What can one say about a man who becomes a legend, a common man who rises to become a forerunner? How do you define someone whose ordinariness becomes extraordinary, whose humility becomes a source of pride, whose quiet presence elevates the collective spirit of thousands who follow in his footsteps?
It is impossible to sum up the life of Nissim Ezekiel in just a few words. His work, simple yet profound, mirrors the world he inhabited. His poetry, rich with colour and imagery, reflects his ability to capture the complexities of life. Ezekiel was more than just a poet; he was a loved figure in both literary circles and real life. A role model for emerging poets, his influence continues to resonate, a literary lighthouse whose light endures long after the ink from his pen has dried.
Let me go back to sometime in the early 1980s, to a scene set in Hyderabad, an academic hub teeming with scholars, young and old, earnestly discussing the various nuances of literature, critical theory, cultural studies, and other topics often associated with academic discussion. The days are packed with academic activity, the evenings witness relaxed networking, open-air dinners under tall trees swaying in the tropical breeze, conversational banter mingling with academic anecdotes, some quotation from a witty litterateur, an occasional song with make-shift drumming on dinner plates, a stray joke followed by full-throated laughter, and so on.
In one corner is a group of young upcoming scholars crowding around a slightly stooping, bespectacled frail man wearing a red shirt and blue jeans. He has an animated look, his eyes sparkling through his glasses as he makes a point, apparently explaining something to the eager bunch of listeners who hang on to every word he utters. Clearly, there is a serious discussion going on.
I turn and ask my host: “Who is that man who looks like a poet?”
“You mean Nissim Ezekiel?” pat comes the reply. “Let me introduce you to him.”
Those were my salad days in the teaching profession. I was familiar with the name and with some of his work, but that was my first opportunity to see him in person.
A couple of years later, when OUP published the Collected Poems of Nissim Ezekiel, I was asked to review it for a newspaper. It felt like serendipity — a gold mine. At that point, I was a young, enthusiastic teacher and researcher, about to embark on a Postdoc. Life was full of hope and possibilities. Reviewing this collection, especially after meeting the poet, was the icing on the cake. I eagerly wrote a review, praising Ezekiel as a role model and mentor whose poetry every student of Indian English literature should read.
The editor was pleased with the review, and my colleagues, who were familiar with Nissim Ezekiel’s work, appreciated it. However, some did not. One particularly prolific poet, who also wrote in English, was stung by the green-eyed monster. He could not understand why another poet had received praise and recognition while he, too, waited in the wings for his turn. Consumed by bitterness, he devised a plan.
In all fairness, this other poet had much in common with Ezekiel — he too was a teacher, wrote in English, and had a fan following, mostly his students. Convincing them that injustice had been done, that another poet had been unfairly praised, he urged them to write letters to the editor, attacking the review, the reviewer, and even the editor for assigning her the task.
The letters flooded the review columns assaulting the poet, the poetry, and the praise it had received. This reviewer, caught in the crossfire, received her share of the brickbats, too, and went underground, looking for crawl spaces to hide in. Meanwhile, the editor delighted in the controversy, published the letters week after week for three months. Every Sunday, the columns were filled with attacks until, eventually, the storm subsided. Some readers sent counter-reactions, questioning the legitimacy of the letters and their authors, restoring peace.
What did I do then? I simply gathered all the hate mail and sent it to Nissim Ezekiel, providing him with the background (not so casually, as he might say). In response, I received a couple of postcards from him — probably still somewhere in my academic memorabilia. He acknowledged the situation, offering sensible advice to overlook the attacks and ignore them. There was also a casual exchange about poetry, poets, and the inevitable egos that come with both.
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Another incident that is relevant here is a scrap with none other than the formidable V S Naipaul in a face-to-face encounter, when I mentioned (oh, so innocently) what Ezekiel had said about the Indo-Trinidadian coming to India like a drain inspector, with his handkerchief to his nose, criticising anything and everything that he saw in the country of his birth. All hell broke loose. Did Sir Vidiya, the Nobel Laureate hit the roof then? He sure did, and refused to continue the interview being conducted by a “silly, foolish person” like me. Again, I sent a graphic account of the encounter to Nissim Ezekiel and I am sure his eyes must have lit up in amusement.
This is my small personal connection with Nissim Ezekiel, a poet we, as teachers of literature in English, have read, appreciated, and taught for decades. Ezekiel is now a legend in Indian Writing in English. In fact, while compiling The Routledge Encyclopedia of Indian Writing in English (2024), I found that nearly every poet in the collection acknowledges his influence. As a poet, teacher, and mentor, Ezekiel set a standard that embraced local poetry, drawing inspiration from the vibrant life around him — pidgin English, fishermen, and more. In his words, “A mixture of memory, observation, and imagination finally make a poem what it is,” encapsulating the heart of his poetic vision.
The writer is former Professor and Head of the Department of English, Panjab University, Chandigarh, and a former Chairperson of the Chandigarh Sahitya Akademi
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