aavarana, his references spanned over 100 works by more than 50 authors, underlining his thoroughness. This scholarly grounding made Bhyrappa difficult to ignore — even for his critics. He was often proven factually correct. Yet, scientific accuracy does not always equate to fairness; it operates within binaries rather than balanced scales.

The vastness of Bhyrappa’s life and work is more than just the legacy of a departed man. Through him run narratives of pluralism — in life, language, and community. In the sense proposed by Isaiah Berlin, Bhyrappa was both a hedgehog — deeply committed to enduring philosophical questions — and a fox — versatile and wide-ranging in his literary imagination — making him a uniquely complex figure in the world of Kannada literature. He captured, with equal ease, the intricacies of Hindustani classical music (Mandra, 2001), the dynamics of an eighth-century trading cartel (Saartha, 1998), the everyday lives of characters typically cast only in grandeur (Parva, 1979), the existential questions of outer space (Yaana, 2014), the estrangement of a man alienated from his roots (Tabbaliyu Neenade Magane, 1968), and the ambiguities of shifting faiths (Dharmashree, 1961).

Bhyrappa crafted a unique blend of eclecticism and opinionated localism within the Kannada literary space. His versatility and mastery of vivid imagery are perhaps best evidenced by the ease with which his works were adapted across mediums — film, theatre, and television.

As we assess the impact of literary movements that shaped Kannada literature —Navya, Dalita, Bandaya, Strivadi, Navyottara — it is only fair to regard Bhyrappa as both a canon and a movement unto himself. Not only did he outlive and debate the aspirations of these movements, but he also influenced a vast readership, encouraging them to think, engage, and arrive at their own conclusions.

Gundur is professor, Tumkur University, Tumkur, Karnataka. Shrikanth is research scholar, IIT Bombay