Through A Coloured Glass ( R K Laxman's Autobiography ) Part - 2

And so I lazed in the garden, a huge one full of trees, bushes and hiding places for a growing child, far from the sight (and the calls) of grown-ups inside the house. I would watch the squirrels and insects scurrying by, and birds of every description.

When did I start drawing? May be at the age of three. I started on the wall, of course, like any normal child. Parents were more tolerant in those days. No one stopped my scribbling on the wall. I drew with bits of burnt wood that I got from the hot water stove in the backyard. What did I draw? Oh, the usual things -- trees, houses, the sun behind the hill...

I was not at all a good student in the classroom. The one time I got a pat on the back from the teacher was for one of my drawings. We were all asked to draw a leaf. Each child scratched his head and wondered what a leaf looked like. One drew a banana leaf which became too big for the slate. Another drew a speck that couldn't be seen--a tamarind leaf! Some just managed blobs. When the teacher came to me, he asked, "Did you draw this by yourself?" I hesitated. Had I done wrong? Will my ear be twisted? My cheek slapped? I nodded dumbly. And do you know, the teacher actually broke into a smile! He said I had done a very good job. He saw great possibilities in that leaf I drew so long ago on a hot afternoon, sitting in the dull classroom. I had seen that leaf on the peepal tree which I passed each day on my way to school.

Generally, people take everything for granted. They hardly see anything around them. But I had a keen eye. I observed everything and had a gift for recalling details. This is essential for every cartoonist and illustrator.

As far back as I can remember, the crow attracted me because it was so alive on the landscape. In our garden it stood out black against the green trees, blue sky, red earth and the yellow compound wall. Other birds are timid. They try to hide and camouflage themselves. But the crow is very clever. It can look after itself very well.

At age three I began to sketch crows. I tried to draw their antics. There were many trees in our garden. Mango, wood apple, margosa, drumstick… Every single tree spelt adventure. I would scramble right to their tops and watch the world from the heights. How different the same old places looked from the tree top! But climbing them was not without its terrors. Imagine a small child suddenly coming upon a chameleon on the branch, motionless and menacing! It is really a pre-historic animal, you know. So are the lizards -- onaan, as we call them -- just a twitching tail to show they are alive. When I think back, I realise that to a child, reality seems much more fabulous than fantasy. From a ladybird to a mouse, anything that moves can startle him.…

It was a never-ending source of stories that I made up for myself in the garden. For example, have you never watched an ant hill? Seen the ants going about busily? There are usually two orderly files -- one going out, the other coming in. My elder brother, the one just before me, was very inventive. He used to tell me that these ants lived in an enormous township inside the hill. This town had broad streets and big houses, post offices and police stations, playgrounds and movie theatres. Why, the ants even had their own cinema posters. He never tired of spinning fantastic stories about the secret life of the ants!

I cannot and without telling you about my school. I began to attend classes when I was five years old. I hated school. A normal feeling. Tell me, which child like to go to school? I felt wretched in the classroom. I am convinced that school-learning is unnatural and bad for human beings.

In school we sat on the floor and chorused our lessons. The teachers were terrible. They would write something on the board, aks us to take it down and go out go gossip or to smoke beedis. I was very naughty. I got punished and thrashed quite often. But it did not stop me from mischief.

My family insisted that I should attend school, but did not scold me when I failed exams. I barely managed to pass each year. It was the same story when I joined college. I scraped through my BA examinations. What a relief it was to know that I need never go into a classroom again!

Yes, I have worked very hard and long. But I have not forgotten that you can see the world through pieces of coloured glass. Nor have I lost my love for those noisy black birds which are always around us, managing to survive. I continue to paint crows with as much enjoyment as I did on those long ago days of carefree childhood, when each day was exciting and every hour brought adventure.

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Laxman feels oppressed by having to turn out a cartoon everyday. "Each morning I grumble, I plan to resign as I drag myself to the office. By the time I come home I like my work."

Laxman plays with every shade of humour -- wit, satire, irony, slapstick, buffoonery, tragicomedy. Such versatility dazzles as does his unwearied discipline. Through the long, prolific years the man from Mysore has never hit anyone below the belt. And that makes him India's most beloved cartoonist


One of the most famous Indians of our time doesn't exist in real life- the Common Man. With his hair and glasses askew, in his crumpled dhoti and checked shirt, this always puzzled, ever silent being was created by Rasipuram Krishnaswamy Laxman, a cartoonist who has been synonymous with the Times of India ever since your grandfather was a child.

Laxman once said of his Common Man, "He's been with me throughout my career. I didn't find him. He found me... I would say he symbolises the mute millions of India, or perhaps the whole world, a silent spectator of marching time." Half a century ago, he would draw a Bengali, a Tamilian, a Punjabi and so on to represent Indians. These figures dropped out of his cartoons gradually, until he was left with this lone character.

What drew Laxman to cartooning? The youngest of the six sons and two daughters of a school headmaster, he loved the illustrated magazines that arrived at their Mysore home from London by sea mail. Even before he mastered reading or writing, he could identify the names, styles and techniques of these artists — including David Low of Punch and Illingworth in the now-defunct Strand.

In 1985, Laxman became the first Indian cartoonist to hold a solo exhibition in London. During the visit, he called on his childhood idols, Low and Illingworth. Imagine his pride when The Evening Standard once invited him to take Low's place on their staff in London, which did not work out.

"Mercifully, I was neither encouraged nor discouraged by my parents and elders," recalls Laxman. "They left me free to do what I liked. They enjoyed my drawing. They appreciated my qualities. My brother (R. K.) Narayan started writing short stories, which were published in The Hindu. When I was just 12 or 13, I was asked to illustrate them. The Hindu used to pay me two rupees eight annas per cartoon. In those days, that went a long way."

In his autobiography, The Tunnel of Time, Laxman confesses to an unusual personal quirk — he never keeps a diary, refers to a calendar, or wears a watch! So, it proves doubly difficult to find dates to match events in Laxman's life.

His father was not unduly upset by Laxman's low school test scores, noting his son's preference for hours on a marketplace bench, sketching the bustle around. Whenever the child bawled at dusk for their mother, who might be away at the club, playing chess with the Mysore Maharani, his older brother Seenu found a novel way to calm him — by sketching endlessly.

At school, Laxman remembers a dhoti-clad teacher, who often left their class to secretly smoke a beedi. He once asked his students, seated on long benches, to draw a leaf on their slates while he was away. Laxman's leaf impressed him so much that he declared, "You will be an artist one day. Keep it up."

What are Laxman's school memories made of? He found it a nightmare to distribute 15 mangoes equally between three people, but could name historical villains, heroes and warriors with ease.

As the arithmetic teacher droned on one day, Laxman unselfconsciously sketched all over the margins of his exercise book. Suddenly, he felt a stinging slap. The teacher was glaring at Laxman's drawing of a tiger cub, which he imagined was his own caricature. Years later, the cartoonist realised that people's expressions could be likened to those of animals or birds.

Laxman insists that a cartoonist needs a sense of humour, the talent to draw, and a sound education. "It is of no use if one of these traits is present without the others, or any two without the third. He must have all of them. Cartooning is inborn," he says. "It cannot be taught."

Can you imagine the Common Man nodding his agreement? He should know the truth of that statement, better than most.