Almost 10 years ago, I met Grace for the first time in my life at a television show. It was one of my first culture assignments and luckily my reading of his poetry in college years saved the day. “You media people write anything at all,” he started in his signature eccentric genius style. After 5 minutes of my attempting a semblance of a sensible conversation he said, “Write to me sometime.” Although that brief interaction was instantly lost in the glitzy event, I dared to write my first fan mail to him in 2003 when I was studying in London.
I never expected a reply but waited for one nonetheless. And a few weeks
later there it was. In his Calligraphic handwriting, not once mocking my utterly gushy letter, he wrote to me about himself and asked me to preserve the craziness and sensitivity. The London winter was over for me!
But he was not a believer in happiness or excitement. An extremely sensitive human being, he depicted various emotions and states: love, pain, and death with extraordinary detail using powerful imagery – sometimes he reminded me of Sylvia Plath, sometimes his metaphors seemed to match Gulzar’s earlier poetry. “When I find that my flower is dying for dew, I at once cut the throat of my flower and release the dew,” he wrote in a letter to me. One never claimed to understand his poems but loved them anyway. However, when Hridaynath Mangeshkar wove his poetry into beautiful compositions and songs from film Nivdung, they reached every Marathi household.
Sometimes he called himself “an ancient man belonging to modern times,” asked me what was special about 31st December and wrote “I sit huddled close to myself holding on to my bones.” But he was also the same man who wrote about the rains in the most mystical and beautiful way.
Even after I had moved back to Delhi, we continued to exchange letters. I believe he made time for many readers like me, despite his need for solitude. Our interaction broke abruptly when he wrote to me once saying he was depressed and was going to be silent. I lost touch for a few months. Then I mustered enough courage and called him to see how he was and he sounded most cheerful and said “Prachitai, where did you disappear? ”
Every time he wrote about his travels, he sent newspaper cuttings about the programmes, his books, articles, and he always mentioned returning back to his Nagpur home, Panthaviram, “a green lonely solitude.” At some point we stopped writing. I still have a letter, which I wrote in 2008 but never posted.
I met him last month at the Dinanath Mangeshkar Hospital, where he had been undergoing cancer treatment for many months. The hospital room was full of his pictures, awards and a study table. “I want to go home but everyone insists I will be better looked after here.” I asked him if we could resume writing to each other. He said, “Yeah life goes on. Stay in touch.”
He died at dinanath mangeshkar hospital this morning.
paus
paus
devalajawalcha
parajawalcha
paus.
parapalidkadcha
paus
sarva.
paus
rastorasti
rastyacha palidkadcha
paus
rastyat
sarva kalokhat
vastyat
paus
dolyat
sarva.
I never expected a reply but waited for one nonetheless. And a few weeks
later there it was. In his Calligraphic handwriting, not once mocking my utterly gushy letter, he wrote to me about himself and asked me to preserve the craziness and sensitivity. The London winter was over for me!
But he was not a believer in happiness or excitement. An extremely sensitive human being, he depicted various emotions and states: love, pain, and death with extraordinary detail using powerful imagery – sometimes he reminded me of Sylvia Plath, sometimes his metaphors seemed to match Gulzar’s earlier poetry. “When I find that my flower is dying for dew, I at once cut the throat of my flower and release the dew,” he wrote in a letter to me. One never claimed to understand his poems but loved them anyway. However, when Hridaynath Mangeshkar wove his poetry into beautiful compositions and songs from film Nivdung, they reached every Marathi household.
Sometimes he called himself “an ancient man belonging to modern times,” asked me what was special about 31st December and wrote “I sit huddled close to myself holding on to my bones.” But he was also the same man who wrote about the rains in the most mystical and beautiful way.
Even after I had moved back to Delhi, we continued to exchange letters. I believe he made time for many readers like me, despite his need for solitude. Our interaction broke abruptly when he wrote to me once saying he was depressed and was going to be silent. I lost touch for a few months. Then I mustered enough courage and called him to see how he was and he sounded most cheerful and said “Prachitai, where did you disappear? ”
Every time he wrote about his travels, he sent newspaper cuttings about the programmes, his books, articles, and he always mentioned returning back to his Nagpur home, Panthaviram, “a green lonely solitude.” At some point we stopped writing. I still have a letter, which I wrote in 2008 but never posted.
I met him last month at the Dinanath Mangeshkar Hospital, where he had been undergoing cancer treatment for many months. The hospital room was full of his pictures, awards and a study table. “I want to go home but everyone insists I will be better looked after here.” I asked him if we could resume writing to each other. He said, “Yeah life goes on. Stay in touch.”
He died at dinanath mangeshkar hospital this morning.
paus
paus
devalajawalcha
parajawalcha
paus.
parapalidkadcha
paus
sarva.
paus
rastorasti
rastyacha palidkadcha
paus
rastyat
sarva kalokhat
vastyat
paus
dolyat
sarva.
