Who goes by the name of D.V. Gundappa, popularly known as DVG all over Karnataka. His rightly acclaimed magnum opus is titled Mankutimmana Kagga; translated crudely, this means “The Dimwit’s Tales,” often called the Bhagavad Gita in Kannada. A collection of about 800 (?) verses, the Kagga touches every aspect of life–love, joy, compassion, God, Creation, art, Misery (and the means to escape it), enjoyment, beauty, childhood, sacrifice, attainment. Let me confess, I have but read about 10 verses in all.

A post that’s titled such as this would let readers expect a profile of DVG. Which is what I’ll briefly do because one, I’m not adequately equipped with all the facts of this stalwart’s life and two, the purpose of this post is different. The profile is but an excuse to introduce readers to my (sloppy) translations of some of his works. It is sad that Indian regional literature which has a tapestry as rich and variegated–even surpassing–as any other in the world has received little or no recognition beyond a Sahitya Akademi Award or the Jnanapith.

DVG hails from the Kolar district in Karnataka and spent most of his childhood there before coming to Mysore for his high school education and later, to Bangalore where he spent the rest of his life. It is a different account that he didn’t complete his 10th standard owing mainly to financial troubles and to translate his words, “an inability to study within the academic framework.”

Gundappa did several odd jobs but steadily gained recognition as a journalist. He wrote regularly for several (pre-independence) newspapers in Mysore, Bangalore and even Madras. Known for his uncompromising integrity, he soon earned the respect and adoration of the people in Karnataka then. As the Editor of a newspaper, he wrote an article that was critical of the then-government. Being what it is, the government brought pressure on him to publish an apology. Which he refused of course. However, unknown to him, the newspaper’s owner sent out the apology. DVG resigned and refused all entreaties to return. The rest of his life was mired in poverty. He owned a small printing press which didn’t exactly earn him a fortune. Economic troubles never dampened his zest for life, nor his love for writing or participating in public life. He was in constant touch with respected people from all walks of life. Money was least on DVG’s list of priorities. The cash award of 50,000 rupees that he received late in life went to further the cause of his Gokhale Institute of Public Affairs, Bangalore, an institution that stands as testimony to what he symbolises. Still.

DVG wrote copiously. The Karnataka government in the 1970s (or is it 80s?) decided to bring out low-priced editions (God bless the Govt) of his complete works, which runs to more than 10,000 pages (correct me on the numbers, I’m really bad there). His treatises on the Gita, Veda, Vedanta, and his essays on such diverse topics as law, politics, economics, science, and art can put an array of “learned” doctors and professors to shame. I’ve read a few of these but what I found most interesting is his series titled, Jnapaka Chitrashale; translated literally, The Artschool of Memory.

This is a record of DVG’s encounters with men and women from various walks of life. It is a tribute to DVG’s own humility, his bee-like mind that was always open to receive wisdom from all quarters. From Sir M. Vishveshwarayya to Diwan Purnayya, to Mirza Ismail to Sajjan Rao to an ordinary coffee-hotel owner to his primary school teacher, this is a veritable treasure of personalities and insights. And my motive force to start a translation of those accounts that appealed to me.

Bear with me for the coming months as I inflict your nerves with some of these accounts. I found them invaluable; I hope you do, too.