Reworking Masculinities

Rajkumar and the Kannada Public Sphere

The kidnapping of Rajkumar has produced various kinds of popular arguments for new
cultural agendas in relation to the Kannada language, so salient in the portrayal of an
embattled Kannada identity. Central to these anxieties is the recurrent theme of masculinity in
crisis. In the texts examined by the author, the ‘manhood’ of the defenders of the
endangered language is a subject of heated discussion.
TEJASWINI NIRANJANA

T
he kidnapping of Rajkumar by
Veerappan has inspired new nego-
tiations of the question of Kannada
linguistic identity, of what being Kannadiga
means today. The crisis has enabled a re-
articulation of the anxieties and social
tensions of the last few years which have
been put in historical perspective by Janaki
Nair’s accompanying piece in this issue.
Central to these anxieties, I would argue,
is the recurrent theme of masculinity in
crisis. The ‘manhood’ of the defenders of
the endangered language is a topic of heated
discussion in the texts I am examining here.
The event of the kidnapping has pro-
duced various kinds of popular arguments
for new cultural agendas in relation to the
Kannada language, often seen as embod-
ied in the star-presence of Rajkumar (“my
blood is Kannada, my life is Kannada, my
heart and mind are Kannada” – these
phrases circulate through his many film
dialogues and his public speeches). A
popular magazine headlining the kidnap
story proclaimed that it was “An axe-blow
(kodali yetu) to the very existence of the
language” (Taranga, September 14, 2000).
Why does the language issue appear so
salient in the portrayal of an embattled
Kannada identity in a way that is certainly
different from assertions of Telugu or
Malayalam identity? Why has Kannada
linguistic pride often defined itself in
opposition to and alongside Tamil pride?
Is this phenomenon – and the star-culture
associated with it – more an issue for the
southern Karnataka districts than elsewhere
in the state?
The responses to the kidnapping have
to be seen in relation to the aggressively
masculinist public sphere which emerges
in its present form in the 1990s in Banga-
lore. Crucial to the articulation of this new
Kannada public sphere are phenomena like
the hugely successful films of Upendra [in
particular, ‘A’ (1998), ‘Swastik’ (1999)
and ‘Upendra’ (2000)], and weekly tabloids
like Hi Bengalur!, Agni, Polisara Horata
(Police Struggle), Crime News, Star of
Bangalore, or Sanje Sphota (Evening
Explosion) which retail in equal measure
political criticism and local scandal. The
first two papers have a different profile
from the rest, seeking – unlike the others
– to make visible interventions in the public
sphere and maintain connections with
literary figures.1 Lankesh Patrike (approxi-
mately 1 lakh copies circulated), a fore-
runner in this field, started by noted writer
P Lankesh a quarter century ago and now run
by his daughter Gauri Lankesh with the
assistance of an all-male staff, is somewhat
different even from its most successful
progeny, having over the years enlisted the
goodwill and talent of several leading fiction
writers, poets and essayists, often appearing
therefore as a sort of more popular cousin
of the ubiquitous Kannada literary journal.
The two tabloids I present here in some
detail are Hi Bengalur! (HB), edited by
Ravi Belagere and Agni, edited by Sridhar.
Both editors are fiction writers and essay-
ists; the first is also a poet. Both are
rumoured to have underworld connections;
the latter openly flaunts his knowledge of
“the world of crime”. Peppered with refer-
ences to Belagere’s Zen, his Esteem and
his new red Gypsy, deploying the slang of
hip teenagers (e g, the column ‘Luv luvike’),
HB, like Agni, often expresses anti-globali-
sation sentiments; several articles by staff-
ers project a pro-Kannada anti-‘outsider’
position. The outsider is always upper class,
moneyed: businessmen and software pro-
fessionals living in safe suburbs like Indira-
nagar or Jayanagar, college students from
elite institutions who frequent the pubs on
Brigade Road and M G Road. The poor
outsiders, like the migrant Tamil labourers
and street-vendors who usually bear the
brunt of pro-Kannada violence, are not
singled out by the tabloid press, although
– as we shall see – the anti-Tamil pronounce-
ments clearly include them as targets.
Newer and cheaper technology provides
the wherewithal for a different kind of
popular cultural artefact, the audio cas-
sette, which for the first time in Kannada
has moved out of the devotional, folk and
mimicry genres into contemporary politi-
cal commentary.2 Eleven audio cassettes
have been released in the wake of Rajkumar’s
kidnapping, nine in Kannada, one in Hindi,
and one in Urdu. The technical quality of
the productions is reasonably high, and all
the cassettes are adorned by slick covers.
Well-known comedians, mimics, playback
singers, and drama company actors provide
the voices. The first cassette was released
some 10 days after the event, and the latest
two months after. An article in Lankesh
Patrike informs us that each audio com-
pany has released about 20-25,000 copies
of each cassette into the market. One little
music shop in Gandhi Bazar, a commercial
area, sells approximately 100 cassettes per
week (Rs 25-30 each).3 It is believed that
retailers from Mysore, Kolar and other
places come to Bangalore and buy about
20 copies of each cassette.
The structure is a relatively simple one,
following the harikathe mode: we hear
two men talking – one questioning, the
other replying, with occasional interjec-
tions by others. Seldom do we have female
characters, although the dialogues are often
interspersed with songs, a few sung by
women. The songs, unless composed for
the occasion, are remixes of famous
Rajkumar numbers, either picturised on
him or sung by him. When the lyrics are
changed [e g, a song from the hit film
Yeradu Kanasu (1974), where Rajkumar
romances Manjula, goes “I will never be
able to live if I forget you”, and is trans-
formed into “Endendu nimmanu maretu
naaniralare/naanendu kannada bittu
badukiralaare” as Rajkumar now romances
the abhimani and his language, in these
words: I will never be able to live if I forget
you/I will never be able to live if I leave

Economic and Political Weekly November 18, 2000 4147

Kannada (Mangana Kaiyalli Manikya)].
The words either relate to the current
situation or reflect Rajkumar’s love for his
abhimanis. A couple of the cassettes are
compilations of songs written for the
occasion [Nadina Anna Kadinalli (The
Land’s Elder Brother in the Forest),
Rajanna Naadige Baaranna (Come Back
to the Land, Rajanna)]; one uses the folk
performance style known as Kamsale; one
employs the North Karnataka dialect; one
claims to be in janapada (folk) style but
actually has standard film tunes. Two of
the tapes are produced jointly by the
editorial teams of Sanje Sphota, Polisara
Horata and Star of Bangalore. One is
sponsored by an AIADMK office-bearer,
K Muthu, and authored by another Tamil,
Bengalur Palani.
Significant similarities exist between the
language and imagery of the cassettes and
those of the newspaper articles and edi-
torials. The difference in tone is notice-
able, however: the seriousness and occa-
sional sarcasm of the tabloids are counter-
pointed by the humour, and expressions
of love for the star, in the cassettes. Inept
politicians are blamed for the mess, and
exhorted to action in the papers. The
cassettes too pin the blame on politicians,
from both Karnataka and Tamil Nadu.
“Why didn’t Veerappan kidnap some of
those politicians? The white elephants in
Vidhana Soudha who’ve swallowed up
the World Bank money – why didn’t he
kidnap them?” (Aranyadalli Annavru)
(Annavru in the Forest). The answer usually
is that the people don’t care a fig about them,
and therefore it wouldn’t serve Veerappan’s
purpose. One cassette criticises those wear-
ing both khadi and khaki, saying that they
should put on sari and bangles, and wield
a ladle (Kaadinali Namma Annavru) (Our
Annavru in the Jungle). The profile of the
Kannadiga (and ‘his’ predicament) is crucial
to how the present situation is configured
in these narratives of loss and sorrow.
As the characters in the cassettes –
Kallanna and Eeranna, Sangya and Balya,
Basheer and Kahatoonabba – mourn the
fate of their favourite hero, they employ
a knockabout humour which is directed
against either Veerappan or one of the
speakers. Most of the Kannada cassettes
employ the Mandya dialect for the dia-
logues. The significance of Mandya for
Old Mysore province, and for southern
Karnataka, is to be noted here: Mandya
region has some of the most fertile farm-
land between Bangalore and Mysore, ir-
rigated by canals originating in the Cauvery
river and constructed during the 1930s by
the technocrat Dewan of Mysore,
4148
M Visvesvarayya. The political and eco-
nomic clout of Mandya – the Vokkaliga
heartland – is substantial. The wealthy
Gowda farmers also endowed the
AdiChunchanagiri mutt a couple of de-
cades ago. Over the years all political parties
have had to provide cabinet representation
for Mandya legislators. The present chief
minister, S M Krishna, is from the Mandya
region, and the first legislator from there
to hold this post. In Kannada films, which
generally use middle-class southern
Karnataka speech, considered the ‘stan-
dard’ accent for radio and television, the
speech of the Mandya peasant – close to
the dialects of the urban working-class –
is often used for the comedy track.
The brief of the cassettes appear to be
the glorification of Rajkumar and the ex-
coriation of his kidnapper. The picture of
Rajkumar which emerges from the cas-
settes also helps us form a picture of the
Kannadiga (the abhimani – literally, one
who holds someone in esteem). Rajkumar
is hailed – in call and response mode, with
his titles called out one by one, and a
chorus responding with “Dr Raj avarige
Jayavaagali” or simply chanting ‘Rajanna’
– as Kannadada Kanteerava, Kannadada
Kulatilaka (community ornament/adorn-
ment), Kentucky Colonel (reference to a
Kannada American award won by him),
Dadasaheb Phalke Vijeta, Badavara Bandhu
(friend of the poor), Padma Bhushana,
Kannadigara Dyavru (God of the
Kannadigas), Bahaddur Gandu (Boss Man
– reference to a famous Rajkumar film
loosely based on The Taming of the Shrew).
The expressions of outrage at the kidnap-
ping of such a noble Kannadiga usually
focus on two issues (although the tapes
mention all of Veerappan’s demands) –
Cauvery water, and the language question.
The cassette sponsored by the AIADMK
office-bearer and the Hindi and Urdu ones
don’t mention the language issue at all.
The anxiety for the latter is to do with
peaceful coexistence: “Hamara state
achcha rehna”, says Basheer in ‘Aaj ka
Veerappan’, presented by the Kahatoonabba
Drama Company from Kolar entirely in
Dakhni Urdu, except for the sections in
Kannada and Telugu (imitations of
Kannada comedian Dhirendra Gopal,
Telugu comedian Nutan Prasad, and
N T Rama Rao). The focus is squarely on
the question of river water and Veerappan’s
‘unjust’ claim to it: “Jungal mein usey
kaiku kaveri ka pani ka jaroorat re?”
A popular anecdote about a Gowda and
his car is retold in more than one cassette.4
A Gowda was driving through Tamil Nadu
and on the way his car had an accident:
Economic and Political Weekly
the rear wheel got stuck in a ditch. As he
was wondering what to do, five men passed
by and addressed him in Kannada, asking
if they could help. How do you know
Kannada, asked the surprised Gowda. Oh,
we used to work in Mandya as farm
labourers, said the men. Then they lifted
the car out of the ditch and set the Gowda
on his way. The grateful Gowda pulled out
a wad of currency and gave them not just
one or two but three five-hundred rupee
notes. The men protested, saying they were
glad to help and did not want any money.
The Gowda insisted, and they finally
accepted the notes. As he was leaving, he
asked if they got plenty of water in that
region, since Karnataka was releasing
Cauvery water to Tamil Nadu. Yes, we get
plenty of water, they said. So you grow
good crops, then, asked the Gowda. Oh no,
we don’t grow anything, said the Tamil
peasants. We’ve dug this ditch here, and
wait by the side of the road. Every day five
or six cars get stuck here, and we help the
drivers get them out, and earn a nice bit
of money that way. After telling this story,
the Gowda persona ruefully says how clever
the Tamils are. Here we have Veerappan’s
true victim, potrayed in the narrative as the
Mandya Gowda deprived of the Cauvery
water which is going to Tamil Nadu in-
stead. As one of the characters in
Kaadugalla Kadda Mutthu (The Pearl
Stolen by the Forest Thief) puts it: three
crops for ‘them’, barely two for ‘us’.
Another cassette points out that there’s
“No water to wash our kids’ arses and this
fellow wants more TMC of water”
(Narahantakana Baleyalli Karunadina
Hridaya (The Heart of the Land in the
Mankiller’s Net), subtitled “from the in-
nermost hearts of abhimanis”, with
Bengaluru Palani, a Tamil, as conceptua-
liser and dialogue writer, and translated by
K Devaraj Gokak in North Karnataka style.
The Tamils and ‘Us’
The question of who is a Kannadiga is
posed in relation to who he is not. A HB
editorial of August 25, 2000, suggests that
what the Tamils have is a bad pride
(durabhimana) in their language – the
excesses caused by this pride are con-
trasted with the bitter grief resulting from
‘our’ non-pride (nirabhimana). Unlike us,
the Tamils are prone to suicide and anti-
nationalism (their links with the LTTE and
ISI are well known); we on the other hand
are ‘respectable’ people.
In this phase of his career, Veerappan
comes to be identified as a Tamil, rather
than merely as poacher or brigand. While
this re-identification is connected to
November 18, 2000
Veerappan’s allies and what some perceive
to be a new kind of demand, and will
clearly have its own effects in Tamil Nadu,
what we are concerned with here is the
implications for issues of Kannada identity.
“Never before had the speakers of a dif-
ferent language laid hands on the very
heart of Kannadigas, on their self-esteem”,
says the August 25 HB editorial. A week
later, on September 1, 2000, HB asks rheto-
rically: ‘After all this has happened, must
we still retain our helpless patience?” The
editorial speaks of our unpreparedness in
the face of Tamil terrorism, suggests a
connection between Veerappan, Maran and
Karunanidhi, the LTTE’s heroin and arms
trade; contrasts ‘their’ machine guns and
landmines with ‘our’ pujas, bhajans and
urulu seve; asks why the Kannadiga is
slowly regressing to this totally helpless
state. Even the water in our taps, warns
HB, will soon be regulated by their gun
barrels.
The Kannadiga’s legendary tolerance is
another recurring trope in the masculinist
public sphere. As HB puts it, the Karnataka
government runs 200 Tamil schools, and
Bangalore alone has 12 Tamil corporators.
“There are several Tamils in the IAS, the
police force and the legislature here – we
have loved them all, we have tolerated
them. But in the light of the changes in
Tamil Nadu, should we continue to retain
our helpless patience? This is the question
we have to ask ourselves” (September 1,
2000). One common example given in the
cassettes and the tabloids to contrast
Kannadigas with Tamils is as follows:
“Are there any Kannada slums in Chennai
like there are Tamil slums in Bangalore?”
The point is not that there are no Kannadigas
in Tamil Nadu but that they have blended
with the local population, unlike the re-
calcitrant Tamils in Karnataka. While on
the one hand this fact is supposed to reveal
the good nature of the Kannadiga, on the
other it also presses home the point that
it is Kannadiga tolerance which permits
separate ‘Tamil slums’ to come up without
insisting that they too become part of the
local population.
Not all Tamils, however, are oblivious
of their Kannada surroundings. There is
the good Tamil in the cassette Katthegenu
Gotthu Kasturi Kampu (What does the
donkey know of the Kasturi flower’s scent),
who declares that Rajkumar is the Tamils’
elder brother as much as the Kannadigas’,
and that they, the Tamils, are also devoted
to him. Speaking in part-Kannada syntax
and part-Tamil diction, he says “Rajanna
nimakkoo anna, namakkoo anna. Avara
mele namakku romba bakthi irkadu”.
Economic and Political Weekly November 18, 2000
Another good Tamil is Bekkinakannu
(Cat-eye) Rajendra of the Bangalore under-
world (interviewed by Agni, August 25,
2000, p 14) who condemns language-based
acts of violence and requests: “Don’t equate
us with that criminal”. In an editorial from
the same issue, Agni discusses the carpenter
Shanmugams and contractor Annamalais:
“Their ancestors might have come from
Tamil Nadu, but they have a right to be
here; and we have to create the conditions
which will make them Kannadigas; we
should create a situation where no one in
Kannada Naadu can live here without
learning and using Kannada”. The percep-
tion that it is the fault of the state as well
as civil society that has led to an enfeebled
Kannada is widespread. In response to
Veerappan’s demand to make Tamil the
second official language in Karnataka, a
cassette character exclaims: “We’re strug-
gling even to be able to make Kannada the
first language, and he wants Tamil to be
another official language!”5
As the crisis wears on, a specifically
Kannada helplessness becomes a defining
feature of the state’s response to the situ-
ation. A Hi Bengalur! editorial of Septem-
ber 15, 2000, is sombre: “The Tamils look
upon Kannadigas as figures of fun.
Rajkumar might forget one day his 40 [sic]
days in the jungle, but the Kannadiga will
never forget the humiliation meted out to
him by Tamils. It has become the daily
routine of the Kannadiga to sit at home and
look forward to the moment of victory.
And you [S M Krishna, CM] have been
sitting more helplessly than all of us. This
shouldn’t happen, sir. History will not
forgive any of us”.
The first cassette to be released, Mangana
Kaiyalli Manikya (Gem in the monkey’s
hand), reiterates some of the themes of the
HB editorials, often in the same phrase-
ology, contrasting the Tamils’ bad pride
in their language with the Kannadigas’
lack of pride. In Karnataka there are many
Tamil, Telugu and Marathi colonies, but
‘there’ you will not find separate areas
where Kannadigas live. One really has to
look for Kannada in Karnataka – soon we’ll
all be forced to leave our land. Karnataka
is another name for patience, peace and
harmonious living. Look at what happened
when Annavru was kidnapped – Karnataka
should have burned. But instead of rioting,
we had homas performed; instead of vio-
lence we had prayers; instead of curses we
uttered slokas; instead of raising our hand
we joined our palms together; instead of
pulling down (urulisuva badalu) we did
uruluseve; instead of applying a kranti
tilak, we applied the shanti sindhoor.6
Kannada Masculinity
The August 18, 2000 editorial of Agni
gave a call for people to go into the forest
to rescue Rajkumar. Remarking that thou-
sands of young men phoned in their readi-
ness, editor Shridhar criticised those few
who urged caution (Agni, August 25): “Let
not peace/non-violence become coward-
ice”. A month later, readers were still being
exhorted: “Leave fear behind, do not be-
come sheep” (September 22). Taken along-
side the contrasts between Kannadigas and
Tamils, the incitement of Hi Bengalur!
and Agni to be fearless – in short, to act
in a certain way – contributes to the
formation of the new Kannada subject. An
August 25 article in Agni by Shridhar –
‘Not a Tiger but a Eunuch’ – continues
to define by opposition (pp 16-17). “Who
is a really masculine man?” asks the writer.
There are two pictures of Veerappan, one
with moustaches, one without, in addition
to other photographs taken in the forest.
“Does he have true manly [in English]
virtues, and masculinity? Let us examine
this question with an open mind. You
know my experience and knowledge of the
world of crime. One who’s truly manly,
doesn’t glorify his acts, he forgets them.
Only the weak and cowardly boast of their
deeds. [Among other things, Shridhar asks
whether walking 50 kms a day or knowing
the forest well constitute manliness – says
anyone can walk that distance even with-
out practice, and every tribal who lives in
the forest knows it well, why is it a special
virtue?]...Hitler was a eunuch – if he had
even a little manliness he wouldn’t have
been so violent. What then should we call
Veerappan? Effeminate, a transvestite, a
genderless person? With one voice our
boys said: Chakka (eunuch)”.7 Nowhere
in this article is Rajkumar mentioned, but
he is clearly the implicit reference point
in the discussion of Veerappan’s manliness.
A distinct feature of Veerappan’s appear-
ance, his large moustache, becomes a
convenient peg for the discussion of
masculinity. One cassette addresses
Veerappan directly: ninna meesige benki
haaka/gandasaadre yedurige baaro.../
kannadadoru gandugalu/ninage yaako
gotthilla (may your moustache catch fire/
if you are a real man, confront us/
Kannadigas are men/Why don’t you realise
that (from Rajanna Naadige Baaranna –
Come Back Rajanna). One strategy of
diminishing the villain’s image, that of
belittlement, is followed in many of the
cassettes: “Even the brave warriors of old
didn’t sport such, and this fellow dares to
do so. His moustache must be full of dust,
4149
dirt, straws, insects and bugs” (Kaadugalla
kadda Muthu). “Uska muchcha mein matti
pado, Uska muchcha mein keeda pado”,
say Basheer and friends in ‘Aaj ka
Veerappan’.
The moustache features centrally in a
long dialogue between Rajkumar and his
captor, ventriloquised in the cassette
Kaadinalli Kannada Ratna. The glossy
cover has the photograph of a clean-shaven
balding Rajkumar (his present-day per-
sona) greeting his fans, and a mustachioed
Veerappan in cartoon form. In the forest,
Rajkumar and Veerappan are talking.
Rajkumar urges the latter to surrender, for
his own good. Veerappan says: “It’s a
shame on my moustache if I surrender”.
Rajkumar replies: “You think you have
such a wonderful moustache?” Have
you heard the name of my appaji,
Puttaswamiah? My appaji had an even
bigger moustache than yours. The differ-
ence between you two is that when my
father earned the applause of the audience
(he worked in a drama company) for a
good performance, he twirled his mous-
tache. And you? You do that when you
torture or kill someone. You moustache,
Veerappan, is not worth even one paisa.
I keep looking at your moustache and don’t
feel any fear – I can only laugh at you...If
one could frighten people just with a
moustache, every person would grow one.
Instead of terrifying people, one should
inspire their trust with love.”
The gentle and avuncular-looking
Rajkumar, who embodies Kannada-ness
and the potential of Kannada masculinity,
is the same figure who also holds back the
abhimani from violence, from the attain-
ment of a conventionally understood
masculine potential. It is almost as though
the persona of the older present-day
Rajkumar prevails in his contemporary
public image over the personae of the CID
films, the romances or the historicals. In
the cassettes and tabloids, there are innu-
merable references to his taped request not
to engage in violent acts, or to his family’s
plea to the abhimanis to observe restraint.
While reiterating these requests, the char-
acters in the cassettes add that Rajkumar’s
wishes are the only constraints on their
willingness to turn violent, either in the
city or in the jungle.
Yet another series of contrasts further
elaborate the question of masculinity. The
references are to Veerappan and Rajkumar
as representing kaadu (forest) and naadu
(usually, land – but here it can also refer
to city). Brute force is contrasted with
refinement, explosive aggressiveness with
stoicism, bloodthirstiness with gentleness.
4150
A cassette song, Tumbida madakeyu
tulukademba maatide, ninna baalu maatige
naija chitravaagide (There is a proverb
that the full pot does not spill over, Your
life is a true illustration of this saying),
refers admiringly to Rajkumar’s shanti
mantra, a fitting response to Veerappan’s
violent life.8 The re-identification of
Veerappan with Tamil linguistic pride, a
process which is obviously under way in
Karnataka, allows for the production of
linguistic masculinities – Tamil vs
Kannada, Veerappan versus Rajkumar/the
abhimani. The latter is of necessity a split
entity, to be able to account for the many
contradictions of nationalist discourse in
Kannada. The abhimani has to use the
language of violence as a performative
gesture, and Rajkumar’s words have to
restrain him – this double performance is
necessary for the preservation of Kannada
pride.9 Annavru’s words or example by
themselves are not enough – they have to
be produced in order to hold the abhimani
in check. In evidence, then, in the kidnap
discourse, is Rajkumar’s body, one which
has been worked upon, like his speech, his
gestures. In one cassette we find a roll-call
of Rajkumar’s films-‘Ranadheera Kan-
teerava’, ‘Rowdy Ranganna’, ‘Choori
Chikkanna’, ‘Sipayi Ramu’, ‘Babruvahana’
(as hyper-masculine hero); ‘Bedara
Kannappa’, ‘Bhakta Ambarisha’ (as the
devotee).10 A remix song in another cas-
sette, which is subtitled “words from the
hearts of Kannadigas”, invokes the star as
bahaddur gandu (chief or boss man),
bhoopathi gandu (lord of the earth), benki
chendu (ball of fire), firangi gundu (cannon
ball).11 Rajkumar’s body is described as “a
body that’s been in the garadi (akhada)”.12
He is presented as a hatha yoga expert
– one who has cleansed his mai-manassu,
mind and body. One cassette has a sug-
gestive tale about the significance of
knowing yoga. In the forest, Veerappan
tries to teach Rajkumar how to do the
suryanamaskara. Rajkumar smiles gently,
and embarks on a series of asanas. By the
time he has finished rolling his stomach
muscles “as though he were stirring ragi
porridge”, and letting the water in and out
of his nostrils, Veerappan falls at his feet,
acknowledging his mastery.13 Seemingly
in sharp contrast to this picture, we have
the constant reiteration of the child-like
nature of Rajkumar, as in the following
allusions: Rajkumar is the infant stolen
away from the yard where it was playing
(papers, cassettes); malagidda maguvannu
yethikondu hogalu bittevu (we allowed the
sleeping child to be carried away) (Agni,
August 25, p 3); our garment which has
Economic and Political Weekly
fallen on a thorn (Kaadugalla Kadda
Mutthu), the flower which will be brought
back in a chariot if only he would say the
word (Katthegenu Gotthu Kasturi Kampu).
Father of the state, elder brother of the
abhimanis, a little child in his innocence,
gem, pearl, god, dove. His mind, says a
character in Adaviyalli Annavru, is like
milk (haalinantha manassu), clean and pure.
The burden of expressions of Kannada-
ness at this time, when the compulsion is
to speak in the name of a unified Kannada
identity, is to suture together the abhimani’s
desire for violent action and the yogic
iconicity of Veerappan’s famous prisoner.
That the attempt to bring these disparate
elements together is not always bound to
succeed, that the process of the re-forma-
tion of masculinities is so evidently a
confused and unstable one, is perhaps
enough cause for optimism. EPW
Notes
[The material used in this article is from the Media
and Culture Archive of the Centre for the Study
of Culture and Society, Bangalore. For assistance
and encouragement, I am grateful to Ashish
Rajadhyaksha, M Madhava Prasad, S V Srinivas,
P Radhika and A Raju.]
1 HB, which is five years old, claims a readership
of 18 lakhs per issue! Reliable sources estimate
the print run at just below one lakh.
2 Peter Manuel’s discussion of how the advent
of the cassette proletarianised the production
and circulation of music in northern India
would also be relevant in the south. See Manuel,
Cassette Culture: Popular Music and Tech-
nology in North India (Chicag, 1993).
3 Source: ‘Raj in the Forest, Veerappan in Song’,
by Basavaraju. Lankesh Patrike, September
20, 2000, p 15.
4 Given here is the version of the story from the
audio cassette Kaadugalla Kadda Mutthu (The
Pearl Stolen by the Forest Thief).
5 From the audio cassette Katthegenu Gotthu
Kasturi Kampu.
6 This set of contrasts is credited to the young
film director S Narayan.
7 It is widely believed that the well known poet
Pratibha Nandakumar, who has been with the
newspaper since its inception, and who writes
several articles in each issue under her own
byline, also contributes substantially to the
discussions about the issue’s content. Her
contribution seems to become invisible in a
context in which Shridhar invokes ‘our boys’.
8 In Kaadugalla Kadda Mutthu.
9 The threats and curses directed against
Veerappan give us some indication of this
double phenomenon. If only we are given a
chance, say the abhimanis in the cassettes,
loaferna paaper maadi, piecepiece maadi
narige yeseetheevi (we will turn the loafer into
a pauper, hack him to pieces and throw him to
the foxes) (Katthegenu Gotthu Kasturi Kampu).
10 Kadugalla kadda Mutthu.
11 Katthegenu Gotthu Kasturi Kampu.
12 In a memorable opening sequence in Immadi
Pulakeshi (1967), Rajkumar, playing a young
chieftain, uses his body to save the princess
of the realm from an enormous falling log of
wood, an early visual representation of his
image as homo nationalis.
13 Narahantakana Baleyalli Karunadina Hridaya.
November 18, 2000