He became an activist when he was hardly 18, perhaps. Thanks to the horrible misuse of the body and total irresponsibility, he was down with a stroke when he was no more than 45 years of age, and died 15 years later.
Thus, for less than three decades, he had functioned as an activist of assorted causes. Still a self-made guy and an autodidact of commendable skills, Madurai Rajan was an object of love and admiration for many, though looked down upon too by many others.
He graduated from ITI, but never cared to look for a stable job. Don’t know who initiated him into Marxism, but he embraced it in no time and started reading up. He remained a floater right through his life, but still left a mark behind, at least for a small circle.
He was in financial straits all the time, and after he was felled by a stroke, it was his wife who bravely took on the responsibility of running the household. He remained bedridden, and his wife didn’t show any aversion or anger anytime, to my knowledge.
There were many tensions in their life, but Rajan’s wife didn’t allow the problems to stand in the way of her devotion. They had two children together, and only the mother reared them, to the best of her abilities.
He named his son Srinivasa Rao, after the great communist leader, and his daughter Nivedita, the famed disciple of Swami Vivekananda and who had attracted the attention of the great Tamil poet Bharati.
But his great tragedy was not to be felled by a stroke or even not to have been accorded the respect due to him, but that his own children didn’t seem to have realized the significance of their names.
Once, when I asked them, “Do you know why you were named thus?” They felt abashed, at least I thought they did. When I started explaining, Rajan, from his bed, started laughing loudly, at them or me, it was not clear. Anyway, I realized it was a fruitless task and gave up.
Rajan’s wife called their son Akash. I didn’t find out whether she was repelled by the surname Rao or she merely thought Akash was suitably modern.
It really takes enormous courage for a Dalit activist, whom he turned to over time, to name his son after a communist Brahmin. That few appreciated it didn’t seem to matter at all. While active and also when he became confined to bed, he kept chortling all the time – was it at the causes he was championing or at himself, who knows?
But his chuckles were always charming, never offensive. That some did find it annoying, I can’t deny, though.
I think it was after a meeting in the eighties, on the Drug Policy of the time, Rajan introduced himself to me. He was pleasant and sounded quite knowledgeable. As we fell to talking, I ventured to ask him, “I appreciate your enthusiasm and understanding. But should you not look for a job? You’re not even 20, a long way to go. You can’t afford to lose your time floating around like this..”
He responded, with a chuckle, as ever, “Comrade, what’s the point in planning…Does anything happen the way we want it to….we always find a way out and hobble along, that’s fine by me…”
Was he being arrogant or naïve or both? My dear friend and senior journalist, M Kalyanaraman, would often reminisce about one of Rajan’s favourite anecdotes – the Tirupattur town secretary of CPM, in his native Sivaganga district, used to make his living selling ice sticks but would dismissively refuse to engage with anyone who didn’t know Marxism or moral superiority. Marxism gave much power to whoever studies it, along with an unhealthy dose of intellectual arrogance, though, Rajan would imply, that is.
I have a favourite story of mine own. There was this beggar, a leper to boot, who would remain lying on a piece of cloth most of the time, with an aluminium mug by his side. Those who cared to notice him would drop a coin or two. With whatever the collection at the end of the day, he would have to make do. Never once though the beggar would care to accost anyone and ask for money. “Well, I’m down, man of no means. If you care to, help me. Otherwise, too, no issues..” Such seemed to be his attitude, and Rajan greatly relished it.
He had a lot in common with both the CPM functionary and the beggar, one can say confidently – only a caveat, he seldom came through as a man of arrogance. He was just delightful, a don’t-care-master, whatever the circumstances.
He was close to a few Naxalite groups, but was never a proper member of any. He would run some errands and write handbills or pamphlets for them when asked for, but nothing much otherwise. He was critical less of their tactics but more of the sanctimonious humbugs running the show at any given point in time.
There was an exception or two. Namas, very amiable and dedicated, into gun-running too. Whether Rajan is part of it all it is not clear.
Anyway, he seldom fell foul of the law on this score; probably, he saw it all futile. But for Namas, he had a great regard. Rajan always valued simplicity, sincerity, and dedication, whatever one did.
So was the case with his Dalit activism. He might have been skeptical of the efficacy of the various outfits, but deferred to those he thought were sincere and did his bit.
Just as many Naxal leaders scorned him because of his brattishness, Dalit leaders did so too.
A Madurai group once organized a rally to protest the treatment of Burakus of Japan, a social group that is much discriminated against.
With whatever materials he could gather, Rajan wrote a pamphlet for the occasion. Much later, he sent across the same material for publication in a prominent Tamil daily. After it was published, the leader of the group that had organized the event strongly protested, saying Rajan had plagiarized, mailing the very pamphlet Rajan had composed! Still, the daily had to apologize as he had not cited it, as he should have. Worse, he lost a valuable opportunity to latch on to a platform that could have been both financially and intellectually rewarding.
On another occasion, a Dalit leader of some means came forward to help him out and asked him to work as the manager of an election office. Somehow, things didn’t work out there either. Again, he was on the streets, literally.
He also did represent the interests of Muslim activists in Tamil Nadu when they were being hunted down, though he was very much against any kind of fanaticism and fundamentalism. Before long, that activism too died down.
Whatever his failings, I will always readily acknowledge that it was he who introduced me to many amazing dimensions of poet Bharati, whom he could cite at will.
On the Dalit front, it was thanks to him I learnt that the so-called Protection of Civil Rights Act wing of the police was itself an untouchable of sorts, and he helped me write a series of articles on Dalits and the police.
He also played a crucial role in shaping my series on the community for the BBC Tamil service. Of course, his company itself was priceless. There was not a single state or nationwide election that I covered without his active collaboration after I came to know him.
But in the 2011 Tamil Nadu assembly elections, I missed him asa stroke had claimed him. I went through the motions, without my heart in it. Mercifully, I didn’t have to cover another campaign. I retired soon thereafter.
I think he became a near alcoholic after another friend of his died following a drinking binge. Rajan was with him during that suicidal mission, and he blamed himself for failing to prevent the horror.
That could even be an excuse, again, difficult to say. But he started drinking at every opportunity. Worse, he was a chain-smoker too. Both cost a lot of money when he was a man of very limited means.
A Madurai-based progressive doctor, who was treating him now and then, urged him to give up smoking, or at least control it, warning that it was going to seriously damage his health. He wouldn’t heed, of course, becoming a major problem to those around him.
I had strongly counseled him against getting married. Wandering around aimlessly, doing things he pleased, without a thought for the morrow, hurts only him, but marriage was a great additional responsibility, he just would not be able to bear, and so on. He seemed to agree, still went ahead, and they all paid a huge price.
He was irresponsible and thoughtless, but was also noble. He surprised me once with some money, when I badly needed it, even though he himself was not much better off, and I hadn’t sought his help at all. I had never seen him refuse anyone any help, though what he could give away was very little. He was always ungrudging on any plane, I would say.
Tragic, such a man’s life was so brutally cut short. As I have noted earlier, anyway, he had become virtually dead a decade ago and more. Only he was not in a coma but was fully conscious.
Unfortunately, he could not share his thoughts with anyone. Can’t say definitely that he regretted anything he did or did not.
Whatever he did, though, was enough to command the love and respect of those who knew him well.
As Turkish playwright Mehmet Murat ildan observed, “The good things you do for others when nobody sees you make you a real star in the sky, a shining noble star beyond reach!”
