Review: ചിദംബര സ്മരണ | Chidambara Smarana

ചിദംബര സ്മരണ | Chidambara Smarana by Balachandran Chullikkad
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Balachandran Chullikkad is someone who is intimately familiar to Keralites; at least those who were born in the 90s and 2000s. Well known for being a gifted poet, whose verses are capable of creating embers in your mind, he was also a mainstay on the film scene, often doing small supporting characters in motion pictures. This was something for which he was ridiculed and judged, both by the general public as well as some of his intelligentsia cohorts.

Balan, of course, in his typical irreverent and piercing nature, didn’t bow down or apologize, for consorting with the capitalist machinery, a group viewed as the ideological rivals of the intellectuals.

While growing up, I too had some amount of reservation, as to why a respected, erudite literary agent would stoop low and star in soaps and commercial ventures like this. As an adult, the reasons are clear enough; very few artists are fortunate enough to make a living out of their passions. Most don’t have enough even to pay their bills or support their families. This was more relevant before the internet era, and especially in the time period where Balan was active. Artists didn’t have as many platforms to showcase their talents and gain patronage from like-minded connoisseurs. This state continued until, and a bit after he found a modest but stable government employment to support his literary career.

This context is relevant before one delves into Chullikkad’s memoirs, where he sketches out several key defining chapters in his long, tumultuous past. In doing so, painting a morose and pitiful picture of his life and struggles, as well as defining the general socioeconomic and cultural state of the state, through the lens of those artists, who were in a similar or far worse condition.

A defining point in his life was at the age where he barely became an adult. It was a time when fear of naxalism was at a rise. Balachandran, already a gifted poet, and who sympathized with the movement, was criticized regarding his affiliations. Forced to choose between his family and ideology, he chose the latter, exiling himself to an uncertain life and future. This part in itself is defining of his personality, as he later writes how he never again saw his father till after his death. Arriving at the family home to perform final rites of a son, his mother and the rest of family, formally chose to break ties with him, a decision that was largely mutual. Perhaps it is the biggest regret he harbors, still reminiscing those childhood days, of love and affection lost, of opportunities missed. Yet, he stayed true to his, one might say almost pig-headed convictions.

This would mark but one event in his checkered and difficult life. His is a journey which would fit the tried-and-true troupe of the tortured yet talented artist, struggling in life. A lot of the stories involve his tryst with poverty, oftentimes resorting to begging to friends, acquaintances, Samaritans to stave off hunger. And much of this was after he became established as a celebrated literary figure.

(While writing this I became curious as to the reason, for the troupe of a struggling tortured artist. Fortunately, a brief search online yielded a little-known book dealing with the very same topic Why Are Artists Poor?: The Exceptional Economy of the Arts, and it is open access, no less. So, expect another related review on the topic sometime in the future.)

The difficulties in his life were not made any easier by the frequent, often uncontrollable trysts he seemed to have with drinking, drugs and everything in between. Which is not at all helped, when you are part of a fraternity, whose creative processes are infamously linked to their varied states of infatuation to inebriation and addition. Struggling artists find a hard time paying bills, but there always seems to be plenty of patrons to feed their intoxication, it seems.

Despite all his shortcomings and negatives, one has to admire the sheer conviction he has towards his art, the high standards he holds it to, and how he gushes over the craft of his peers, even when they’re largely ignored by the masses. He is one of those individuals who is willing to walk the unknown path, merely for his own convictions, and not for the gratification of the masses. A trait one would behoove to cultivate.

It is often said, when writing, to bring out your honest feelings, write as if to an audience of one. Which is a dogma Balachandran follows. His accounts are unfiltered, unabashed, uncompromising in their earnestness and genuinity. As a testament to that, more than half the book is filled with accounts which he penned, portraying himself as an alcoholic, addict, cynic, bigot and at times outright lecherous molester. There are no skeletons left in this man’s closet, none of significance anyways.

Despite the negative light under which he paints himself, at the end of the book, one comes back with a sense of respect and appreciation towards his eccentric, yet uncompromising personality. And also, a sense of gratitude, towards your own privileged life. Most of us have our own personal demons to fight. But I reckon, most in the regular strata of society would have to worry about the basic necessities of life. Warm food on the table, a comfortable bed to fall asleep in, a healthy mind and body, and an honest trade or employment to live life. Anything more, is just a luxury.

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