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| Damle Home in Shirgaon |
During the Ratnagiri stretch of his internment, Savarkar lived with the Damle family
in Shirgaon, near Ratnagiri city, for some time. They were simple, traditional
folk and happily shared what little they had with
Savarkar. He too was a very considerate guest. But under no circumstance
did he blindly follow any traditional dictates. This led to some
entertaining moments in the household, particularly for the kids.
This story is fictionalized from an anecdote of Moreshwar
Damle from the book Savarkar Smruti (Memories of Savarkar); Lakshmi Process Studio, Kolhapur, 1982; page 7.
Practice
vs Practical
It
was winter time and the evenings got rather chilly. This was a particularly cold
night.
“Brrr, Moroba,” said Gajanan, rubbing
his hands together. “I just can’t seem to get warm today.”
“Arre
Gajanana, never mind that. C’mon remove your shirt!”
“What if I leave my shirt on today? Baba
won’t object—not when it’s so-o-o-o cold?” he said pleadingly.
“You had better not. Baba will most
certainly object!”
Mr. Vishnupant Damle, head of the
household, was a stickler for following traditions, no matter what. And sitting
shirtless for the evening meal was a tradition of the menfolk, cold or not
cold. Gajanan would have to sit shivering while eating his evening meal.
Suddenly, a thought struck Gajanan. “Arre,
Moroba, will Tatyarao be forced to remove his shirt, too?”
“Ye-e-e-ss. I suppose he has to, too.”
“Ohhhh . . . Tatyarao
won’t do it! It is so unpractical.”
Moroba’s eyes gleamed. “It might be fun
to see how Baba and Tatyarao deal together over this. Hurry up, Gajanana! Let’s
go.”
The boys sat down in their spot; their
skin was goose-fleshed and teeth clenched to control the chattering. Their
father walked in. He had removed his shirt, per tradition, but had draped the uparna (stole customarily worn by men)
around his shoulders. Savarkar followed almost immediately—wearing a shirt!
The boys stole a quick glance at each other.
Vishnupant looked in surprise at
Savarkar’s shirt. He cleared his throat significantly. Savarkar was perfectly
at ease, seemingly unaware of anything amiss. Vishnupant pursed his lips and
pondered for a minute. Savarkar was a guest, and an important one at
that . . . hmm . . . but traditions were the most important
thing of all.
“Tatya, what, are you going to eat your
meal wearing a shirt?” he asked, his tone a masterpiece of gentle
chiding-cum-incredulity.
“Why not? You too are wearing something,
aren’t you, Vishnupant?”
“Oh, this?” Vishnupant plucked at his
uparna and gave an indulgent laugh. “This is only an uparna; quite an
acceptable garment to drape by traditions.”
“Mine is also an uparna!” Savarkar
claimed promptly, with aplomb. “Only I got the tailor to stitch some style and
shape to it, that’s all.”
Vishnupant’s mouth fell open at this
unanswerable statement. The boys had to bite down even harder on their lips to
muffle their giggles.
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