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Dom had a troubled childhood. His mother suffered from a nervous
disorder. His father, Frank Moraes, one of the most eminent
journalists India has produced, had been sent to cover the World
War II in Burma. His father's long absence affected the mental
equilibrium of his mother, who was herself a doctor. After his
father returned from his assignment, she grew very possessive of
her son and could not bear to let him go anywhere. Dom witnessed
many hysterical scenes of his mother's growing madness and he
started avoiding her, even as she started using violence to
ensure his presence. One day she was wildly brandishing a knife
and threatening and slapping the servants when Dom caught hold
of the knife and struck her. This aggravated her malaise and
expedited her passage to a mental asylum in Bangalore. Dom was
to carry the guilt of this episode all his life like an
"albatross round my neck." He never forgave himself.
Dom's memoirs are
in the tradition of Rousseau and Gandhi as they record life's
experiences truthfully and faithfully. Like them, he lays his
soul bare. Once when in his father's absence his mother was
disconsolate and was crying to herself, he intruded on her,
overcome by pity, and asked her why was she crying. She slapped
him. He was stunned and could not understand her strange
behaviour. Many years later when he was young and had lost his
innocence lying in the arms of a pretty widow in Belgrade, when
he "nailed her to her cross", as he puts it, he was to
remember the incident. And, as snow flakes fell lightly in the
silent night, he realised what had ailed his mother.
His father had
been at Oxford and, therefore, got him admitted to Jesus
College. Dom sailed to England when he was 16. He took to
English life like fish to takes to water. "The colour of my
skin was not English, but my mind was", he says at one
place. He led a bohemian life in his early days in London,
frequenting the pubs in Soho in the company of other poets,
painters and musicians. Dom realised early that his life's
mission was to write poetry. He went about life possessed by the
Muse. He felt a strange excitement and thrill in his blood,
rhythms singing in his head, complete lines descending from
nowhere. 'With a huge dry thumb/ He shifts the bowl of ink/
Towards me. 'Master, write', he wrote once. He experienced
"the surges of pure power, something beyond me, what Lorca
called the Duende, rise in me and take shape on the page."
But there were times when he could not write poetry at all, and
it made him miserable. At such times, he felt crippled. He came
in close contact with leading poets like Stephen Spender, W.H.
Auden, Allen Tate and many more and made a niche for himself in
the world of English poetry. Modesty is not his characteristic
trait, but he sums up his poetic career thus, "If I have
not written as earthshakingly as I hoped when I was a boy, I
have written as well as I could." He had many liaisons and
loves, none very enduring. It amazed him to know how many girls
wanted to sleep with a poet. 'I put no end to / The life that
led me.' He loved to travel. There is hardly any country he
has not visited. His writing assignments took him to cover the
war in Algiers, where a bomb exploded in a bar he was drinking
in, converting it suddenly into an abattoir, or to the jungles
of Indonesia off Djayapura to visit the Dani tribe which
practiced cannibalism. He went to Santiago to meet President
Allende who was assassinated shortly after the brief encounter.
The three books have different flavours. Gone Away is
sunny and sparkling, bubbling with mirth. My Son's Father
has a certain mellowness, an autumnal mood, and Never At Home
broods over the "unfinished theatre of patchwork lives
that fall apart." Dom seems to sum up his philosophy of
life in these two lines: 'A little tired, but in the end, /
Not unhappy to have lived'.
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