“This myth of roots is overplayed. There is nothing great in being in the same hell hole.”

Wherever he may be now, Keki Daruwalla may be smiling at his own aphorism as he departed for another world on 26 September, 2024 after a long period of indisposition. A recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Award (1984) as also the Commonwealth Poetry Prize for Asia in 1987, he was also honoured with a Padma Shri by the Government of India in 2014. Ensconced in his Parsi identity, he wandered into varied linguistic domains in India and abroad, acquiring extensions into a rich cosmopolitanism. His poetry amply reflects how he gathered “scraps” – as he called them – of mythology from different countries and communities with sensitivity and keen alertness:

…Nubra, the garden of the North
and slept in a tent at Tsomoriri-
the rocks brown, the lake blue;
I got hold of a myth here
(at 15000 feet it’s good scrap to grab)
It was very hot, and a woman called Tsomo
riding a yak couldn’t rein him in
as the yak made straight for the lake
She kept shouting ‘riri, riri’, ‘stop,stop’ in Tibetan
But the yak went in and they both drowned.

— 'Underwater Notes'

From picking up small bits of lesser known mythology to exploring the more iconic examples, Daruwalla excelled in documenting in his poetry the imaginaries of the communities of different countries. Be it Greek or Persian, in his collection of poems, Fire Altar published in 2013, he demonstrates his scholarship as well as poetic sensibility in not just showcasing but also comprehending and mapping ancient cultures.

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At the same time, he remained attentive to contemporary political as well as social issues. I have always been impressed by his voice of conscience and social justice, which came across in both his action and his writing.

It is extraordinary that while Daruwalla had an illustrious career in the Indian Police Service, where he rose up to becoming a special assistant to the Prime Minister on international affairs, he did not ever allow this to disrupt his engagement with writing poetry or fiction in any way. On the contrary, he continued to publish books zealously, even as he wrote columns for various newspapers.

We must not miss out on one of the prominent aspects about this poet who was a legendary in his own right – his support to other poets. Daruwalla was an active mentor to a whole generation of younger poets. There is no gainsaying the fact that he was ruthless in his critical responses, which helped many a poet to gain in the long run. All in all, he was a reassuring presence for them. Many a poet remember his hospitality, for he entertained people with food as well as his wit, humour and lightheartedness while engaging serious discussions on, say, the craft of a poem.

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“Migrations” is one of my favourite poems by Keki Daruwalla, with a captivating beginning:

Migrations are always difficult:
Ask any drought
Any plague,
Ask the year 1947
Ask the chronicles themselves:
If there had been no migrations
Would there have been enough
History to munch on?

Later in the poem he describes how going back in time is difficult – the bricks may be old, but the faces are new. A poignant tale for those who, post-Partition, try to return to their dwellings. And then there is the “migration across years” with which the poem ends. Handling language deftly, Daruwalla sculpted words with a sensitive ear for rhythm and a keen sense of metre. The poet will undoubtedly live on in his poems.

Though he is primarily known as a poet, Daruwalla’s fiction, both short and long, is substantial. The easy oscillation between prose and poetry is rare, but in this case the writer has been prolific in both prose as well as poetry. In fact, a collection of his short stories, Going, and a collection of poems, Landfall, were published as recently as in 2022.

Goodbye, Keki Daruwalla.