In Memoriam — Keki Daruwalla: A Tribute, by Mustansir Dalvi

Keki spoke to me in Urdu. I would respond in my gutter Bambaiya, which was the closest I could get to Urdu. But we both shared a love for the words of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, which Keki could recall seamlessly, and recite in his soft, mellifluous voice. He was intensely happy that I was translating Faiz regularly. Whenever we met, not very regularly, whether at the Press Club or the Kala Ghoda Festival In Bombay or at the Goa Art and Literary Festival, I would always prefer to read my poems first. You see, Keki was a hard act to follow.

Belying his avuncular demeanour was the rasp in his words, an impatience and suppressed rage in his verse. I could never read his poems without wondering what those eyes had seen for those hands to write the way they did. His early work, especially ‘Keeper of the Dead’ uses imagery from his youth in undivided Punjab, and his life in the police, as it unsparingly talk of a country coming to terms with its independence, nominally under governance, but largely in a struggle just to survive. Anger is conveyed through irony, which continues even in his later historical work while talking about the Persians of Greeks, of Babylon or Nishapur. An irony that he would happily unleash on an audience whenever he stood up to read.

I came into the poetry scene later than some of my contemporaries. Late enough to know that the last great outpouring of Anglophone Indian poetry had been in the 1970s, when I was a schoolchild. Many of the great names had already passed on, Kolatkar, Chitre, Moraes, Ezekiel. But I was privileged to read with some of their contemporaries, Adil Jussawalla,  Gieve Patel, Jayanti Mohapatra, and of course, Keki Daruwalla Now only Jussawalla remains, and long may he be with us.

Each one of them was gracious to me, willing to share and talk about their work, gracious enough to write a blurb for a book of poems by a greenhorn, gracious enough to agree to release a book I had written, as did Eunice Desouza and Gieve Patel for me. Keki, stalwart poet, was the kind and friendly elder in my poetic life whose quiet encouragement and appreciation like Faiz’ sweet morning breeze could make an ailing soul like mine, feel fine for no reason at all.

 Raat yunh dil mein teri khoee hui yaad aayee

Jaise veeraane mein chupke se bahaar aa jaaye

 Jaise sehraa mein haule se chale baad-e-naseem

Jaise beemaar ko be-vajah qaraar aa jaaye