A solitary reaper

Can there be any thing as fulfilling as the life of a writer? I am writing this column ensconced in the study of the late Manohar Malgonkar, in the remote region of Jagalbet in Karnataka. Set amidst 10 acres of wheat fields and jungle, the sprawling bungalow is where he worked and breathed his last at the ripe old age of 98 a couple of years ago.

Malgonkar was prolific by any standards, producing eight novels and as many as 50 stories in addition to books of non-fiction and regular newspaper columns. His writing received popular as well as critical success and many of his books went on to inspire films and TV series.

But it is his life and the way he chose to live it that interests me most. Born in to a princely family in pre-Independence India, Malgonkar was educated at Mumbai University and then went on to become a big game hunter, a Lieutenant Colonel in the army, a businessman who owned manganese mines — and a writer.

What impresses me is the ease and grace with which he lived out these different and often contradictory roles, and the wisdom it must have taken to do so. Sitting amidst the silence of his study with only bird song and the rustle of trees for company at least two hours away from Belgaum, the nearest city, I try and imagine what it must have been like for Malgonkar spending the whole day in the pursuit of his imagination, with no other distractions and with only his books and dogs and servants for company. Having lost his wife and daughter while he was in his eighties, Malgonkar spent the last decade of his life alone in the bungalow he built in his hometown, surrounded by the sights and sounds that he had grown up with.

For many, this decision to live alone and so far away from civilisation, in the middle of a jungle, might appear to be extreme and anti-social, but for me it appears to be an idyllic existence — far richer and more fulfilling than the lives far wealthier men have chosen.

The bungalow which Malgonkar built is by no means ostentatious but it is filled with comfortable arm chairs, shelves brimming with books, and windows that let in the clean jungle-scented air and sunshine. The food he ate was grown in the soil around him, and the people who served at his home, drawn from the nearby villages, obviously adored and cared for the famous writer who’d won for their village notice and acclaim.

What more could a man want? To live long and peacefully, pursuing his passion, surrounded by his own people, in a pristine and natural surrounding — what else should a man aspire to do? Many men with far more in material terms lead lives infinitely more impoverished.

I have met billionaires who sit in their offices all day, all night, their faces tense, their skins sallow, who have not breathed fresh air, eaten a wholesome meal, or slept a full night’s untroubled sleep in months. In contrast, men like Malgonkar and the late writer Patwant Singh, who in my opinion lived a similarly fulfilled writer’s life — albeit in Delhi’s toniest area — are so worthy of emulation.

It is a great art, this business of life and there are very few who having understood what nurtures their souls, have the courage to beat their own paths. Men like Malgonkar and Patwant seemed to have cracked the code.

Malavika Sangghvi is a Mumbai-based writer
malavikasangghvi@hotmail.com