विजय तेंडुलकरांना श्रद्धांजलीस्वरुपात प्रदीप नावाच्या माझ्या एका मित्राने लिहिलेले हे काही:
I read in eSakaal, the sad but inevitable news a while ago of the
death of Vijay Te.n.
I took fascination for his writting when I read his ‘शांतता कोर्ट चालू आहे’ sometimes around 1967. The play simply zapped me, it was
way beyond what I had lived by until then– the staple diet of
Kanetkar’s melodramatic रायगड etc. Here was someone who looked deep
into the lives and minds of humans in a way that I had rarely
experienced before (the notable exception being जीए. I had read his
वस्त्र in 1965’s सुगंध दिवाळी and ever since looked forward to his
stories in दिवाळी अंक.. collections of his short stories had come out
before, but werenot available until much later, say early seventees).
But in his own way, Te.n impresssed on my adolescent mind deeply then.
And much like जीए, he kept me bound to his incisionary works until his
His घाशीराम set out a new dimension in Marathi theatre– it was my
priviledge to watch its shows in its early days, with its original
cast. And I did this three- four times during those heady days.
Unfortunately, the play got caught up in wrong controversy and we
Marathi’s (as always) lost the chance to really celebrate a great
creation in our theatre. After all, if we are content to live with the
mush, mushy world of Kanetkar’s and the likes, who can save us?
Just two/ three years ago, I had come across two of his essays in some
Diwali anks. One explored at depth, his relationship with his own son
(late Raju) and attempted to put it in the context of his own
relationship with his father– through his own turbulent years. It was
written in a typical deadpan fashion that was characteristic of him,
but that is where his strength lay. Another essay was on a bizzare
experience sometime during his young days, wandering around Falkland
Road (Mumbai’s infamous red light district). He narrated, yet again in
a deadpan fashion, a real fight that he witnessed there between two
dada’s! Here was a Marathi middle class person, set up in an entirely
different world, a world of prostitution, thuggery, physical fights
and much more. But his narration never never betrayed his middle class
upbringing. He was there amidst it all, a silent and curious observer,
but one with a great feeling of empathy. This underlying subtle
sensntivity coupled with an eye for observation and the ability to
surmise the ways of those humans stood him apart from the rest.
I differ sharply from his ‘secular stance’ in the last few years– one
which drew him to ‘feel like murdering Modi’ because I have a
different take on those issues. We had drifted apart but despite his
loud posturings on these counts in the lastfew years, I still have a
feeling of reverence and fondness for this great author.
Mid way through the fiftees is a time when one lives with parting
company with one’s elderlies– you loose your parents, your kith and
kin that shaped your life, and people whom you adored ever since you
started looking around yourself to the world. But I still will find
difficult to bear with these losses. Sahir wrote…’ मैं पल दो पल का शायर हूं…. कल और आयेंगे नगमों की
खिलती कलियां चुननेवाले
मुझसे बेहतर कहनेवाले
तुमसे बेहतर सुननेवाले
कल कोई मुझको याद करे
क्यों कोई मुझको याद करे
मसरुफ जमाना मेरे लिये
क्यों वक्त सुहां बरबाद करे
True, but the memory lives on.
Rest in peace (at least now) Te.n
हे इथे प्रसिद्ध करण्याची परवानगी दिल्याबद्दल धन्यवाद, प्रदीप.