Some Recollections of My Days the....... LEAVES FROM MY in PERSONAL

LIFE

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Leaves from My Personal Life

Some Recollections of My Days in the.......

LEAVES FROM

MY PERSONAL LIFE

V.R. KRISHNA IYER Justice, Supreme Court of India

GYAN PUBLISHING HOUSE NEW DELHI-110002

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Contents Preface

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1. Some Recollections of My Days in the Annamalai University

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2. I was a Prisoner

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3. Experiments in Law Making—As MLA, as Minister and as Judge

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4. Mass Sramdan and E.M.S. Prisons

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5. My Creative Tenure as Minister for Prisons

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6. Some Random Reminscences of Days as a Kerala Minister

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7. Kuttiyadi Project—An Odd Serendipity

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8. My Vintage Response to Compassion for Living Creatures

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9. Back to the Bar

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10. My Judicial Career—How it Began

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11. A Meeting with Indira Gandhi during the Emergency

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12. Thou Shall not Kill

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13. Separate Sham Sher Singh Opinion—A Hospital Telephone Call

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14. The Story behind the Ratlam Case

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15. The Independent Initiative—Two Episodes

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16. A Kerala Karseva Chronicle

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17. Bhagwan Satya Sai Baba—Some Reflections

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18. A Democratic Defeat without Personal Disappointment

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19. Parole Justice and Clemency Jurisprudence

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20. An American Trip that did not Click

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21. Marad Massacre—A National Alarm

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22. My Glimmering Evening of Life

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23. A Compassionate Gerontic Undertaking—for Jail Justice 253 Index

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Preface ‘It is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself: it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the readers’ ears to hear anything of praise for him’. I have lived on this planet for four score and eight years and filled many positions relatively insignificant, but curiously creating an illusion that I do matter in some measure in public life. Friends from various strata of society have been pressing me to write my autobiography. But I have consistently dismissed the idea as an elite enterprise and expression of veiled vanity. Autobiographies by mediocrities mushroom in bookshops and those who wish to project themselves as larger than they are write their megalo-stories. I never wish to add to their number knowing as I do that anything I write of myself may be a wee-bit of boast which I should sensitively avoid. I know of great and glorious autobiographies. Gandhiji’s Experiments with Truth, Nehru’s magnificent Autobiography, the spiritually elevating Autobiography of a Yogi by Yogananda, Edward Gibbon’s fine Autobiography and other world classics which stand on a lofty footing. Great lawyers like M.C. Setalvad, great judges like Chagla and Mahajan, great writers like R.K. Narayan and yet other illustrious and intellectual giants have enriched the treasury of English literature. Of course, the great Winston Churchill wrote the most inspiring wonder of war literature in his ‘The Second World War’ the like of which no Nobel prize winner has written. In a different vein, Lord Denning, among the greatest judges of the commonwealth, has delectably written, with anecdotal illustration, his fascinating Family Story. How dare I consider, playing the author of a self-centred

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book, knowing how little I matter, how small has been my contribution to the story of India in its executive, legislative and forensic dimensions. Humility banished from my mind all thought of writing about my own career from childhood to old age, aware of glaring shortcomings. But responding to the gentle persuasions from well-meaning friends, I decided to put pen to paper to produce some micro-writing relating to episodes in my life not spectacular to narrate, but give glimpses from my life. By themselves they are unimportant events but may interest those who come across me and my judgements in court, me and my mini creativity as minister in the first Communist Ministry in Kerala nearly half a century back. I did not want to write for an audience as such, but, of course, addressed myself to a generation which has not seen me at work. Glimpses from personal life picked up at random, incidents from vicissitudes of fate selected to be representative, events which had made some impact on public affairs when they occurred and have since passed into oblivion—these ripples and eddies constitute this book. I confess that this is no work of historic value or memoir which has lasting interest. The only assurance I can give the reader is that what is written is, to the best of my knowledge and memory (at my advanced age), a frank statement with no exaggeration or bias. If it is readable I shall be thankful. If it is dull, drop reading it. The book is written not for pleasure or profit but out of courtesy since many have shown interest in my writing this book. What they wanted was an autobiography. What I give is glimpses here and there, not even a coherent story. My life is not worth telling, but anecdotes and episodes may still be informative. That is the only justification for spending my time and claiming the time of the reader. I have been a lawyer, a minister, a judge and one who has been engaged in public issues after superannuation, for two decades now. The various chapters of the book relate to different facets of my life and unless one has some patience to know the background and read the message, the pages may well be tedious. Therefore, I appeal to those who care first to acquaint themselves with a little bit of me so that what is written gains pertinence. After all, these are leaves

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from an Indian’s life and have therefore, some meaning for other Indians. I offer only a sketchy, personal and incomplete account of my past verging on the present but largely irrelevant for those who look for a biographical narrative. There is a glut of midget memoirs in the market and many merit early oblivion. I do not wish to compete for this fate and so choose to select only a few events from my personal life. I am aware of the ephemerality of my random anecdotes. Even so, there is a pleasure in the telling although I confess it is rambling. But in the words of Walt Whitman: Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man.

April 7, 2003 V.R. KRISHNA IYER

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1 Some Recollections of My Days in the Annamalai University on the Occasion of Doctorate I was once an alumnus of the Annamalai University (193335). Those two years did shape my culture and gave direction and dimension to my mental development. A marvellous library, professors whose personality moulded the character and yearning for learning of the students and a University Union which did leaven my love of public speaking and fearless debate make me nostalgic and look back to those long-ago days with academic patriotism. When a doctorate was conferred on me decades later I made what has been described as an Alumni Day Address. I present it to the reader, not because there is anything of oratorical excellence or fair rare but because it is a narration which is part of my life and an event which I deeply cherish. With these introductory words I crave leave to repeat the speech for the readers to learn curiosity. Mr. Vice-Chancellor; Brothers and Sisters of that invisible, far-flung and yet affectionate Annamalai fraternity, friends. All of us gathered here have a certain institutional patriotism which is the instinctive tribute that we, the Annamalai alumni, continue to pay to our alma mater so long as the light of learning, kindled by this University, burns bright in our bosoms and illumines our value-laden life in

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these items of encircling gloom. I do not wish to convict myself of dotage by regaling you with anecdotage, for Benjamin Disraeli has righty said – and our politicians must listen to him – that. “When a man fell into his anecdotage it was a sign for him to retire from the world” You will, therefore, forgive me for forsaking that fashionable bluff usually indulged in on festive occasions of romancing and recounting, with ersatz humour, how the world was great when we were young, how geniuses walked the campuses then but goofy successors and goonda usurpers have brought things to a lamentable pass now and how the peaceful splendour of Union eloquence and Miscellany elegance gave place to student unrest and revolutionary slogans and how a hundred other graces of the past succumbed to the disgrace of later years. I decline to dig from that great dust-heap called history or play the customary game of each generation calling the next a scapegrace. A mock battle of the tenses is but empty witticism for which I have no mood and you have no mind. Even so, memory stirs up story after story when I see old places, revive old longings and wistfully come upon some surviving old faces or remnant landscapes. It is ingratitude to wear disdainful silence masked by self-importance where discriminating remembrance is the expression of affection screened by the distance of time. Therefore, do give me the indulgence to gossip a little on ‘old forgotten things and battles long ago!’ After all, the flash and splash of colours on the sunset sky are Nature’s gossip with the celestical world about the beaming events of morning, noon and afternoon. I have Nature’s alibi for testing your patience with my tremendous trifles in the evening of my life. A word about the man whose name is immortalised by this University. There are two types of millionaires in our country. Many of them are human warehouses of huge bank balances. They die counting and crying. On the contrary, there are private trustees of immense national resources who husband and spend for developmental needs. They are counted among the few and lamented when they leave. The first species are miserly and miserable wealthy in the coffers,

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but penurious in the coffins. At best, their ugly parsimony stains the soul, invites the assassin, antagonises relatives and paralyses society by cornering to themselves what belongs to the community. Social justice demands their liquidation by law, not by Naxalites. The other category whom I may call Princes of Abundance, live, perhaps in luxury, but patronise the arts, foster cultural pursuits, direct their resources to life the people’s level of education and leave, by discriminating benefactions geared to higher values and goals, a better world than they were born in. Such a satwic aristocrat blessed by Indo-Burmese riches, who possessed a dynamic vision and capacity for action, was Raja Sir Annamalai Chettiar, the Founder who, with his influence, eminence and munificence, lit this lamp of higher education in Chidambaram – that hallowed spot from where the cosmic dance of Nataraja, in cyclic patterns, sustains, destroys and re-creates this Universe with the vibrancy of wisdom and the rhythm of ordered movement. The Divine Founder, who is manifest and unmanifest, is the final cause and course of all terrestrial events but a human agent figures on the Earth as the cause when something happens. Raja Sir Annamalai Chettiar was that instrument of enlightenment – proud Tamil Enlightenment, the ancient glory of which had lain dormant for too long and needed a philanthropic midwifery to bring into re-incarnation that cultural magnificence which to-day takes a high place in the world treasure of sublime learning. The Annamalai University, in the heart-land of Tamil country, was the first and foremost to raise the academic status of Tamil language and literature from the vernacular servitude to which it had been condemned in the past. The legendary wealth and fabulous philanthropy of Raja Sir Annamalai Chettiar thus accounts for this noble institution. He was a friend of my fathers’, if a big man can be regarded as a friend of a small man like my father. But I must hasten to add that that was not the reason for my joining this then not-so-prestigious educational marvel. The truth was that there were many Malayalees in this University in those days; living there was cheap, teaching then was good, courses offered were diverse and attention to students was personalised. Equally importantly, degrees were not

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difficult since students were not swarming armies as in the Madras University but restricted to the size of a single college. I spent two halcyon years in Annamalainagar, in 193335, when academic tumults and radical tempests had not arrived, and the cool, sequestered value of life warmed up into convulsive activity by fits and starts only when the flames of nationalism showed up all around in that era of S.Satyamurthi’s spell-binding peals of eloquence and Somasundara Bharathi’s patriotic presence. Student marches, with Bharathi songs chanted, were a great experience and Gandhiji’s visit to the campus was episodic, even epic. Two things, then engraved on the marble of my blurred memory, may bear mention because of contemporary relevance. One was the unique visit of the then nationalist dynamite called Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhiji came to the campus and spoke to a respectable crowd. Many had foregathered, rich and poor, high placed and low-placed, teachers and students. He talked straight without the decorative eloquence, noisy gesticulation and interminable length of contemporary leaders. He came on time, stopped on time and did business like a bania without loss of time. He accused the British for holding India slave and accused Indians for not rising in united revolt. Sedition was his religion since Government was satanic. His presence was charismatic; his word dynamic; his deeds honest; his demands resistless. He belongs to the ages now and is claimed as part of our political heritage. And yet, when any Government goes satanic few of his followers dare to turn seditious. Genuflection is the new culture of our politicians. Gandhiji maintained that consistency which was not always a virtue. His descendants have refined this sentiment into a fine art by practising defection as a daily homage to the Father of the Nation. He spoke in simple language so that his thoughts would be transparent and his appeal direct. His successors, identified by dress, express themselves in decorative circumlocution, so that their words may hide their thought behind dazzling diction. A few of these imitate him by playing the role of public moral weight-lifters, but while he was transparent

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and was always amenable to investigation, his high-placed disciples resist discovery. We are not concerned here with the moral gap between Gandhi and Gandhians, but with my adolescent impressions of the Mahatma’s short sojourn in this hallowed campus. At the end of the speech, he auctioned the garlands and demanded higher bids because the proceeds were to finance the freedom struggle. There were some bidders, but the patriotic misers loved their lucre more than their mother-land and so, Gandhiji did not get the best price for his garlands. To-day, tycoons crowd around his political legatees in office to offer the highest bid in fantastic sums handed up in deepest secrecy because now it is a business investment for political dividends. But then it was risky evidence of national sympathy! Indeed, currently, the only act of patriotism is to drive away these bidders for political favours although no party nor leader-not even those who swear by revolution and socialism – has the courage to refuse these bid. The 30s when Gandhi came were days of police dossiers because Gandhi was a dangerous man and many in the affluent bracket obeyed the rule that discretion was the better part of valour. Those were times when the Mahatma was the Nation’s omniscient Ombudsman and once did not permit a great leader with supreme credentials of sacrifice to become Chief Minister because he was not above suspicion in the matter of some public collection. Now that Gandhiji has been assassinated and safely rests in Rajghat, public morals in public life have been interred with his bones or set aflame with his body. Undoubtedly, Gandhian values, as precious as Gandhi himself, have been assassinated many times. At the same meeting, the frail but firm leader argued that when people were dreadfully poor and India needed resources to be free, it was a sin to wear jewellery. “Give me your gold, I will use it for freeing this country” – he demanded at that meeting. Women are made of softer stuff and many in the crowd yielded up their bangles and necklaces. In our corrupt times, many business-men may, on the slightest hint, present bangles and necklaces to officers’ wives and ministers’ darlings may be. When I think of the perversions in morals and distortions in norms which have over-powered