He began cartooning in Bombay, for the Free Press Journal, soon after his university graduation, but quickly switched to the Times of India, a partnership that has endured for more than 60 years. The English-language paper has a daily circulation of 3.5 million.
The puckish humor that got Laxman in trouble as a child has occasionally landed him in hot water as an adult.
He was once hauled into court for a cartoon that poked fun at nationalist rioters who were burning cars and buses in Bombay.
"In the cartoon, someone tries to set fire to a motorcycle, but he can't even light the matchstick. A bystander says, 'What sort of patriot are you? You can't even burn a small motorcycle,' " Laxman once told an interviewer. He was acquitted of causing offense, but "some people got angry and rushed to my trial to throw acid on my face."
In recent years, Laxman's greatest challenge has probably been to stay relevant and fresh for a new generation of Indians, many of whom look to satellite TV, the Internet and films for entertainment and social comment, not the cartoons that used to be staples of Indian newspapers.
"The art of cartooning has subsided considerably in the Indian press in the last 10 years," Padgaonkar said. "Alas, in the Indian press, there's such little irony and humor. Some are busy celebrating 'India shining,' some are focused on India whining, and neither in the shining bit or the whining bit is there much room for satire and irony."
Also, critics say that many of Laxman's favorite themes and tropes are stuck in time, relics of an India before the 1991 market-oriented reforms that unleashed an explosion of economic activity.
Laxman's targets -- the sclerotic bureaucracy, the lack of visible progress, the tragedy of unfulfilled potential -- are still issues here, but no longer the whole story. His characters complain about potholes in the roads just as they did decades ago. (To be fair, many Indian roads remain atrocious.)
"You Said It" rarely addresses globalization or advances in technology, both of which have been instrumental in India's economic boom. Laxman himself despises cellphones, doesn't watch television and shrugs off the Internet, attitudes imposed on his sometime alter-ego, the Common Man.
Thumbing a nose at the march of time is perhaps fitting for a man whose career has defied it and who refuses to keep a diary or wear a watch. Laxman's autobiography is virtually devoid of dates and years, because he can't be bothered with them.
The only time factor he seems to pay much attention to is his daily deadline. Here in the comfortable apartment he shares with his wife, Kamala, whose calm demeanor tempers her husband's sometimes crotchety personality, he works in silence from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m., combing the papers for ideas, then whipping up a cartoon for the Times of India courier to collect at 2 p.m.
He takes ideas from no one -- "not even my granddaughter," whom he adores. Despite suggestions from some readers, Laxman is adamant that the Common Man will never be more than a spectator. Why fiddle with the essence of a character who has been his unfailing companion and a fixture on the media landscape for half a century?
"Does the moon change?" Laxman asked airily. "Does the sun change?"
You said it.
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henry.chu@latimes.com
