N. S. RAMASWAMI – A TRIBUTE

Dr. D. ANJANEYULU

Over a month after his death (Feb. 1987), signed articles by N. S. Ramaswami continued to appear in a number of journals–Sunday supplements of daily newspapers as also weekly magazines, monthlies and other periodicals in English. (A book-review by him appears elsewhere in this number–Ed.) And on a wide variety subjects too, from the birth of Bangalore to the beginnings of Mohenjodaro, from the latest of American scholars holding forth on the alleged inadequacies of local administration under the Cholas to the ruthless batsmanship of Srikanth! That would perhaps give a fair measure of the man – who was a brilliant journalist, speedy and prolific, versatile and resourceful, always eminently readable.

That would also give a measure of the man, in another way. NSR as he was fondly known by his friends and readers, of whom he had a wide circle, said everything through the written word. He always put his best into it. Even those who knew him well wouldn’t be able to get much in addition to what he had said in his writing. What Dr. Johnson said of his friend, Goldsmith, would apply to NSR too without any substantial modification. Angel or not, he did certainly write like a master; and when it came to talking, he was, to put it mildly, not the best of communicators. “Inarticulate” and “incoherent” might be uncharitable expressions to use in the context; but “fidgety” and “nervous” he undoubtedly was, speaking in clipped phrases and incomplete sentences, interchanging English with Tamil. He understandably avoided the public platform like the plague, often asking other people to read his text instead.

It was singularly lucky for himself as well as for the profession that NSR chose to be a journalist. (A poet is said to be born, not made). One does not know whether a journalist, a true one, is, likewise, born or made. Perhaps, both. In the case of this journalist, it would not be incorrect to say that he was born to it, and trained himself for it – assiduously, endlessly, tirelessly. With some pardonable exaggeration and conventional concession to an unscientific mode of expression, one might say that journalism ran in his blood. For, his father, N. Srinivasa Aiyar, a lawyer by profession (but reportedly no conspicuous success at the bar), was a writer, a literary journalist by inclination, was a good friend of Khasa Subba Rau since the old Swarajya days. He was the “Junius” of many literary pieces (after the British “Junius”, who was Sir Philip Francis, not to speak of the Roman original). And appropriately enough the son christened himself “Junius Junior” for his weekly column in Indian Express.

It was in Indian Express that NSR started his journalistic career in the early ‘Forties (as vividly recalled by senior colleague, Mr. C. P. Seshadri, popularly known as “Master”) and it was in Indian Express that he found himself most at home and it was to Indian Express again that he contributed his most, and readable best. After a few years in the Express, he shifted to The Mail and soon joined The Hindu (as a sub-editor) which used, for long, to be the final destination of Madras journalists, who did not want to leave the Southern capital. But NSR’s journey was a little different, though he did’nt like to cross the Vindhyas either, for a better job. He simply retraced his steps, reaching The Mail next door, this time as a leader-writer, returning ultimately where he started, that is, the Express but as Assistant Editor, may be later as Associate Editor, but free to write as much as he pleased. Of few others could it be truly said that “he turned full circle” and prospered in the process.

Not only personal friends, but regular readers could see that NSR was enjoying his work immensely on the Express. He wrote all possible things-sub-leaders, middles, special articles, apart from a couple of columns–“Maypole” (on all things), “Madras Diary” (by “Mount Road Wallah”), “Old am New Books” and the like. He had lots of aliases too, to suit each one of them, “NSR”, “Junius Junior”, etc. His cricket articles used to appear under the curious pseudonym “The Cardusian”. One could, of course, understand his ardent admiration for that elegant master of cricket writing, Neville Cardus (of the, Manchester Guardian); but why the definite article? Was he the only “Cardusian” of all time? It bounced me; and I am no cricket fan, nor have ever been.

In addition to the regular columns and other features, NSR was doing lots of other things as well. One was a series of well-documented articles on the temples and sacred places of South India–from Suchindram to Simhachalam and from Tanjavur and Chidambaram to Sringeri and Srirangapatnam. When the cricket test series was on, he travelled all over the sub-continent, spreading himself across the sports page, making it lively and readable with the maximum of literary allusion and vivid description and a minimum of technical jargon and statistical data. During special events like the World Tamil Conference in Madurai, he used to rise to the occasion, with a happy blend of historical recollection and picturesque reporting.

There are many successful journalists who have no time to read, at least say so, and no use for books. NSR was very different. He was a passionate lover of books–old and new. What is more, he was a voracious reader and a prolific writer. He had a wonderful collection of books at home, thousands and thousands of them, strewn all over the place with a gay abandon. A regular visitor to second-hand bookshops, be was deeply shocked by the fire that consumed the Moore Market Complex, (though I had no tears to shed for it).

His knowledge of old books was profound, as I could see, as a colleague of his on the Managing Committee of the Madras Literary Society for many years. He did a marvellous job of locating and separating the rare books from the rest. He did a neat monograph on the Society in record time. His monograph on K. S. Venkataramani (in the Makers of Indian Literature Series) awaits publication by Sahitya Akademi. He was also the author of a dozen other books on historical, archaeological subjects and on vignettes of old Madras. From out of the thousands of articles lying in the old files of newspapers and periodicals, another dozen could be produced. I hope there is someone who would do it or get it done.

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