Monthly Archives: October 2014

CORRECTIONS ON THE LAST PAGE by Vedula Sakuntala

Venkatachalam garu goes for a walk every evening. He’s gotten into this habit after his retirement as a matter of necessity.

While he was working, his limitless duties, umpteen activities, and responsibilities that went beyond his means, left him with not a moment to breathe. Like a contestant in a running race, he ran without looking back, was exhausted and, now, finally, after his retirement got a chance to rest. Now he has plenty of leisure.

He has plenty of time now to look back and ponder over, and to evaluate the good and the bad in his life. There’s no more need for rushing, there’s nothing to do. He could just take care of his own tasks and not worry about others. Those days were gone. All he had to do now is to review the pleasure and pain of those days.

 

While Venkatachalam garu is at home, he sits on the front porch in an easy chair and mulls over the memories of the past—that’s one way of spending his time. The second is to go to the park in the evening, sit on the grass, watch what’s going on in the area and review the pages of his past.

During the course of his first activity, Venkatachalam garu came across some incidents that touched the innermost corners of his heart. While he was sitting on the porch, his wife and children would sit in the living room and talk loudly, raising their voices. Whether they intended it or not, he could hear them.

The eldest son says, “I can’t figure out why he has to be so mulish. He could have easily pulled the strings and got our little brother a better grade in school. It’s so common nowadays, so many people are using their positions and improving their lives.” It sounds like the younger brother’s life was ruined only because of father’s [Venkatachalam’s] incompetence.

The second son complains, “Huh! I begged him to let me finish my master’s. If I’d finished my master’s, I would’ve certainly got that job at the firm. He said I could study at home and write the exams, like that’s a viable option in this house! I’m stuck in this stupid clerical position with no hope of promotion.”

The third one takes it to one step further and growls. His grievance was not about education or job but about a hoard of cash father didn’t earn and hand over to him. “Look at this house! He got it built in this god-forsaken corner of the town! Look at the neighbors! Just ordinary middle class who could never raise above the level of average life. Had he gotten a house site in Banjara Hills or Sri Nagar Colony,[1] we could’ve built the house ourselves. What could have he lost if he’d not built this house here? He could not improve his lot and would not let’s improve ours,” he whines. He sounds like he was keen on making it good in the world and only his father chopped his wings and forced him to lie low.

This is the attitude of his sons. Now about the daughter who has been married and left for her in-law’s home. Each time she returned to visit them, she pours her heart out, wailing in the presence of her mother. Her major complaint was that her husband was not promoted, they couldn’t move up from scooter to automobile status, she and her husband couldn’t have a better life since all his family—her mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, and brothers-in-law—depend on them, and all this is because her father did not find a better husband for her.

Venkatachalam’s wife listens to all their whining, moaning, groaning and the long-drawn-out complaints, feels sorry for them, accepts that their miseries were caused only by her and her husband’s incompetence and bullheaded attitude, and wipes her nose until the nose turned red.

“What a misery! We are not good enough even to help our own children! I think it’s true. What’s wrong if our children hope for a better life? Do they also have to live in narrow rooms and on concrete floors like us? Nowadays everybody is going to America and earning a bundle. They return home just in two years, buy cars, mansions and live a dazzling life. Here we are! What for? We could not help even one son to become an officer! Well, it’s their misfortune that they were born in our house. How could they expect a better luck?” says Venkatachalam’s wife, implying that only she and her husband cast a shadow like eclipse in their children’s lives and spread darkness over their future.

Comments of this sort reached Venkatachalam’s ears directly and indirectly. He heard such conversations only on rare occasions prior to his retirement. After his retirement he has been hearing these harsh words fairly frequently. That’s why Venkatachalam garu can’t sit on the front porch and enjoy his peace of mind. He did not have to ponder over the past. His wonderful sons and daughter are holding the canvas in front of him and pointing to him what a disgraceful picture it was, and thereby crushing his heart. His wife, as if supporting them, would dab her eyes with her saree end, blow her nose, point to the lines on her forehead and reaffirm their misfortune. For all these reasons, to go to the park became not only a habit but a necessity for him. He goes to the park located just outside their colony.

***

Venkatachalam went to the park on that day as usual. At the center of the park there was a Gandhi statue on a pedestal with concrete steps. Venkatachalam garu enjoys the scenery—the green grass, dewdrops on the grass, children playing at a distance, their screams—all these give him a kind of pleasure, a kind of solace. The park is not big but has a charm of its own with beautiful flower plants and attractively trimmed crouton plants.

Several other older people also gather there and sit on the cement benches. Young men stretch on the grass and chitchat. Little children play on the swing or the slide. The gardener, who’s instrumental in bringing pleasure to so many people, is hardly visible, busy in some corner digging a hole for a plant or in some other similar activity.

Gandhi, standing at the center of the park seem to be broadcasting, with his smile that, “This is what I’d call a peaceful atmosphere.”

Venkatachalam dusted off the bench with his uttareeyam, spread it and sat on it. He felt like he understood the message. Two minutes passed by. Suddenly there was a loud scream at a distance. At first it started out in a low pitch and then kept increasing, eventually filled the park and raised a huge commotion. Venkatachalam garu found that out after asking a young man sitting nearby. A group of young men formed into a society and elected a leader and were walking down the street in a procession. They were the fans of a movie star and celebrating the success of their society.

“Interesting. I can understand the fans forming into a society to express their admiration for a movie star. That much is good. But why all this other stuff like electing a leader, singing his praise? … Isn’t it beginning to look like folk song with a hero and a second hero?” Venkatachalam garu laughed.

“You don’t understand, sir. Anytime you call it a society, they must necessarily have a leader. They have to organize meetings to discuss what they can do for their favorite actor. They also have to collect donations as and when necessary. And they’ll have to fight if somebody made a negative comment about their favorite actor! All this is possible only when they have a competent leader. Their old leader was inept. That’s why they got a new leader now,” the young man explained in detail.

Venkatachalam garu couldn’t laugh, he was stunned. The procession kept walking peacefully for a while. In the next five minutes, some differences of opinion arose among its members and it led to a furor. It turned into bickering, jindabad turned into murdabad,[2] then followed fist fights and soon the police arrived and threw them all into lock up.

Venkatachalam garu watched it painfully. He turned to the gentleman, Gopala Rao, who was sitting next to him and said, “Look at them! Current generation youth rush into things for fun then and get themselves into trouble.”

Gopala Rao laughed. He brushed off the cigarette ashes and said, “Do you think they understand the meaning of the word pleasure? If they had known what it meant, they wouldn’t have developed this hatred, pigheadedness, and ill-conceived competition, and declared war on the other party and called it pleasure. It seems somebody honored a couple of days back another actor who is not their favorite. So, this party wanted to felicitate their own favorite actor and asked their leader to arrange it right away. The leader said, “Not now,” and so the members threw him out and elected another leader at once. That’s the reason for this procession—a show off. What’s there to be happy about in all this? Where’s the justification for a leader to be taken in a procession? They are doing it since the other party did it. Riot took place at that time too and these people are experiencing the same thing. They claim there is a pleasure in that too!”

“How did you know all this?” Venkatachalam asked with surprise.

Gopala Rao said, “That leader is no stranger; my own delightful son. He gives the same speeches at home too. I’m exhausted by his lectures and am tired of life. I had high dreams for my children, hoped that I should give them good education and help them reach high goals in life. I sold my land and had a house built; paid donations for admissions in colleges; I even took bribes when it became necessary. My eldest son lives in the States, the second one in Delhi, the third son, an engineer, lives in Vizag. And here’s the fourth one, left college while studying for his master’s degree. It’s five years now! I’m tired and let go of it. Our house is located in Ananda Sagar Colony, complete with all the amenities, I didn’t skimp on anything. We all were very happy at the time. Now I’m beginning to wonder if I made a mistake. I took care of everything; gave them no opportunity to learn about responsibility. Not one of all my four sons is concerned about the house. They’re convinced that I’d take care of everything. They mind only their own business. People don’t care about others when they have a comfortable life.

“A couple of days ago, my neighbor was seriously ill. I panicked and was anxious to take him to the hospital. And this son said he had to meet somebody in his fan club and took the car. Luckily, my neighbor’s son managed to get a taxicab somehow. I went to the hospital with them but I was ashamed. Although I have a car, I couldn’t help my neighbors. They’ve always been helping us. Their son brings vegetables from the store for us occasionally. But when they needed my help, I could do nothing. His blood pressure shot up and because he did not receive medical attention in time, he’s confined to bed permanently.”

“What happened?” Venkatachalam asked with concern.

“He lost the use of arms, legs and also speech. There’s no guarantee when he could recover,” Gopala Rao replied.

“Oh, no! You can’t blame yourself though,” Venkatachalam tried to console him.

“Maybe that’s true but still something is tugging at my heart, like I’d done something wrong. We’re humans after all. Sorry. I don’t know about you but that’s how I feel.”

Then they introduced themselves to each other, chatted for a while and left for their homes.

Venkatachalam reached home and noticed that his eldest son was watching TV and his granddaughter sat down with her books and studying.

Venkatachalam sat in his easychair and was resting. His granddaughter was asking her father for meanings whenever she didn’t understand a word. She was admitted in Telugu medium school since it was closer to home and also the fee was lower. The girl’s mother whispers to the neighbors that maava garu, Venkatachalam, could have taken the initiative and got the little girl admitted in the English medium school. Venkatachalam heard those whispers several times and chuckled, wondering why the son himself could not do that himself if that’s what they wanted.

Venkatachalam lay back in the armchair and closed his eyes. His wife came and said, “Emandi![1] Sleeping already?”

“I’m not sleeping, just resting. What’s the matter?” he said.

“Bhadram garu came earlier, with a couple of others. He said they were planning to build a library and asked for donation. I told him that you weren’t home.”

“A library! That’s good. But isn’t our son home?”

“That’s cute. What can he do? You’re the senior in the house, you should be the one to give donations. Besides, how can he give donations? Bhadram garu may come tomorrow again. Give me the money, 40 or 50 rupees. That should do it,” she said and went in.

Venkatachalam smiled to himself. He heard the little girl ask her father, “Dad, what’s this letter? I don’t understand. Tell me if this is a misprint.”

“Chup! Stop asking me every little thing. If it’s a misprint, you’ll find the correct word on the last page in the list of corrections and misprints. Check the list,” he yelled at her and reverted to his TV.

Something occurred to Venkatachalam. He told himself, “That’s true. Corrections for the mistakes in a book would be given on the last page, and readers will have a chance to look them up and obtain the correct reading. But in the book called Life, we don’t get a chance to correct the misprints. We don’t have the opportunity to publish a list of corrections and revisions at the end. All the episode and events, once occurred, they’re done. The particular time slot will not return so we can say that this is what I really wanted to do at that time or suggest to the audience that this is how it should be read. The datebook will not recur. Past is past! We cannot do yesterday and today what we should have done the day before yesterday and yesterday. After today is past, we can’t turn around tomorrow into today.

“The letters once printed in the book called Life can’t be revised modified. Oh, God, what a huge mistake! I spent all my life, day and night, taking care of children, their education, family and property but never considered doing one, just one good deed like helping others or doing something that could be remembered for years to come. I could not save even one such sweet moment that could offer comfort to me. Everybody works for the betterment of one’s own family, no big deal. I did so much for my family but they attribute no value to my work. Earlier in the park Gopala Rao said the same thing. In other words, all the worldly attachments are based on karma.

“I wish I’d done some good deed instead of losing myself in the ocean of karma. It’s true that every person could not become a mahatma. But why should we forget human values. I spent all my time worrying about ration cards, school fees, vegetable bags, and festive meals. Instead, why couldn’t I provide one meal to a poor student at the least? Why not support an orphan? What a shame! I did not think of even these little acts of kindness. The kind of things I wasted my time on—haggling for every paisa with every person, not giving even a paisa to any beggar or giving something and asking for the change from a beggar, shortchanging the day laborer, and then I felt proud of myself for saving that paisa. Chi, chi, shame on me!”

Venkatachalam felt rundown. “Oh, God, how many mistakes have I made? And I can’t even correct them now. I can’t print the corrections list on the last page. What can I do in this old age? I think, the best I can do is to give to Bhadram garu as big a donation as I can, and write a huge book, narrating my entire agony and warn others that they should not make the same mistakes as I did; in fact, they should avoid all mistakes. That’s the only good deed I can do now. All other thoughts of mine, I will postpone to my next life.” He went on thinking like that and took a deep breath with satisfaction.

***

Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net, September 2003.

 (The Telugu original, “Akhari pageelo … achhu tappulu,” was published in the anthology, “nuurella panTa” Comp. by Bhargavi Rao. Bangalore: Prism Books, 2000. )

————-

[1] In some families, the wives don’t have a specific form of address for husbands. Some words like emandi is used in such instances.

[1] Wealthy neighborhoods in Hyderabad, capital of Andhra Pradesh.

[2] Jindabad means long live and murdabad means may you die.

CASTE IS ACTING HUMAN by Tamirisa Janaki

“Gopi, come here,” Suseelamma shouted angrily.
“What’s it, amma?” Gopi came into the kitchen.
“Why’re you taking him into every room? Let him sit outside. Why’d you make friends with him, anyways? Walk around with arms around each other’s shoulders, what’s it with you?”
“Amma, Ramu is my classmate.”
“So what? You may not know about his caste but I do. Don’t you ever bring each and every boy into this house, like that.”
“Why not?” Gopi asked, watching his mother and a little scared.
“We must not touch them. We belong to higher caste and he is low caste,” his mother replied all wound up and sat down in front of her gods for her daily worship. She spent one half hour chanting the stotras and finished with her last chant, mitrasya maa cakshusha sarvaani bhoothaani sameekshe, mitrasya cakshushaa sameeksha mahe [May all living beings view me with compassion; may we humans view each other with compassion].

Gopi was scared of his mother. He took Ramu to the front porch. Amma always talks about caste but his little brain could not comprehend what it meant. Poor Ramu. Gopi has been asking him to come to his place for a long time and finally now he is here. Gopi was so zealous to show his entire house to Ramu—the room upstairs where he sleeps, and overlooking the river Godavari, and the Goddess temple, and all that. But amma is saying he should not bring Ramu into the house. They both are of the same age and they’re in the same class. Ramu excels in all subjects. He has been always ranking first. Gopi likes Ramu a lot. So does Ramu. I bring him here since he is a nice boy and I like him. Why is amma upset? Gopi couldn’t understand that part.

He couldn’t hold back anymore. That night, Gopi raised the question with his mother, “Amma, what do you mean when you say caste?”
“Caste means, well, caste means …” Suseelamma could not find the right words to explain it. “There are several castes like brahmin, kshatriya, vaisya and so on,” she said, although she was well aware that that was not the correct answer to his question.
“So who decides who belongs to what caste?”
She thought she could answer her son’s question this time.
²²²

The small company where Gopi’s father, Seshagiri, was working went out of business and Seshagiri lost his job. After that he couldn’t find another job. So, he took out a loan and opened a small department store. They were managing somehow to make ends meet.

One day he received a letter from his younger brother who was living in Hyderabad.
“What did he write in the letter?” Suseelamma asked her husband.
“Nothing special. Finally he has come around, it seems. He is beginning to understand his responsibilities. He has been fooling around for so long. Now he has learned to hold a job I suppose.”
“What has happened, exactly?”
“He said he has opened a drycleaning shop in partnership with a friend.”
“What? Laundry shop?” Suseelamma said, disparagingly.
“Why are you dismissing it like that? Drycleaning shop brings good money in cities. You should be proud of him. After so many years, he came around finally and is making a better life for himself.”
“What else did you expect me to say?”
“He did not do well in school; barely made it through tenth class. I tried to pursuade him to go for higher study but he was not interested. Let’s be realistic. Nowadays not all the educated are landing good jobs either. Look what’s happening. People obtain degrees, grow beards, stand in line and threaten to starve until the government showed them jobs, to what point? All they’ve got is the label unemployed. If you ask me, each person should find a way on his own and learn to make a living for himself.”
Gopi was also in the room. Their conversation pierced through his ears. He understood parts of it and some parts he didn’t.

“Amma, can I go to Ravi’s home to play? Just for a little while,” Gopi asked his mother.
Ravi has a puppy in his home. They got her recently. Ravi told Gopi several times that the puppy was very cute and that he should come to see her. Gopi was dying to see the puppy.
“What? Ravi’s house? Have you lost your mind?” Suseelamma yelled crushing his Gopi’s enthusiasm.
“He said he’d go to Ravi’s house. Why are you asking if he lost his mind?” Seshagiri asked, surprised.
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. How can he go to their house? I am sure you knew it too. Ravi’s mother belongs to one caste and his father to another. How can we send our boy to the house of a mixed couple?”
“Abbha! You’re giving me a headache with your caste, race dilemma; blabbering about it all the time.”
“You get on my case every time you’ve got a chance. You are so tired of my words. Why did you marry me in the first place?”
“That’s enough. One more song you’ve been singing forever.”
“you can say whatever you please. You think that I am not going anywhere no matter what, no matter however much you insult me.”
“What did I say wrong, now?”
“Hum, You say whatever comes to your mind and turn around and ask me what did I say? You’ll never change.”
“Whatever you mean? What part of me I should change?” It started out as a little disagreement and soon turned into a storm. Gopi shut his ears and sat on the front porch for a while. His parents argue for something or other almost everyday. A huge doubt popped up in his head—Do all parents bicker all the time like his?

Ravi kept insisting and Gopi decided to visit his puppy, on his way home from school one day. The puppy was cute, really. She came to Gopi quite friendly. Both, Ravi and Gopi played with the puppy for a while. Ravi’s mother told them to wash their hands and come in; she made snacks for them.
“I’ve to go home,” Gopi mumbled vaguely.
“You can go after eating something along with Ravi,” Ravi’s mother was very kind and he couldn’t refuse. Ravi’s father also walked in. He hugged Ravi and asked gently, “Is he a friend of yours? What’s his name?”
Ravi told him his friend’s name. His father said, “Good. Did you show our house to your friend? Did you show him our puppy? Also, the figurines your mother has made?”
“Stop it, you are talking like my figurines are masterpieces,” Ravi’s mother laughed shyly.
”I don’t know. I like your figurines a lot better than all those great masterpieces. They are special for us. So, what’d make for tiffin today?”
“Didn’t tell me to make pakodi earlier this morning.” Her gentle voice was pleasurable for Gopi and he wanted to stay there and listen to that voice over and again.
“Ha, so you made pakodi. Good. Children, come on, let’s eat hot, hot pakodi.”

Both Ravi and Gopi went in, washed their hands with soap and returned to the kitchen. Hot pakodi were set on the dining table, causing his mouth to water. Ravi’s mother sat next to Gopi. Ravi’s father was telling amusing stories and his mother kept serving more and more pakodi in their plates. The entire atmosphere was very pleasant; pakodi tasted doubly delicious.
After they returned to livingroom, Gopi asked Ravi, almost in a whisper, “How come your mother let me go into the kitchen without asking what caste I belonged to?”
“Caste? What’s it?”
“Don’t know what caste is?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Your mother never mentioned it? You really don’t know?”
“No, really, I don’t know.”
For Gopi, that sounded very strange. Ravi spread a mat on the floor and asked Gopi, “Shall we play carroms?”
“Yes, let’s play,” uncle, Ravi’s father, said and sat down with them. That was again one more surprise for Gopi.
“Gopi, you and I can be one team,” aunty sat down across from Gopi. He was delighted. He was not good at carroms but played enthusiastically. He didn’t realize how much time passed by unnoticed.

Gopi returned home and the atmosphere here was the same as always. Mother and father were fighting like crazy about something.
Suseelamma saw Gopi walk in and screamed, “Where did you go?”
“I went to Ravi’s house,” he replied. He was not in the habit of lying. His teacher at school told him several times that lying was bad.
“How dare you? How many times have I told you that you should not go to their house? Why did you go there?”
“You keep saying such people, such people. In fact, they are very nice,” he said, looking into her face straight, although a little frightened at the same time.
“Ha! ha! Here is a big boy born to certify their good nature. Whatever goodness you’ve seen in them. She belonged to one caste and he to another,” said Suseelamma, making face, as if belonging to different castes was a huge sin.
“I don’t know what castes they belonged to but they are nice people. They talked with me with the same kind voice they’d talk to their son, Ravi. They never fight like you and dad do, Ravi told me.”
Seshagiri was shocked as he heard his son’s words. He began to understand the thoughts that lay dorment in that little heart. Now he realized what a turmoil their daily arguments must have created in his tiny heart. Both he and his wife are always tense. They snap quickly without thinking twice.

Gopi continued, “Ravi’s mother and father play carroms with him; ring tennis with him. Whenever he brings his friends home, they invite them and speak with them kindly. They don’t drag Ravi into the back room and inquire about his friends’ caste. They don’t tell him not to bring friends in, or make them sit on the front porch.”
“That’s enough.Don’t you lecture me.”
“Amma, you said that castes are based on people’s calling. Chinnanna has a drycleaning shop and nanna has a department store. So, what is our caste?”

Suseelamma couldn’t listen to him anymore. She started staring at both of them as if she’s lost her mind. Seshagiri walked up to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She twitched and stared back at him. Their eyes met. Numerous thoughts pervaded the two pairs of eyes.
“Will you take me to your friend, Ravi’s home tomorrow and introduce me to his mother, Gopi?” she asked him.
Gopi’s eyes glowed delightfully. He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “Woud you go to their house? You told me I couldn’t go there!”
“I will never speak like that again.”
Gopi, in raptures, embraced her. “My amma is so sweet,” he said.
[End]
²²²

Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net, April 2004.

(The Telugu original, maanavate minishi kulam [Compassion Is Man’s Caste] was published in the anthology manasidi neekosam [this heart is for you], published by spandana sahiti samakhya, 1989)

A WARBLER by Addepally Vivekananda Devi

Our schools were closed for the summer. I couldn’t stay home and so went to visit my uncle in our village. He lived in a small village. There are several things that pulled me in that direction—our walk along the stream, lying down under the coconut trees in the moonlight, the beautiful aroma from the jasmine creeper by its side, the songs of the blackbirds after they nibble on the tender shoots, cool coconut milk, the sweetened drink attayya brings me, and the freshly made pickles of ammamma. These are the goodies too hard to resist.

Adayya thatha would mix with the young and old in the village alike. When he sits down with his tobacco leaves sorting one by one, rolling them and puffing, and starts his narration, the entire audience, young and old, would sit there spellbound. They all—the students returning after their evening walk on the lakeshore and the young farmers returning after farming—gather on the front porch by the time it got dark.

Adayya thatha has the habit of eating the nallamandu[1] before his supper. After that, he would take a little nap and then move on to the porch.

“So, what’s new today?” Virai asked as usual. Adayya replied, “You, the young folks, have to fill me in. What’s there for me to tell?” and he added, turning to Kittayya, “You went to the city to watch the movie. What’s it about? Kittayya said, “What story, thatha! It’s always the same—either one girl and two boys or two girls and one boy.”

“Kittayya! To speak the truth, the root cause of this creation is only that one issue—the issue between men and women. Without that there is no world. Even otherwise, love is a baffling issue. There are also people who became great only because of love. You, Kondayya, do you remember Rangaswamy; he was here before.”

“I was very young at the time, thatha!”

“Thatha! Tell us his story. We all are waiting for your stories. And you started chit chat. It didn’t look like you would tell us a story today.”

Adiyya thatha taunted us, “If you talk like that, I’ll just here, enjoying my tobacco roll. I won’t tell you any story at all.”

“It’s our mistake. We shouldn’t have said it. Please tell us Rangaswamy’s story.”

“Good. You behave yourself and I’ll start the story,” he said, pulling out another tobacco leaf and started stripping. The people around were anxious to hear the story but kept their mouths shut fearing that any word from their mouth would annoy thatha again. Only I did not understand why they all were so anxious for a story from that old man.

The moonlight was spread dimly. A blackbird at a distance was sitting on a mango tree and cooed. In response, a pigeon chirped back while flying in the sky. Thatha took two puffs of his tobacco roll and said, “There, Rangaswamy came in the form of a pigeon,” and continued his narration.

“You must say “uum[2] and I’ll tell you what happened. Rangaswamy was not originally from this village. He came here on some errand. A young woman, Mallamma, went to the river with a few other women and was returning with a pot of water. She was the only daughter of Chalamayya and lost her mother while she was still little. Chalamayya raised her affectionately. He used to call her ‘Molla’ tenderly. By the time she was thirteen, she was gorgeous with big dark eyes, like a stack of blue lotuses. Her body was like a sculpture, carved out of sandalwood. God knows at what divine moment Rangaswamy saw her on her way to the lake, he forgot his errand and stayed in the village for about ten days, watching her every day. Molla came of age and Chalamayya stopped sending her for water. Rangaswamy kept going around Molla’s house like a cat with a burnt foot. After a few days, he returned to his village.

As soon as he went home, he went to pedababu’s house. They both went to Chalamayya’s house. Pedababu said, “I came to ask you to marry your daughter to my boy.”

Chalamayya asked, “Did we have any family ties in the past?”

“We belong to the same category, we can establish one now,” was the response he received.

“All right. What kind of jewelry you’re planning to give the bride?”

“We are not rich but will follow the common practice. We can give her a nagaram and chain. After my boy lost his mother, that’s all we are left with.”

The wedding was fixed. Chalamayya went to the scholar in the village to set a date. The scholar checked the horoscope and said, “Chalamayya, the girl’s horoscope chart is superb. But …”

“Why are you mumbling? No but. Just spit it out, what is but…”

“According to her horoscope, her marital bliss …”

“Look, Achari! You never mentioned this, why are you bringing it up now? You wrote the chart yourself earlier. Why didn’t you tell me about that then?

“I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Do you think telling me now makes me happy? First tell me what exactly is the problem?”

“Bring me the boy’s horoscope also.”

“This is really great! I’ve given them my word. Are you saying my word should be blown away in public? Whatever her karma, so be it. Are you saying she can’t keep her kumkuma.[3] Or her life would be cut short? Why don’t you give me the real truth instead of beating around the bush?”

“No problem with her kumkuma.”

“You mean, it’s about her life?”

“That’s not what’s not clear here. Even I am not able to figure it our.”

“That’s very nice. You are driving me nuts all this while about something that even you didn’t know? That’s super,” Thatha said and got up to leave, shaking the towel on his shoulder.

 

***

Molla’s marriage with Rangaswamy was celebrated. Rangaswamy moved in with Molla—following illarikam[4] tradition. Oh my god! You will have to see Rangaswamy during those days, bursting at the seams! There was the quickness of the deer and horseplay in his gait. He couldn’t leave Molla alone, not even for a second. He would often leave the work on the farm on some pretext and go home. We all would laugh and he would just chuckle and let go. Chalamayya expressed his annoyance at his son-in-law’s spree occasionally behind his back. After her marriage, Molla was even more beautiful like polished gold or a rose that acquired additional aroma. She looked as if a goddess from some temple became animate and walked into their home. Her eyes shone like fish. Even we couldn’t turn our eyes from her. What can we say if Rangaswamy, at the prime of life, couldn’t hold himself? They were like two lovebirds and that became an annoyance for some people. Some of them commented, “Ha! Is he the only one with a beautiful wife? Well, let’s see how long this will last.” And a few others would say, “What’s gotten into him? He is following her day and night, holding on to her saree palloo! Nobody lives like that, not even in a whorehouse!” Rangaswamy heard them all and kept quiet with a little smile.

Five or six months went by in this manner. One day Chalamayya got fever and died after a couple of days. Only Rangaswamy and Molla remained for each other. In her sorrow for her father, Molla became thin and soon fell ill. Rangaswamy took care of her day and night without a break but she showed no signs of recovery. He lost his mind. He went around like a cat with a burnt foot; wouldn’t eat or drink.

The neighbors tried to convince Rangaswamy that he should eat at least for the sake of Molla, he had to help her. But it was of no avail. He would sit there with his head in his palm and watched while Molla was fighting for her life. Somebody suggested that it was over and the body should be removed from the cot and put on the floor. Rangaswamy did not appear to be conscious of what was going on there. He suddenly got up, stared at Molla’s face and went into the room on the westside where the family goddess was set up.

The people were in the process of moving Molla’s body from the cot to the floor. None of the noticed Rangaswamy. Nobody knew how long he sat there in front of the goddess. Molla passed away. One of asked for Rangaswamy. Another person replied, “Let him be. He was drowned in sorrow. Let’s give him sometime alone for recovering from his pain.”

They all got busy with the final arrangements. Women folks were commenting whatever came to their minds. It was about two or three hours since the lifebreath left Molla’s body. Suddenly Rangaswamy opened the door and rushed into the room. He started crying as he said, “My Molla will come back. The words of goddess are bound to happen. Don’t move her body.” He looked at her face and stopped crying. His looks were not really fixed on her face but vacant as if he was into a supramundane world. For a second his face was filled with unparalleled grave peacefulness. He sat her feet like a stone.

All the items were ready. A senior person said, “Get the body ready for immersion.” The women turned toward her. Surprise! Molla opened her eyes slowly as if from sleep and looked at the people who gathered there and also at her husband. Rangaswamy and Molla looked at each other and their faces lit up with smiles. Again he got up with a jerk and went into the goddess room and shut the doors.

The people helped Molla again back onto the cot. “Water,” she said softly. The crowd was astounded. “Rangaswamy’s luck,” one person said. “Her share of rice are not used up yet, I believe,”[5] somebody else commented.

Molla started recovering slowly. Rangaswamy took care of her as if she were a baby. Soon she was walking around in the house. Rangaswamy was going to the lakefront frequently to sit and ruminate. Molla convinced herself that he was stuck at home all these days and probably it was a good idea that he went out for a breath of fresh air. Sometimes she had to send for him for food. She couldn’t figure out no matter however much she tried. Up until now he never left her side, like a little kid, not even in sleep. Why he became so indifferent suddenly? Even the neighbors who watched him wait on his wife day and night when she was sick couldn’t understand his attitude now. One of them chided him, “Why do you spend all the time on the lakefront? What is there?” All they could get in reply was only his smile. They even wondered if he was caught in the snares of a woman and tried to find her but there was no other woman.

At the supper time Molla confronted her husband. She started crying, covering her face her saree palloo and asked him straight, “bava! I can’t understand your behavior. Tell me if I had done something wrong. Hit me, curse me but if you continue to be detached like this, I just can’t take it.” Rangaswamy looked his wife and looked down. Molla’s sorrow was doubled as she got no response for her question. Rangaswamy poured water into his plate and stood up. He jumped quickly to her but immediately stepped back as if somebody held and pulled him back. He didn’t take her into his arms and she threw herself at his feet. He pulled her up gently and made her sit on the cot. He stood a few feet away from her and said, “Molla, you know I can’t bear the sight of you crying like this. Stop crying and listen to what I was going to say to the end.” “Yes, bava, I will not cry,” she said between fits of sobs.

 

Rangaswamy said, “You became seriously ill and everybody said there was no hope. I was heartbroken when I heard that there was no hope of me having you anymore. So I rushed to the devi temple and prayed to her, asked her to save and that I would give anything in return. I was willing to give even my life. I hit my head against the feet of the goddess and lost my senses. I saw a huge light. In that light, the goddess, emitting an unusual hallow, lifted her blessed right hand and said, you silly boy, don’t cry. You dedicate her to my service. She will live. I wanted to say yes but couldn’t nothing came out of my mouth. I am not even sure whether I shook my head or not. By the time I regained consciousness, the light was gone. You know what happened after that. Since I have dedicated you to the goddess, I cannot treat you like my woman. I am afraid what might happen if I approach you. I am praying the same goddess everyday to give me the strength to keep myself under control. Only that goddess has to save me.” He covered his face with his hands and walked away. Molla stood there spellbound like a wood sculpture.

The story somehow reached the entire village. Rangaswamy stopped going home even for food. He sent word asking to send him only cooked vegetables. His wife used to send him the vegetables, milk and fruits with cowherd. She could never understand how her husband, who couldn’t leave her a second, managed to develop such austerity of staying away from her. She was not able to control herself but she was also too embarrassed to go to the lakefront to see him.

 

Molla tried to meditate, like her husband did, in the morning and evening but she didn’t succeed. She never understood what the word meditation meant. She got into the habit of watching the photo she and her husband had taken at their wedding.

The villagers built a small hut near the temple and Rangaswamy was living in that hut. They all tried to persuade him to go back to marital bliss. They were convinced this was only a phase like the smasaana vairagyam[6] and will not last long. Somebody else commented that it would bring him no good if he caused unhappiness to a woman; she was in the prime of her life and things turned out sour, it would be his fault. In response to all the comments, Rangaswamy has nothing to say except smile.

One day the cowherd brought milk and fruits as usual and noticed that Rangaswamy was lying there unconscious. He went and told Molla and she was in a dilemma. She couldn’t stop herself from going to see him but also was worried that something bad might happen if she touched him against his vow. She consulted her neighbors. They all gave her suggestions as they pleased—“How could leave a sick person?” “You have to make sure his word is kept. You should not provoke the goddess.”

Molla followed the cowherd to see her husband. She stayed there and made sure he was well-attended but she did not touch him physically. Her heart was craving to massage his feet but she controlled herself. She desperately want to take her husband into her lap like a baby and fondle him. All she could do was only to sit there with her head in her hands and cry. She was scared that if she had annoyed the goddess, the goddess might take away his life.

It took four days for Rangaswamy to recover. He opened his eyes and saw that he was lying on a cot and that his wife was sitting in front of him. He was not sure where it was real or dream. He tried to remember if he made a mistake and went home. Did he break his vow to the goddess? He closed his eyes tight. Molla folded his hands with satisfaction. She paid a thousand thanks to the goddess for saving his life.

Rangaswamy tried to get up and sit. Molla went closer to help him and then again stopped herself as if she received a shock. Rangaswamy covered his face, to stop Molla from seeing his tears, and said, “Molla, I am fine now. Please go home. If I forget myself or you forget yourself, it could result in a peril. What can I say? I am heartless. Please forgive me. Molla! What I had is enough for me in this life. Amma[7] gave you to me and then took you back. I am confident that She will bring us together in the next life. You silly girl! Don’t look at me like that. You are burning my heart. Go, pray to amma for peace of mind.”

Molla left crying. She turned around after a few yards and folded her hands in namaskaram for her husband.

Nobody saw when Molla entered her house. The cowherd came in the evening for milk and she

was nowhere to be found. He searched the entire house and found her sleeping on the cot. He thought she was resting after so many days waiting on her husband. He approached her and called her out. The house was dark. He lit up the lamp and came to Molla again to wake her up. She did not wake up. The neighbors came and realized that her life breath was gone long time ago.

Rangaswamy came and took care of the final arrangements without any emotion. He didn’t speak a single word. There was not one tear in his eyes. They all thought it was the end of all his his mortal attachments.

He continued to live on the lakeshore. The Bhavani temple was built due only to his efforts on the lakeshore. Molla became a perantaalu[8] at the same place.

“Thatha, is that true?”

“Well, if you don’t believe me, you can go to the temple on the lakeshore and see for yourself.”

They heard a warbler chirping at a distance.

“Did you hear that? That is Rangaswamy’s voice,” thatha said, lighting up his tobacco roll.

(End)

 

(The Telugu original, “Rangaswamy” was published probably in the1950’s. This translation was based on the story published in “Nurella panTa,” an anthology of women writers, compiled by Bhargavi Rao. Bangalore: Prism Books, 2000.

(End)

(Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published originally on thulika.net, January 2004)

————————-

[1] Intoxicant like marijuana.

[2] A traditional habit of children making a uum sound, equivalent to what next. Symbolic of audience participation in the narrative.

[3] The dot on a woman’s forehead, symbolic of marriage. Losing it is the same as becoming a widow.

[4] Illarikam is a tradition where the man moves in with his in-laws. This happens mostly when the man has no means of support or the woman is the only child and thus heir to the family property.

[5] A popular notion that we live in this world as long as we have enough food to our credit, bhoommeeda nuukalunnaayi literally means she has her share of rice in this world.

[6] The Telugu phrase, literally meaning ‘graveyard philosophy, implies detachment resulting from a visit to the graveyard, a kind of detachment that does not last long.

[7] Literally, mother, and also goddess.

 

 

[8] Female saint.

HER PERSONALITY By Tripuraneni Gopichand

“How did you know that she’d be arriving by this train?” I asked Sastri. It must be about six., the time for the train from Bombay to arrive. Sastri and I were on the platform chatting. “I got a telegram today,” replied Sastri. Telling me that she was a friend, Sastri brought me along to the station. From what he had told me, I gathered that she must be a very interesting person.

“A wonderfully pleasant person, a wonderful person,” says Sastri whatever I ask him about her. He would only say “You’d see her yourself!” He would also say, “I don’t know, I am not able to say, there would be no such person in our society. In the society to come there may be such women like this. Perhaps now in Russia there may be such women!”

“Then, what is her husband? What does he do?” I asked.

I felt like knowing more and more about her.

“He must be doing something. Every now and then she’d say that ‘Kameswarudu is like this and that. How active he always is, do you know?’”

“Perhaps she has great love for her husband.’

“She has four children in all. One boy and three girls,” said Sastri mischievously.

Really, when he mentioned her children my mind got a little jab of pain. Like the rest of the women, should even this woman have children? For some reason I couldn’t stomach the idea.

Meanwhile, “That’s it: the train is coming,” said Sastri. At that my heart was aquiver.

Suddenly there was movement on the platform. Two passengers getting their things together stood away from the edge of the platform. An old woman held a knapsack in one hand and her grandson in another. A farmer standing just like that was agog. For a while he took the stick for the cheroot and the cheroot for the stick.

As soon as the train stopped, Lashmanasastri reminded me “Third Class”. She would always travel third, he said. She did not like being alone. For that reason she liked to be in the crowded third class. The more crowded, the more convenient for her, she seemed to have told him… I felt like going in search of her but my legs didn’t move. I stood there looking around.

That was a small station: not many would get down there.

“There! She is getting off,”

I looked towards the guard compartment but couldn’t find her.

“Hello!” he said shaking hands with someone. That person was in an overcoat with a leather-bag in the hand.

“I thought you wouldn’t turn up,” he said.

“Why so? Why did you think like that?” She was saying.

Then I knew that the one in the overcoat was a woman. The eye looking for a woman couldn’t see the person in the overcoat. While in Kerala I was in such situations. Those in lungi-like wraps with towels thrown over could not be identified as women. Now the same thing happened.

Lakshmanasastri said: “Where there is expectation, there is apprehension too. Along with the expectation and hope of your arrival there’s the apprehension of your not turning up too.”

She laughed and said, “Kameswarudu would talk like this!”

When she brought up her husband’s name Lakshmanasastri was worried and tried to change the topic. By way of introducing me, he said, “This is Sarat Chandrababu, my best friend. A writer, has connections with films. A good …”

Still holding Sastri’s hand without letting it go, she looked at me sizing me up and said: “I read some of your stories. Your stories are good.”

She stayed in Sastri’s house!

That night I was unable to sleep and so I woke up a little late the next morning. After quickly completing my morning routine, while I was thinking of going to see her, Lakshmanasastri came. “Come to my house once. She wanted me to bring you along,” he said.

“Why,” I asked. Inwardly I had the wish to go. I knew that she had been calling me for no purpose. Even so, effortlessly, I asked as much.

Lakshmanasastri looked at me with a little surprise in his eyes, stopped for a while, “All right, come along!” I set out.

We entered. There were a few friends of Lakshmanasastri and some youngsters of the town. She sat with them and seeing me asked with a smile: “What sir, did you think you shouldn’t come till asked?”

“Our friend is shy with women.” Said Sastri.

Everyone laughed. Only her face fell. I didn’t understand the reason but I clearly saw she was hurt. That was only for a short while. Again as usual, she started chatting with all. She narrated her experiences descriptively as stories. At the end: “You don’t have even one tenth of the experience I have,” she said.

True, everyone agreed. “So, not to speak of age, I am a mother to all of you.” She said.

This fell like a thunderbolt between us. Some hung their head in shame. Some laughed emptily. Some pulled a long face.

I felt like being in a different world. She went on talking to everyone in the same way as though she hadn’t observed anything. The youngsters were all listening to her in absolute silence. None dared say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. For them it was a matter of shame to ask her to go on by making little sounds to signify it. She wouldn’t remember at all that she was a woman. I felt very happy. But when she was saying: “In the past for progeny there didn’t appear to have existed a need for woman-man contact. But it is necessary now. After some years, once again it may not be necessary.” Even my mind registered a jab of pain.

After a little while all of us set out to a coffee hotel. Even she was agog. But then how to tell her?

While we were walking along the way, I noticed people in little groups gaping and ridiculing.. One or two words they said about her also reached my ears. Everyone finished the coffee thinking of going home quickly. But she was in no hurry.

“Look, pass the halwa to me,” she said and took half of it from Subbarao’s plate, “Take a little of this boondi,” she said as she emptied some from her plate into Sastri’s.

One should listen to the whispers from the other tables.

In the evening we went to the park. It’s the same even there. All those there began looking at us as though we were animals in a zoo. Whatever was happening, no change was visible in her. But what I observed was that she was more shy than me with women. She talked to Sastri’s wife with her head bent. She used to feel extremely shy to answer her questions.

“How many children do you have?”

“…”

“How could the children be tended if you went about like this?”

“…”

“How much did you pay for the stitching of this blouse?”

She used to be confused trying to answer queries like these. Though she wanted to reply politely, for some reason, either finding no answers for those or for lack of habit, she used to feel choked. It is not just that alone. The same thing happened when she saw little children. While we were all talking when Sastri’s son calling his mother crept into her lap, I’d never forget the fright that she experienced. She reacted as though a scorpion fell in her lap. When Sastri’s wife said: “I’ve to put the seasoning in: keep an eye on this fellow,” and proffering the kid went in, only almighty knew the agony she experienced. Not knowing how to carry the child in the crook of her arm, she held him as Sastri’s wife would hold the pot on the chula. But however much the pain, she would forget it the next moment. Coming out she’d talk happily as usual to all as if nothing had happened. She would not mention anything about that.

After my meal I sat thinking about her. Meanwhile after finishing hers at Sastri’s house she came saying “Come, let’s go to a movie.”

After hesitating a little I asked: “Where’s Sastri?”

“Wouldn’t you come without him?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Then, come.”

“I’d have a carriage called.”

“Let’s go on foot.”

We set out. None was walking along on the road. The municipal lanterns were standing watch just twinkling. From a distance noise of the horse drawn carriages was audible. We were walking abreast. She threw a shawl over her for cold. For that reason she didn’t appear like a woman for me. After a little while, she heaved out a sigh and said: “Your town remained very backward.”

Not knowing what to say, “It’d have been better had Sastri accompanied us.”

Waiting for a moment, she said, as if to herself “Very backward.”

“If not so, how could it look like Bombay!”

“It’s not about the place. It’s the people. I’ve been observing all the time since I came. Oh! I wonder how you all live here! One would get angry if I talk to another. If I talked to all, all are angry. Perhaps, this is what is called jealousy. I observed you all. I observed this in Sastri’s house. When we went to the coffee hotel I saw the condition of others here. What an injustice? All primitive qualities. The condition of women is worse. Every wife feels it her duty to protect her husband from other women. She thinks that every woman who speaks to her husband does so to steal her husband from her. How primitive! You seem to be living in the era of Mandhata.” (The ancient Hindu law-giver prior to Manu)

I didn’t say anything. I knew what she said was true. From the moment she came, I’m able to see clearly our inhuman ways.

“You are intelligent. You are more intelligent than you think of yourself. Therefore you interest me. But what’s the use? Since you are part of the primitive society around you, you too have many primitive instincts in you. Right from the beginning I’ve been observing you. I’d give you a piece of advice. You organize a Women’s club here. Unless women are made to mix freely, this beastliness wouldn’t go.”

Those words brought to my memory the quality of life all if us have been living. Keeping wives at home and roaming about the streets in small groups and, when a woman is seen, resorting to monkey tricks and ridiculing her – always discussing women – all these appeared hateful. The recent murders for the sake of women have come to my mind. Is the reason for all this the one she said? I fell into thinking without replying to her. She too seems to have guessed and didn’t raise that topic.

After we entered the cinema hall, twice or thrice she made me speak. Once she said “I like Charles Boyer and Kameswarudu has a liking for Greta Garbo.”

“I know those who’d like Charles Boyer. But it is surprising that you like him.”

“Why?”

“He’s very masculine. I’m afraid the screen would be torn apart when he kisses a woman. “‘Let it be torn,’ That’s what I’d tell myself.” After a little while she added slowly: “That opposite qualities have attraction for each other is an old theory.

Again, after a little while, “I remember one thing when you say that. Why not tell you! I sent in an application to enroll in a Women’s club in our place and they sent it back saying, ‘We admit only women,’” she said and began laughing aloud. As for myself I pitied her.

Again we sat watching the film.

After the first night passed and it was morning, when the hero and heroine with great enthusiasm went about merrily, one smelling a flower and another singing the duet holding a tree’s bough, “How’s this scene?” she asked.

“Not good. She should have acted for some more time.”

“Why?”

“The previous night was the first for her. For that reason, on seeing his face it would be natural to feel very shy,” I said.

“How do you know that that was her first experience?” she asked and laughed. While laughing she put the Champak flower she was holding in her hands into mine. Though I didn’t like flowers I sat smelling it.

“Did you see Greta Garbo’s ‘Queen Christina’?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How was that scene?”

I knew which scene she had in her mind. In that till Greta lay down beside him, the hero would be under the impression that it was a boy! Suddenly he would realize it was a young woman. She was asking me about that scene.

“Fine.”

“How was it shot?”

I knew which shot she was asking me about. But she was not asking about the beauty of the shot. She was asking me about Greta in that. Garbo was standing She was in a loose shirt with nothing inside. She was asking me as to how that was.

“Basically, while watching Garbo in films, I feel odd and suffocated. I don’t enjoy feeling so.”

She didn’t say anything.

As soon as we came out from the cinema hall she said: “I can’t live here any longer. You are all primitive peoples. You are now leading the kind of life, which obtained four centuries ago. When I see you, I am reminded of the hill tribes in Barua’s pictures. He would show ultra-modern families and then suddenly dump the audience in a village of hill- tribes. I feel just like that having come here after seeing other places. I can’t survive here: I’d leave tomorrow.”

I felt it would be fine if she stayed there a little longer. I had the hope that with her around our lives stood a chance of slight change.

Not able to confess more I said: “Please stay for a day, just tomorrow.”

“I tell you truly: in this atmosphere I cannot live even a moment longer. You have seen Tarzan! Amidst those animals, in that wild forest: the girl by his side filled me with fright. In your place, in such a plight, how can I stay! No, I wouldn’t.”

The next morning, Lakshmanasatri and I along with some more friends took her to the station. We all stood looking at her when she got into the train to Bombay.

After that I have changed a lot. She has changed my entire attitude and life style. Earlier I used to have no incentive to do anything. I became more cheerful now. Earlier I was never enthusiastic to attend lectures. But it is not so now. Now I wish to write stories, give lectures, and have the desire to invite praise. More important is the desire, whenever there’s a chance, to have a wash. These are just examples to indicate the change in me. Whenever there was something to do, some one to be talked to, every time, I used to feel overjoyed as though I had learnt a great secret of life or got into an inspiring initiation of chanting a mantra. Her words and her being intimate and not yet not being so … being very familiar and at the same time not being cheap or vulgar… discussing everything without inhibition… whenever I thought of these, my heart used to exult. It is said that if a woman goes out with a man she’d get ‘contaminated’: what a mistaken saying!

That evening I went to Lakshmanasastri’s house. Along with him I remembered her. Even while I was talking about her I used to feel she’s been smiling sitting, by my side. When I went in there were Subbarao, Krishnarao, and Venkateswararao. Lakshmanasatri was telling them about something. I discovered that they were discussing her. I pitied them. They were sitting glum. With her gone, their lives became dim and confused. They felt like birds that lost the shelter of the tree. They sat like bereaved children. The words she uttered, “I’m your mother,” rang in my ears.

As soon as I sat down Lakshmanasastri began “You, my dear man, did you hear what our Krishnarao has been saying? He says we should call her and get Women’s Societies started.”

“Good! Make necessary arrangements and send word for her,” I said without revealing that I felt the same desire.

“It’s not enough to say that. You have to write to her: there’s no knowing whether she’d come or not,” said Krishnarao.

“Would she come for us? Whoever writes, the result will be just the same,” I said.

“Why? Aren’t there things like good bad and friendship? She has trust in you,” said Subbarao. I did not like Subbarao’s looks and manner. The whole thing looked odd. I felt that their whole attitude had changed. I was angry about their tenor.

“All of us are friends here. Whoever is not?” I said.

“What is our friendship? It is all empty. Do we write stories? Do we speak humorously and make people laugh? Do we take them out for films?” asked Subbarao.

For his last words everyone laughed viciously. Since Krishnrao’s health had never been very good, whatever he felt he would not be able to contain. . He couldn’t restrain his laughter and went on laughing noisily. Even their laughter, apart from their conversation, appeared unnatural. Anger was rising in me by the minute.

“I looked sternly at Subbarao and said, “Glad you’re intelligent. Couldn’t you stop even now?”

“It is common knowledge that, amongst all of us, she has a special liking for you! When it is a man and woman, when once going together started…”

“Sastri!” I shouted.

He didn’t heed. He went on speaking in an odd way: “What’s wrong with that? Is she so innocent and pure?”

Everyone broke into a loud laughter.

I was growing more and more furious by the moment. ‘Even if you say one word more about her, I would not tolerate.’ Saying so I got up.

While my fury rose, Sastri’s playfulness went on increasing. His face was full of mischief. – “Look, How furious he is when I mentioned her name! He implies that we shouldn’t utter even a single word against her! You listen to me with attention. Not one word, I’d say a thousand. She is a devout, dedicated wife- a pativrata – Recently our friend tried to protect her chastity. She …”

He said this much but I could hear well beforehand what he was going to say next. I didn’t like those words: I couldn’t restrain myself. Meanwhile Sastri was talking about a flower, honey and a honeybee.

What more! I leapt on him. I don’t know how many blows I delivered. I don’t know what happened later. After a while I stood up. Subbarao, Krishnarao, and Venkateswararao were trying help Sastri sit up. I pitied the way he was looking at me. He could not have ever imagined that I’d resort to this kind of action. He looked at me pityingly and said: “You have gone mad!”

***

I never repented for what I had done. Why should I repent? Without knowing good and bad, what to say and what not to say, if he had just blabbered how could I tolerate! They may be my friends, all right, but even then? That too, about her? Is she that kind of a woman? Shouldn’t they know that much! Though I sat by her side, talked to her and laughed along with her such a foul idea never came to my mind. It’d appear to be floating in imagination, in another world, in clouds where bodies are not remembered! Should they ascribe such a mean feeling to her! Even these are under the impression that a woman who goes out with a man is fallen! However great friends they are of mine, why should I tolerate them?

I really felt glad for what I had done. At one moment, I felt like writing to her what exactly had happened. But hesitating that it would hurt her I never did it. I knew how bad she would feel and how her pious heart would flutter if she knew how some people were discussing her and thinking about her. For that reason I did not write to her of the things that had happened here.

Even so, on the fifth day I got a letter from her. How I wondered! My joy knew no bounds. I quickly tore open the envelope and read the letter. If the arrival of the letter surprised me, the reading of the contents therein made me feel that my heart had stopped.

This was the letter:

” I am fine enough. I reached home like an unruffled flower. Ever since I came I have been thinking of writing to you. But I’m not sure as to how to write. I was wondering what you’d think and whether I’d write in a way you can understand. I don’t know the language you understand. Even if I knew, I must have forgotten it.

“Today I got a letter from Lakshmanasastri. Don’t be surprised. You already know we have been friends, don’t you? He wrote to me in detail about your fight. He hasn’t written any lies. He wrote whatever has happened. It was like a piece of detective fiction, a scene in a stunt movie.

“Sir, is it to defend my honour that you fought with Sastri? Did you beat him for that? In my imagination I can clearly see your tousled hair, reddened eyes, excited trembling hands and feet, Lakshmanasastri falling down, you leaping on him, pulling at his hair, scratching his face. While I imagine all these, my admiration for Nadia grew. It’s not just a manner of saying. I admire Nadia. How she would beat groups of men with her hunter!

“The chivalry you have displayed attracts me. Travelling on a kite, landing in front of you, I’d like to express my gratitude. If I were to sit in front of you with my folded hands you’d raise me holding my hands and say ‘Do you have to praise me so much for this: I’ve carried out my duty’; right? I remember to have seen such a thing in some film. I like such scenes too.

“But I’d like to ask you one thing first. If you give me a right reply I’d come to you on wings and enact that scene before you. How did you know that I am not a ‘nanganachi’* -one   <deliberately putting up a show of enticing innocence. What is the basis for your thinking so? Did my words give you that impression? It is not so since I am not that. Lakshmanasastri told you the truth. I never had the desire to become one either.

“Don’t misunderstand me. I tell the facts as they are. About your chivalry too I have a doubt. I feel that the reason behind this chivalry is the belief that it is the duty of a man to protect the honour of a woman. That opinion has a close relation to the idea that a woman is the property of man. If she is thought to be a piece of property, and if she is not in a position to protect herself, the necessity of protecting arises. For the simple reason that I spent some time and went to a film with you, such conclusion on your part, and that the onus of protecting my honour devolved on you is unjust. What’d be the difference between you and people like Lakshmanasastri then? They spoke as they pleased out of jealousy that I have become someone else’s property. Feeling hurt and insulted that they were ridiculing your property you fought with them. Where then is the difference? Your fighting for me brings to my mind the Rajput hero’s valour, courage and bravery risking his life for saving a fortress that’s empty.

“How much is the difference between you and your stories! Your behaviour is one thing. and your stories are quite different. While one pulls you back, the other urges you to go forward. As I think of it, it makes me wonder if it‘s you who had written them. I know several writers. Many of them are so. The opinions they express in their writing are progressive, but their behaviour is worse than an ordinary man’s. I think the reason for this is the lack of effort to translate thoughts and feelings into action and experience. You too have the strengths, weaknesses, emotions and passions generally found in other writers.

“You have to change, please, you have to. This I’ve told you even while I was there at your place. I am saying that again. The reason why I say this so emphatically is that I like you, in spite of all your weaknesses. For that reason I deeply wish to make you better. There’s only one way out I can see. You organize a ladies club. If you can be the secretary, it’d be all the better. I’d be happy. Don’t neglect this. If you allow the disease to get worse, it’d be no use how hard you tried later.

“‘I feel choked if am the secretary. I don’t like to be that’” saying this does not strike as the posture of a devout and pious wife, a pativrata. You say that emptily but what else happens if it does not? All the time you were preoccupied judging me whether I was speaking beautifully and intelligently. Why didn’t you ever feel like speaking up naturally and truthfully? I don’t like your being a ‘pativrata’, afraid of society and becoming thus a slave, spending your time always grunting and grumbling

“Now I take leave. I have written frankly and sincerely all that I wanted to. It is my wish that you too would do the same. Reply without fail.

“I’ve forgotten to ask you, sir, in the theatre when offered a flower, does anyone sit smelling it all through? Is a sampenga flower just given to smell alone? Why did flowers come into being? To smell. Why does a stream flow? To sing. Why is the sandalwood tree born? To shelter serpents. Only this much and not beyond. You don’t know that according to situation and circumstance man either creates or infers new meanings, or tries to put across feelings, which cannot be expressed in words. How primitive you are! Above all this there’s an attempt to spread the impression that I’m a ‘nanganachi’! Is it not your implication that I’m primitive too? Perhaps it’s your wish!”

Yours truly,

“…”

P.S. Not Lakshmanasastri’s letter. (1953)

(Translated by Dr. V.V.B. Rama Rao, and published on thulika.net, January 2005.)

2. WOMEN WRITING IN ANDHRA PRADESH: SOCIAL CONDITIONS by Nidadavolu Malathi

(Part 1 Historical Perspective).

2. WOMEN WRITING IN ANDHRA PRADESH: SOCIAL CONDITIONS
Emergence of female fiction writers in the 1960’s.¨¨¨

In my article on women writing through centuries, published in September 2002 issue, I attempted to trace some of the trends in regard to women’s education in upper classes. In this essay, I intend to show the environment both at home and in society that contributed to women writing in post-independent Andhra Pradesh.

Women telling stories in the form of poetry continued into modern times. Women writing fiction started in the second quarter of the 20th century. Kalipatnam Rama Rao, one of the well-established and highly respected writers, summarized the history of 1950’s and 60’s fiction as follows: He opened with an apologetic note.

I am getting old and my memory is failing. I can’t recall all the details, but here is what I usually say in my public speeches:
After achieving independence, the government offered help, under their Five-Year Plans, to start high schools even in the smallest villages, just for the asking. Formal education for girls was already put in place the 1950s. So the girls who were receiving education only up to 5th or 6th grade in the villages advanced to the high school level. By then, the number of high schools in the cities also had increased. It took seven to eight years to reach this level.

A second development was in the area of printing. The government loans and investment opportunities played a key role in increase the number of printing presses. The magazines, in order to recover their investment, started several link magazines in 1960s, for instance Andhra Jyoti started Bala Jyoti for children and Vanita Jyoti for women. Thus, with the proliferation of magazines and link magazines a need to feed them followed. They needed contributions as well as editors. Well-informed persons with a sense of social responsibility became editors which in turn helped social consciousness writers to come into existence. The literary scene led to magazines competing for readership. Amidst this competition, a concern to identify a paradigm to attract the readership became important. The focus became not what was good for the general public but what they wanted to read. That caused a major change in the literary trends of the time.

During this period, women who had received education in the fifties decade have not entered the job market yet. They stayed at home either as housewives or waiting for bridegrooms with qualifications higher than theirs. They started buying and reading magazines as a pastime and then started writing about their experiences and aspirations. Just about that time some writers like Ranganayakamma have already started writing social consciousness fiction. And these educated, unmarried women felt a need to be recognized as persons—something like “notice me, try to understand who I am,” was apparent in their writings. At the same time, they were also putting “the woman at the feet of man [charaNadaasulugaane unDaali].” In other words, the women who had received some education began writing as a diversion and the magazines encouraged them. Their views were in a nascent stage.

The third development in the 1950’s was the change in the climate as a result of the formation of a new leisure class. The government plans, bureaucracy, bribery, etc. helped people to amass wealth. New kitchen gadget created more leisure for women. To make use of this leisure women depended on the magazines.

Eventually, women entered workforce. They were however reading the magazines even at work. They would keep the magazines in the desk drawers and read them. The number of workers was always higher than was necessary because it was a woman’s[Indira Gandhi] regime, and so, the women did not have a problem reading magazines.

Popularity of women writer got to a point, men could not survive as writers unless they also wrote under female pseudonyms. That is my understanding from what I have seen. Editors’ perception follows readers’. Some of the new editors, either scared of the competition or due to their ignorance, committed the most disgraceful crime. Both the parties, readers and the editors should bear the brunt of this failing[to maintain high literary standards?].

Responding to one of my questions, Rama Rao mentioned that Ranganayakamma and Usha Rani Bhatia as writers with social responsibility, and also he has respect for K. Ramalakshmi as a writer. There are not many women writers who are perceptive and or wrote with an awareness of literary values, he added.

The above passage encapsulates a historical perspective of the two decades under reference. In the following few pages, I will try to elaborate on some of the comments, and also adding a few more details.

WOMEN WRITING, SECOND STAGE:

After achieving independence in 1947, India was lulled into silence for a brief period for want of direction. The logical step was to rebuild the country in step with the developing nations, which meant educating the mass, males and females. Mass education and women’s education became a priority for rebuilding the nation. In the post-independent era, an overhaul of traditional values started taking place.

The three major movements, namely, the social reform movement started by Veeresalingam, the independence movement under leadership of Gandhi, and the library movement under the leadership of Ayyanki Venkataramanayya, contributed immensely to popularize female writing and explore female creativity. Just in one decade, in 1930’s, the number of Telugu magazines almost doubled from 136 in 1920 to 240 in 1930. Several of them were caste-oriented reflecting the strong community bond within the castes.

WEEKLY AND MONTHLY MAGAZINES:

While most of the older generation female writers continued to publish in the magazines exclusively for women like Hindusundari and Gruhalakshmi, a new generation of writers started writing fiction and publishing them in the magazines that were not identified as for women only. Popular magazines like Andhra Patrika, Andhra Prabha, Bharati, and Telugu Swatantra welcomed the fiction by female writers zealously. Although they were not exclusively for women, the magazines were markedly instrumental in promoting female writing, especially fiction. Most of these editors and publishers came from earlier independence movement and women’s movement, and as such entertained liberal views. This chapter attempts to establish that these editors and nationalists encouraged women to write and publish.

Andhra Patrika weekly was started by Kasinathuni Nageswara Rao in 1908. The magazine was originally published from Bombay and moved to Madras in 1924. The mission statement of the publishers was, “We hope to provide knowledge relating to our society and the world for all our people.” Significantly the magazine did not identify the females as a separate class in its reference to the public. However Andhra Patrika weekly was one of the magazines that featured female writing extensively. In their target audience, the specific reference to females was conspicuous by its absence. Possibly in the post-independent era identifying female writers as a separate class needing special attention was waning off. Lakshmana Reddy also noted that the magazine enjoyed a subscription of 2000 members at the time.

Among these magazines, Bharati (1923), a monthly, became a milestone for its high literary standards. Although most of the writers/scholars were male, Bharati featured female writers like Kommuri Padmavatidevi, Illindila Saraswatidevi, R. Vasundhara Devi, Dwivedula Visalakshi, and Kalyanasundari Jagannath, Turaga Janakirani, among several other prominent female writers.

Another magazine among these trendsetters was Andhra Prabha Weekly. Narla Venkateswara Rao, known for his western education, sophistication and several innovations in journalism, was with Andhra Prabha Weekly from its inception in 1938 and became chief editor in 1942 and left in 1959. Under his editorship, the magazine’s circulation went up from 500 in 1942 to 72,000 in 1959. The weekly magazine gave prominence to not only political issues but also to social, economic, industrial, and educational issues and thus laid new grounds for new trends in journalism. One of them, relevant for our discussion, was the introduction of “Pramadaavanam,” in 1956, with Malati Chendur as its columnist. In her interview with Sivasankari, Malati has stated that, “I have dealt with all topics under the sun in a series of articles, in a question and answer format for over 45 years.” The topics ranged from beauty tips to health and family counseling. Malati also published brief introductory articles on foreign female writers in this column. The readership she has gathered for “Pramadaavanam” was remarkable. This feature could be one of many reasons, for the circulation of Andhra Prabha weekly to reach astronomical figures. In my 1983 interview with her, Malati had mentioned that she was taking some of the ideas from foreign magazines like Ladies Home Journal she had been subscribing at the time.

Khasa Subba Rao was the editor of Telugu swatantra. In the 1950’s, Telugu Swatantra was one of the reputable magazines to encourage women writers. K. Ramalakshmi, Turaga Janakirani, P. Saraladevi, and Ranganayakamma are some of the writers who have published their fiction in this biweekly magazine.

Another magazine that made enormous service to female writers was Andhra Jyoti Weekly which was started in July 1960 with Narla Venkateswara Rao as editor. I have no record of the precise date Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma joined the magazine but he was one of the magazine editors who was very supportive of female fiction. [More on this in later paragraphs]

MAGAZINE EDITORS AND CIRCULATION:

In January 1983, I went to Andhra Pradesh and interviewed some female writers. During my interviews, the names of the editors that were mentioned as supportive of their writings in the 1960’s decade were Gora Sastry, Khasa Subba Rao, editors of Telugu Swatantra and Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma, editor of Andhra Jyoti weekly. The other weekly and monthly magazines like Sahiti, Swati, Tharuna, and Jayasri also had been publishing female fiction extensively. Ranganayakamma’s comment in this regard is noteworthy. Ranganayakamma stated that, in the early stage of her writing career, the editors were publishing anything she had sent in. In my recent trip to Andhra Pradesh, I have talked to a few more writers, e.g. Turaga Janakirani, D. Kameswari, P. Satyavati, and they all expressed the same view—that their writings were never rejected. Kameswari said, if one magazine rejected it, she would send to another and got it published. Janakirani stated that the editors’ response to her writing was a matter of pride for her and she felt encouraged. It is safe to assume that the magazine editors were less critical and more supportive of female writing.

My own experience was not very different. My first sketch was published in Telugu Swatantra in 1954. I could say late Khasa Subba Rao encouraged me although I never had the pleasure of meeting him or corresponding with him. My reason for the statement however is similar to that of Ranganayakamma. The second editor to encourage my literary pursuit was late Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma. I would like to relate a couple of anecdotes that could vouch for the editors’ inclination to welcome fiction by female writers. At the time of these anecdotes, I had not met Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma in person. I happened to send a story to Andhra Jyoti, and Subrahmanya Sarma read the story and took it up on himself to include it in the pile for a contest that was announced at the time. Eventually the story was announced winner of first prize. In the following year, I sent another story marking it specifically for the short story contest. The contest announced three prizes. For my story, a special prize [a fourth!] was announced. My point is the magazine editors were inclined to consider fiction from female writers favorably!

By early 1960’s, the female writers reached a status which was impacting magazine circulations. As a result, the magazine editors started to accommodate the demands of the female writers. Higher remuneration, sometimes twice the remuneration as much as male writers, accepting incomplete works, and publishing without editorial intervention– were some of the demands that were happily met by the magazine editors. Magazine editors and publishers signed contracts with women writers, sometimes without even seeing an outline or a draft! In 1982, I picked up a couple of monthly catalogs of publishers where I found the ratio of fiction by female writers to that of male writers was staggering. In one instance the ratio was 120 to 6! In 1983, in response to my questions, two editors of the highly circulated weekly magazines, Andhra Jyoti Weekly (with 100,000 circulation) and Andhra Prabha Weekly (with 80,000 circulation) expressed the view that in sheer numbers the female writers outnumbered male writers, and that the names of women writers were contributing immensely to increasing their readership.

TWO FACTORS CONTRIBUTING TO THEIR SUCCESS: THEMES AND LANGUAGE:

The two major factors that worked in favor of the female writers were their choice of themes and the use colloquial Telugu. In addition, their style and technique came into the fore like never before.

The themes chosen by the female writers contributed to their success immensely. They chose topics from day to day life of the middle class families –the life they were familiar with and the life the readers were living during the period. After gaining some reputation they went a step farther and took to belligerent writing. Among the writers that captured public attention with their choice of topics, Ranganayakamma and Tenneti Hemalata, better known as Lata, stand foremost. Their success in getting published in all magazines led to publishing books eventually.

Ranganayakamma spared no language in attacking the evils that were chewing up the contemporary society. The outdated caste system, the inequalities and injustices in the society and the malignancies that had arisen from the archaic patriarchal system were her themes most of the time.

Lata hit the nerve by choosing to write about prostitutes. Prior to Lata, both male and female writers were writing about prostitutes and prostitution either as a social evil or as a segment of society meant for recreation. Lata for the first time in the history of fiction dealt with the subject from the perspective of the prostitutes, their miseries, their abuse by men, and the diseases they contract in the process. (more discussion under Academy). [Ref: Kites and Water Bubbles].

In my recent interview with Janakirani , she narrated a theme that was atypical. one of her stories written in the late 1940’s or early 1950’s was about an unwed mother.

The story, “Jaganmatha” [Universal Motherhood] opens with a dialogue between two friends with opposite views on the issue of having a child out of wedlock—a case of a mutual friend of theirs. One friend was against it and hell-bent on reprimanding the mother for stupid decision. The second friend on the other hand was keen on expressing her sympathies and consoling her. Both the friends pay a visit to the unwed mother and leave her without saying a word. Another dialogue follows between the two friends. The first friend says that she, the unwed mother, was so happy with her bundle of joy, it was impossible for the friend to get angry with her. The second friend says the mother did not give her a chance to express her sympathies either.

Janakirani added that one of the editors complimented her profusely on this story and commented that Janakirani had captured the essence of womanhood in this short story while others were wasting their energies on ideology-based, heated discussions.

The second factor was the colloquial language. In this regard, the comment made by M. Ramakoti, a noted writer, at Visakha Sahiti on 13 October 2002 was an apt one. Ramakoti asked her about her superb command of colloquial Telugu. Rangnayakamma replied, “I am not highly educated in English and so I stay with Telugu. Secondly, I talk to lot of people and pay attention to their diction.” That was partly the key to their success. Telugu women writers were good listeners and observers. And most of them took pride in their command of the language. Janakirani who is educated and highly knowledgeable both in English and Telugu said, “The present generation writers are not paying attention to the language. A good story must include good idiom [bhashaa pushti]. I know at the moment I am using English words while talking to you. However, I do make an effort and pay attention to my language when I write fiction.” I think she made a valid point—a story makes a stronger impression when told in the native idiom.

In another interview, Srikanth, a senior editor, Vaartha Newspaper, commented on the sorry state of Telugu language of the current generation youth. He said, “I come from a farmers’ family. Yet my command of Telugu, my agricultural terminology for instance, is not as good as my father’s, and my daughter’s is worse than mine. Telugu language skills are deteriorating. You cannot find a writer like Adivi Bapiraju among current fiction writers.” (See editorial and readers’ comments in Thulika, December 2002).

The 1950’s and 60’s female writers have captured the essence of our culture in depicting their stories in native idiom.

PUBLISHERS:

Soon enough, publishers have noticed the marketability of fiction by female writers and started publishing, at first, the novels published as serials in popular magazines and had captured readers’ attention, and later, “direct novels,” meaning not published as serials. Both the kinds of novels brought enormous name and fame to the female writers, and money for publishers. Following the magazines’ philosophy, the commercial publishers were also accommodating the demands of female writers. In this regard, D. Kameswari, a noted writer from the 1960’s decade, has an interesting story regarding how she came to write her first novel, Kottaneeru [Fresh waters].

In 1968, Kameswari was searching for a publisher for her anthology of short stories. K. Ramalakshmi, a contemporary writer, introduced her to M. N. Rao, publisher of EMESCO books. At the time EMESCO was one of the foremost publishers of popular fiction. M. N. Rao told Kameswari that anthologies were not selling well and promised to consider it if she had brought him a novel. Then Ramalakshmi suggested that Kameswari should write a novel to humor the publisher and include her anthology in the negotiations. Kameswari took the hint and wrote her first novel. She also added that she continued to write novels and used them as bargaining chips to publish her short story collections!
A brief note on anthologies. It was the era of novels. There were not many anthologies and if there were, women’s stories were few and far between. At this time, one writer, G.V.S.L. Narasimha Raju, took upon himself and published in 1962 the first anthology of short stories by nine female writers, entitled, Kalpana. It took another 30 years to publish again an anthology of fiction by all female writers!

ACADEMY:

While the editors, publishers and the public kept evincing interest in the fiction by female writers increasingly, the academy continued to be indifferent. Female writers were conspicuous by their absence in the critical works produced by the academy in the 1960’s but for an occasional reference to one or two writers like Ranganayakamma and Lata. The female writers were hardly featured in literary reviews and critical essays on Telugu fiction. In fact even in the year 2001 the female writers were not featured unless it was specifically a study of female writers. Even female critics from the academy were focused only on male writers of repute.

By late the 1970’s, critical works started paying attention to female writing. Dakshina Murthy, tracing the history of Telugu short story over a period of 65 years, 1910-1975, listed some 200 short fiction writers as notable and among them 30 were females. All but three or four were from the post-independent era. To my knowledge this is about the biggest number in terms of references to female writers in critical works

By 1980’s, the female writers began appearing in the critical works of the academy and also as subjects of doctoral dissertations. Arepalli Vijayalakshmi tracing the history of fiction by female writers noted that, “29 novels were written by females in the first quarter of 20th century … And by the 1960’s the number rose significantly. … Nearly 200 women have produced several thousands of novels … Regarding the female fiction in the post-independent period, [I must say] a peculiar phenomenon occurred. There is a major change [in the history of Telugu fiction].” An established writer and critic, Sriramamurti commented on the same period, the 1960’s decade, as follows: “Currently, women have been writing fiction like never before. The demand for fiction by females has increased tremendously. I think it is perfectly fair to label the present period as ‘navalaa yugam’ [female novelists’ epoch] and I mean it in both the senses.” The term navala has two meanings in Telugu: 1. woman and 2. fiction. Sriramamurti implied that the fiction by female writers was the rule of the day. The two comments, one from a female critic and the second from a male critic, both from the academy, together, sum up the present day perception of female writers in Andhra Pradesh.

To put it another way, the women writers found a strong platform for their writing in popular magazines– giving rise to two powerful but contradictory arguments. On one hand, the scholars and the academy found one more reason to dismiss the female writing as non-literature, and on the other, the publishers found it a major contributory factor for increasing their magazine circulations and sales.

As I mentioned earlier, critiques on female writers started appearing in academic works in the late 1970’s and 80’s. Here are two critiques on Ranganayakamma from the academy. Sriramamurti labeled Ranganayakamma as an “angry [young] woman.” Venkatasubbaiah paid tribute to Ranganayakamma: “Study of women’s issues based on historical and sociological grounds started with Ranganayakamma.” He further commented,

When a woman, who has been oppressed and violated for centuries, questions our fraudulent values, we cannot expect those defiant questions to be in polite language. We must brace ourselves to be hurt. We are not qualified to dismiss those questions as angry outbursts. On the contrary, we must ask ourselves why the voice is so loud and where those ferocious questions are coming from.

Both the observations have some element of truth. Another noted scholar from the academy, Ramapati Rao [Manjusri, pseud.] stated, “Srimati Muppalla Ranganayakamma is an excellent writer. She has sharp imagination and brisk style. Although she has vigorous imagination, fierce ingenuity, and inspirational style, she could not become a writer of the caliber of Premchand, Sarat and Tagore because of her fixated enthusiasm on her ideology [ativada dhorani] and subsequent lack of understanding of the existing social structure.”

Among the writers that were most unpopular with the academy Lata comes next to Sulochana Rani. Lata was criticized for exposing the heartrending stories of the streetwalkers in scathing terms. Both Lata and Sulochana Rani were accused of presenting negative or unrealistic images and misguiding the impressionable youth. The publishers and the magazine editors ignored this academic perspective and focused only on the readership and the circulation numbers.

Lata’s first novel, entitled Gali padagalu – Neeti budagalu [Kites and Water bubbles] was published in 1951. The book became a sensation for two reasons: first, the fact that it was written by a woman, and secondly, for its theme, prostitution. Lata was eloquent in describing the pain and suffering inflicted by men on prostitutes. The book offended the middle class Victorian sensibilities and the academic scholars alike. The book was not officially banned but there was a social taboo. It was rarely seen in the living rooms of respectable families or in the hands of youth in the presence of adults. The elite dismissed it as a cheap attempt by a woman writer to sell her book. Nevertheless, the book sold well and went into reprints within a short period. The immediate reaction from the establishment was one of self-righteous indignation. The self-righteous scholars raised three questions: (1) “How could a woman write like this?” (2) Why did she write it at all?” and (3) “How did she knew about these things?” Probably for the first time in the history of Telugu literature, the question of writer’s gender became a moot point. Lata’s response was that the writer depicts whatever he or she sees using the pen as a brush. “The artist paints whatever he sees. There is no sex for literature. It just mirrors life. Why am I attacked?” was her rebuttal.

Although the female fiction was generally ignored in critical works, their existence was acknowledged in a different manner. Here are some of the comments I have heard in the living rooms of the elitists: “Malati Chendur is uneducated,” “Bhanumati is an actor among writers and a writer among actors,” “Sulochana Rani is writing escapist fiction,” and “Lata is writing cheap sex.” These are not the comments one would find in critical works but often heard in coffee table conversations. Even female writers in the academy have expressed similar views.

FEMALE CRITICISM IN THE ACADEMY:

Contemporary female writers from the academy subscribed to the same view. For instance, Sulochana Rani is criticized for writing escapist fiction. A common comment is that Sulochana Rani’s fiction was doing more harm than good to the society. The academic perception seems to be the same even after nearly two decades. C. Anandaramam, a noted writer and professor, wrote in 1987 commented on the fiction of the 1970’s and 1980’s as follows:

The readers are doused in an illusory world filled with six feet tall heroes, fancy foreign cars, colossal mansions surrounded by lawns and water fountains. Since this [kind of] uninterrupted happiness gets boring, they [the characters] are depicted as suffering from some imaginary hardships due to misunderstandings and spilling tears…
Because of the change that has taken place in the economic and social disposition of women in society, [these] two decades have come to be known as the era of female fiction writers…

In this comment, the fact that Sulochana Rani was writing romance fiction was ignored. The world literatures have accepted romance fiction as a genre. It stands to reason that her work must be evaluated within the context of that genre. On the other hand, if Anandaramam is implying that the romance fiction should be dismissed as commercial literature, it is reasonable to accept that Sulochana Rani’s fiction has been a commercial success. The society welcomed Sulochana Rani’s literature with great enthusiasm. Ironically, the major part of the feminists’ contention is that, those women were not able to publish! Understandably Sulochana Rani is able to write novels that editors and publishers would kill for!

One of the harshest statements leveled against Sulochana Rani is that her fiction is misleading and corrupting the impressionable youth. While there is no recorded foundation for this charge, the comment made in a different context by Kutumba Rao (1909-1980), renowned for his critical analysis, is noteworthy. Kutumba Rao stated that the books themselves do not make people good or bad, but only serve as an affirmation for those who are looking for a validation of their own actions or decisions. I am inclined to agree with Kutumba Rao.

The point is while the academy is dismissing some of the writers as non-productive and their writings as ‘non-literature,’ the public have embraced them with unprecedented zeal thereby giving rise to the question which one is acceptable as a genre and which is not. Sulochana Rani did not receive validation from the academy in the 1960’s and probably not in the 1970’s. However, she is one of the foremost writers in terms of readership and financial success.

Further discussion on criticism on female writing will appear in future articles.

SERIOUS READERS OUTSIDE THE ACADEMY

By the mid-1960’s, Lata gained respect among fellow writers, male and female. Anjaneya Sarma, a civil engineer by profession, quoted numerous letters, addressed to Lata from male writers and enthusiastic readers, in his critical work, sahitilata. For instance, late Bucchibabu, an eminent writer of psychoanalytical fiction, wrote [original in English]:

There is a social consciousness in your writings. Probably Chalam, Alberto Moravio, [and] lawrence [sic.] wrote not without a reason. I feel proud without reservation that we all are probing the same truth. Maybe you had read their writings. We all are exploring the same home called social values and each of us opening a different window, and thereby making the home livable. No one writer can accomplish a literary tradition single-handedly. Several persons have to make a combined effort. Your book is supporting that effort .

Toleti Kanakaraju, a well-known physician and scholar wrote in English:

…I found you depicting ‘provoking incidents’ but in the latest work of yours you could really picture ‘thought provoking’ incidents and thoughts which really transcended mundane measurements…
Hats off to you. I wonder whether you can produce a better work of psychological excellence than this…
My wife Srimathi Toleti Seshamma garu also shares the above thoughts. (Quoted in Anjaneya Sarma 88-89).

Lata’s writings have been compared to several famous writers from all over the world. Anjaneya Sarma writes:

Resemblance is seen between the characters in Saptaswaraalu and those in Man and Superman of Shaw. We see the same kind of sharp wit of Shaw in Lata also. The views expressed in Dorian Gray of Oscar Wilde are evident in Lata’s Jeevana Sravanti. We see some shades of the characters of Dostoyevsky in Patha viheena, and a semblance of Dorian of Somerset Maugham in Saptaswaraalu. Similarly, we can see Rahul Sankrityayan, Annamacharyulu, and Malladi Ramakrishna Sastri in her other works. Also in Gali padagalu- Neeti budagalu, we see a shade of Jean Paul Sartre. But, in the midst these writers, Lata maintains her own style.

GENERAL READERS:

The difference in the perceptions of the academy and the general readers is significant. While the academy examines, meticulously looking for underlying meanings, figures of speech, and unique qualities, the general readers read either for pastime or for solutions to their own problems. In the latter case, they identify themselves with the characters and get involved emotionally.

The general Telugu readers are no exception to this rule of identifying with the characters. Here is an account offered by Vasundhara Devi, a writer and critic, in her article, neti katha-teeru tennulu [The trends in modern day fiction]. A reader diagnosed with tuberculosis happened to read three stories [one of them authored by Vasundharadevi]. In all the three stories the patient/protagonist died at the end. The stories were no consolation to the reader who was desperately hanging on to life, his wife and child. He asked Vasundharadevi, “Do all the tuberculosis patients die? Is there no hope for them?” The stories in effect robbed him of his faith and hope.

Vasundharadevi wrote that she felt guilty, apologized to reader on behalf of all the writers, said some comforting words but could never really get over it. “I still see him in front of my face,” she added. Vasireddy Sitadevi also mentioned similar experiences—readers approaching or writing to her that her stories played a decisive role in their lives.

Writers are divided in regard to the propriety of offering solutions in their writings. Dwivedula Visalakshi says that she does not believe in providing solutions. Evidently individual writers are taking a stand of their own.

SAHITYA ACADEMY:

Sahitya Academy is a literary organization created by Andhra Pradesh State Government Organization created in the mid-1960’s. Part of their mission is to honor writers in each genre annually. In 1976 the Academy announced awards for various literary genre as usual but excluded fiction from the list of categories. Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma, editor of Andhra Jyoti Weekly, took exception to their decision, and published a letter condemning the Academy’s action. The letter read as follows:

On October 31, Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Academy published several categories for awards… Left out the genre of novel. The novels that received the same award in the past may not be of inferior quality. But the ones that are being published are not of any lesser quality compared to those that have received the awards in the past …For instance, Madireddy Sulochana has written excellent fiction depicting Telangana life–among the titles worth mentioning are Tharam marindi [new generations], Pula manasulu [tender hearts], and Mathamu-manishi [Religion and man]. So also Andhra people’s favorite writer Sulochana Rani whose novels include Jeevana tharangalu [The waves of life], Bandi [the prisoner], Premalekhalu [love letters] etc… Any one of these novels is sure to meet the criteria for an award. Several Telugu women writers like Parimala Someswar, D. Kameswari, and I.V.S. Atchyutavalli have written several great novels. Publishers have published a record number of 300 new novels and that is unheard of in the past.

It is significant that all the novels mentioned in the above letter were authored by female writers. Later Subrahmanya Sarma came to Madison and I asked him if his letter could be construed as his assessment of female writing. He replied that he was speaking in comparative terms—in terms of the quality of the novels that had received awards in the past.

Sahitya Academy did not seem to have acted on his letter. But the public responded. The readers and the elite alike poured letters poured into the Andhra Jyoti office, some supporting and some ridiculing the women writers. Some letters stated that the women writers were writing trash containing cheap sentiment and empty dreams while others maintained that the female writers had been doing an amazing service. In this heated debate, the comments made by two highly reputed male literary critics, Kodavatiganti Kutumba Rao and Addepalli Rammohan Rao are noteworthy. Kutumba Rao stated that the writings should not be judged on the basis of writer’s gender. Rammohan Rao stated that the critics must at least give credit to the women writers for what they have accomplished so far.

These accounts vouch for the attention the female writers were getting in the 1970s decade. With the extraordinary attention came ridicule.

WOMEN WRITERS AS A TARGET OF RIDICULE:

As mentioned in my article on Female Writing in September 2002 issue, sarcasm and ridicule have been part of Telugu humor for centuries. At Visakha Sahiti meeting, several writers and scholars gave numerous examples of such practice that has been in place for centuries. One of the examples given by Malayavasini, Telugu professor and scholar, is a poem written to ridicule women writing. Here is her narration:
A woman named Koonalamma wrote poems, with her name at the end of each verse, like a caption. Another male writer wrote the following poem, imitating Koonalamma:

kunDale bhaanDamulu
kukkale sunakamulu
aaDuvaare streelu O koonalammaa!

In this poem, the first set of words in colloquial Telugu, ‘kunDalu’ [clay pots], ‘kukkalu’ [dogs], and ‘aaDuvaaru’ [women] are equated with Sanskrit terms ‘bhaanDammulu,’ ‘sunakammulu’ and ‘streelu’ implying an elevation of status. Malayavasini commented that replacing an erudite term for the colloquial (e.g. damsel for woman) might appear complimentary but in reality meant to ridicule the female author, Koonalamma.

A second example Malayavasini gave us was from a weekly magazine. She referred to a set of photographs of women writers published in Andhra Jyoti Weekly in 1982 under the caption, “racayitrula bommalakoluvu,” [a show of dolls]. Let me explain the connotation for those who are not familiar with the tradition of ‘bommalakoluvu.’ In Andhra Pradesh we have a festival called Dasara, usually celebrated in October. As a part of the celebration, young girls arrange dolls and other items—they can be very creative—and invite each other to visit their decorations, something like Christmas tree decorations. The reference of the women writers’ photographs on a page as “bommala koluvu” is hardly a compliment to their creative skills. Malayavasini pointed out that ridicule has always been there, and probably, we would have more female writers if this kind of ridicule and humiliation were not prevalent, but the fact remains women have been writing and publishing.

KAVANA Sarma, a writer known for his humor and satire, referred to the Telugu family tradition in his speech at the same Visakha Sahiti meeting and said kidding around and picking on each other among family members like brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, husband and wife are part of our tradition. “I poke fun at my wife and she pokes fun at me. It is in our culture.” I agree that in day-to-day life in Andhra homes, witticisms and poking fun at each other are quite common. No offense intended, none taken.

By the 1970’s the tradition of making fun of women found their way into magazines. Cartoons and jokes on female writers have become a regular feature in magazines. Here are some examples:
One mother said to a fifth grade teacher, “You just teach my daughter the alphabet and she will write novels and make her living. She is not going for a job or anything.”
Apparently the mother believes that one can be a writer if knows the alphabet.

Another cartoon by Bapu, top-ranking cartooninst, is about a father lamenting about his children’s future.
The father said to a friend, “I have four daughters and one son. I am not worried about my daughters. They can write fiction and make a living. I am only worried how my son is going to survive.”
Andhra families usually worry about their daughters’ futures. The joke implies that parents do not have to worry about girls anymore because the prospect of becoming a writer is at their fingertips.

A publisher: Madam, for some reason your novel did not sell well this time.
Female writer: Of course it wouldn’t. I told you to print my name on each page. You didn’t listen!
The unusual angle to this clever remark is–this is supposed to be a joke on the ego trip of the women writers in the 1970’s decade. However, I happened to notice that several Telugu books, not necessarily by female writers, carried author’s name on each page.

Following quip is a comment on the ignorance of female writers.
Did you know that Viswanatha Satyanarayana wrote veyipadagalu?
The female writer: I don’t understand this. People asked me the same question when I wrote Veeravalladu.
The female writer obviously was unaware of the existence of a renowned writer named Viswanatha Satyanarayana and of his works, the two titles under reference.

In short, making fun of each other is a two-way street in Andhra homes. This kind of ridicule did not stop females from writing. They came to a point they could ridicule those who were ridiculing them. Bomma Hemadevi, a prolific writer during the period under discussion said, “Sometimes my husband gives me some money out of the goodness of his heart and tells me to go out and buy something for myself.” Knowing what I know of Telugu families, I would not take this as a comment from a suppressed or oppressed woman. A suppressed or oppressed would not dare make a public statement like that. In my opinion, she was in fact ridiculing the others who were complaining about lack of economic freedom.

It would appear that against the complex cultural background and tradition of Andhras, it is not easy to identify how far this practice of ridicule impacted the creativity of women. In Andhra Pradesh, support and ridicule existed in juxtaposition. I will come to the support of family members a little later.

USE OF PSEUDONYMS:

Use of pseudonyms is a factor that needs special mention. Unlike in the States and Great Britain, Telugu women writers did not use male pseudonyms. An interesting and unique phenomenon of this period is the use of female pseudonyms by male writers. While few women writers did use pseudonyms they picked only female names. For example Aravinda (A.S. Mani); Syamalarani (Akella Kamala Vijayalakshmi); and Sarvani (Nilarambham Saradamma). The only woman to write under a male pseudonym is Vacaspati. I could not find her real name nor her reasons for choosing a male name. One interesting aspect to this, however, is Vacaspati literally means Brahma, the husband of Goddess of learning [Saraswati] and the two names interstingly are onomatopoeic.

In this context, I refer to speakers at Visakha Sahiti once again. Malayavasini said that the idea of males using female pseudonyms started in the 1940’s when women’s magazines proliferated and the editors could not find that many female contributors to fill the pages. Ganapatiraju Atchyutarama Raju also gave one more example—a famous poet, Setti Lakshminarasimham translated the Hounds of Baskerville under the title jaagilamu and published it under his sister’s name, Seeram Subhadramba.

In the 1960’s, some of the famous male writers like Rachakonda Viswanatha Sastry (1922-1993) , Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma (1929-1996) (Puranam Sita), Akkiraju Ramapati Rao (Manjusri), and Natarajan (Sarada) have used female pseudonyms. Some writers openly admitted that they were using female pseudonyms in order to get their writings published.

Discussion on pseudonyms is not complete without reference to Beenadevi, a name that is still under fire. Beenadevi has been writing since the 1960’s. In public sources the actual writer is given as B. Balatripurasundaramma, wife of B. Narasinga Rao. In the 60’s decade, the rumor was Narasinga Rao, a judge by profession, was using his wife’s name to circumvent some of the government rules in place at the time. Ganapatiraju Atchyutaramaraju at Visakha Sahiti Sadassu mentioned that there was even another rumor that Viswanatha Sastry himself was writing under the pseudonym, Beenadevi. At this point the only fact I am aware of is—both Narasinga Rao and Viswanatha sastry passed away, and Beenadevi is writing and publishing. A few years back she received Racakonda Viswanatha Sastry award—an award instituted to honor writers who write in Ravi Sastry style. To me this looks like a validation of Beenadevi being a writer in her own status quo.

FEMALE WRITERS AT HOME:

There was no question that the female writers were recognized by the public. At home they did not face any objection. Before I proceed to what the writers have said about their families’ responses to their writing, let me state briefly their educational qualifications and marital status..

EDUCATION:

In the 1950’s and the 1960’s the level of women’s formal education varied from elementary school to college degrees and a few university degrees. Even in families where the adults were opposed to female education, there was no opposition to women studying at home. This practice has been a norm for centuries [see the article on women writing in the September issue]. In course of time, women in the middle class families, owing to favorable social conditions, continued to educate themselves, beyond the scope of formal education. Lata had schooling only up to the fifth grade level but was very knowledgeable in Sanskrit and Telugu classics. Her command of Telugu was remarkable. Sulochana Rani, who nearly attained the status of Romance queen and is often compared to Barbara Cartland and Denise Robbins, had only high school diploma. Malati Chendur received high school diploma and later improved her knowledge through self-education. Ranganayakamma finished high school and later studied other literatures, including Marxist literature and became an avowed Marxist.

Vasireddy Sitadevi possesses Master’s degree in Social Work and also Sahitya Ratna diploma in Hindi. She has stated that the adults in her home opposed her attending public school but did not oppose her studying at home. They even have brought a proctor from Madras (overnight trip by train) to facilitate the completion of the required testing for her high school diploma.

Most of the women writers in Andhra Pradesh had no problem in improving their knowledge through reading books at home. Some of them continued to write and publish fiction. By the 1980’s, the academy began acknowledging female writers by conferring honorary doctoral degrees on them. For instance, an honorary Doctorate and a Kala Prapoorna title were conferred on Lata who had hardly finished grade school; honorary Doctorate on Bhanumati Ramakrishna, who had attended first year college. Vasireddy Sitadevi has a Master’s degree and received an honorary Doctorate. In other words, the female writers of the 1960’s era began receiving validation from the academy. In almost all the cases, the female writers were exposed to extant literature. Their family members, whether at natal home or in-law’s did not stand in their way to improve their knowledge. It would be interesting to examine why the universities chose to confer honorary Doctoral degrees on female writers while denying them a proportionate place in anthologies and critical works.

Some writers like Nayani Krishnakumari, C. Anandaramam, Mannem Sarada, and P. Sridevi have completed university education and hold jobs in the academy as college professors, engineers and medical doctors. Among these writers, Anandaramam and Sarada are writing fiction. Krishnakumari is well known for her poetry, critical and scholarly works. She has done considerable work in the genre of oral literature.

All these writers showed remarkable talent in their chosen genre. The difference in their academic qualifications is apparent in their works to some extent. Those who are associated with the academy have published critical works in accordance with prevalent methodologies.

From the information given in the Who’s Who of Telugu Women Writers, even those women who had no formal education have read world literatures in Indian languages, Sanskrit and English. Among the foreign writers quoted as their favorite writers by some of these female writers are Tolstoy, Hardy, Pearl Buck, Cronin, Oscar Wilde, Steinbeck, Maupassant, O’Henry, and Marie Corelli.

Among the famous writers of other Indian languages Sarat Chandra Chatterjee, Rabindranath Tagore (Bengali writers) and Kalki (Tamil writer) are mentioned frequently. One of the female writers of this generation, Sarvani has translated several works of Triveni from Kannada into Telugu. Among the Indian writers, Sarat Chandra Chatterjee remains the most popular writer, possibly because translations of his works are available in Telugu extensively. It is important to remember that Bengal stood foremost in the Indian Freedom movement and women’s movement in the late 19th century.

MARITAL STATUS:

Malati Chendur married her maternal uncle at the age of 16. Responding to a question by Sivasankari if her husband had helped her in her literary career, Malati Chendur amusingly said, “If Chendur had not married me, his life would have progressed along different lines. He would have had seven or eight children and would be roaming around on a cycle with vegetable baskets.” In June 2001, I wrote to her asking for clarification. I asked her if her comment meant that she was the intelligent one between the two. Her husband, N. R. Chendur responded on her behalf and said, “Malati was being frivolous.” He quoted another incident where she was quoted as saying, “People refer to me as Saraswati [Goddess of Learning], and I’d say he [husband] is the Brahma [the creator and husband of Saraswati] who made me Saraswati” These comments exemplify the complementary conjugal relationships in India. It is very common for Indians to be casual, humorous and exchange witty remarks. Ramalakshmi made a similar remark in regard to her relationship with her husband, famous writer and critic, Arudra. Ramalakshmi said their first encounter was when Ramalakshmi asked Arudra to write a preface for her anthology, vidadeese railuballu [the trains that separate people]. She added that he wrote the preface and after that Arudra never read her writings.

In regard to their marriages, most of these writers have shown some kind of independent thinking. If it were an arranged marriage, they worked out their marriages into a relationship of mutual respect and complementary nature. In the cases where it did not work, they took it upon themselves to find a solution.

Vasireddy Sitadevi resisted the attempts of her parents to arrange her marriage and left home. Ranganayakamma had an arranged marriage at the age of 20, was separated in 1973 and was divorced in 1979. She later married a person, B. R. Bapuji, who introduced her to Marxist literature and their friendship eventually led to their marriage. What is obvious is the little importance they have attached to the fact whether their marriage was arranged or otherwise.

Sometimes literary heritage also has been a contributory factor in their self-expression. In a recent interview, Turaga Janakirani stated that not only her mother and aunt were writers but she was also related, on her mother’s side, to a reputed and highly controversial writer, Chalam (1894-1979). Chaganti Tulasi is a daughter of an esteemed writer, Chaganti Somayajulu (1915-1994), a renowned progressive writer. Usharani Bhatia is daughter of Kommuri Padmavatidevi who had published extensively in the 1940’s and 1950’s.

I just came across an account by another writer, Kalyanasundari Jagannath, who passed away last year. In her article, “kathalu raayadam elaa?” [How to write stories?], she stated that Mallampalli Somasekhara Sarma, a reputed writer, used to visit their house and kept telling her to write a story. Then she wrote a story and showed it to him. He took it to the famous literary magazine, Bharati and it was published under the title “anamika.” Kalyanasundari also mentioned that Somasekhara Sarma commented that, “I thought you could write but didn’t think that you could write so beautifully.” Another comment she had received was from the most famous poet of our times, Sri Sri. She wrote that Sri Sri told her he would translate her story into English, and also suggested that, “In future try to write tragedies without killing your heroes. …” (8).

A significant factor is none of the writers said that their families discouraged them from writing or forced them to hide their writings for fear of ridicule. During my interviews in 1982-83, one husband was answering our questions. The writer did not talk much. Later I found out that there was a tragedy in the family, and he was helping her cope with the loss. In another case the husband served us coffee and snacks while we were talking. Sometimes the husbands were present only as audience. In some families brothers did some writing but that did not hinder the women’s writing. Sulochana Rani said she used to fair copy her brother’s fiction and that was how she has learned to write. I did not come across her brother’s fiction though.

INCOME FROM WRITINGS: DID IT MATTER?

The economic status did not play a crucial role in women writing in the early 1960’s. As in the past, it was never a woman’s role to support the family and whether they had money or not did not figure into their creative expression. This situation has changed considerably after women entered the workforce. The question became not of economic freedom but of economic status. In general, even those women who were earning, I mean not the writers specifically but women in general, were not always in a position to spend their earnings as they pleased. This aspect has been depicted extensively in the female fiction of the 1960’s. The new economic status they had achieved hardly worked to their advantage. The educated woman was caught up in a double-bind. The writers I spoke to clearly stated that economics was not their motivation to write, nor that of their families.

One of the contentions of the critics in the West was that women did not succeed in literature due to lack of economic freedom. This argument was repeated by famous Indian writers like Kamala Das and Anita Desai but does not seem to be the case in Andhra Pradesh. Koganti Vijayalakshmi emphasized this point at Visakha Sahiti Sadassu [12 October 2002]. She said that Telugu women never wrote in the past nor in the present to make a living. They wrote only to gratify their urge to express their responsibility toward society, she emphasized.

Some of the writers referred to some sort of economic constraints at home during their childhood. Malati Chendur mentioned that she was a baby when her father died and her mother took care of the family. Ranganayakamma mentioned about financial constraints in her younger days. However, in both the cases, the family’s low economic status did not curb their creativity. None of them mentioned that their families discouraged them from writing for any reason, economic or otherwise.

Ranganayakamma mentioned about her financial hardships after separation from her first husband. She said she moved to Hyderabad for her eye surgery, and stayed with her friends—her ardent readers and supporters. Referring to their kindness, she quoted a popular Telugu proverb which roughly translates as “I can’t settle their debt even if I give my skin to make sandals for them.” Interestingly, while attacking the male domination and female oppression vehemently in her writings, she also gathered a large circle of male friends.

Probably it is appropriate to add a note here regarding income from writings. In the preceding centuries, the financial aspect was not a concern. With the advent of modern civilization in the post-independent period, the power of currency also started figuring in. The magazines started offering remuneration for fiction. Not all of them but most popular magazines like Andhra Patrika and Andhra Prabha were offering substantial amounts as remuneration. Some reputed magazines like Telugu swatantra and Bharati offered no financial reward to my knowledge. In a recent interview, a well-known humor writer, Bharago, however mentioned that he insisted on getting paid and got paid by Telugu Swatantra. I am not sure if any female writers got paid by this magazine. In the 1950’s, the female fiction writers like R. Vasundharadevi, Dwivedula Visalakshi, and Abburi Chaya Devi found their way into literary circles through Bharati. In a way it was recognition in kind if not in cash.

In summary, Telugu women writers received support from their families, publishers, magazines and the readers while expressing themselves in writing fiction in the 1960’s and 1970’s.

WOMEN WRITERS IN THEIR OWN WORDS:

At the outset, I would like to make a note about what is customary in our families, at least in my day and the way I knew it. In my home, nobody appeared thrilled that I was writing and publishing. To me it was part of the day to day activity. Now, looking back, I could recall couple of incidents that could be construed as their encouragement. On one occasion, my father took me [a two-hour trip by bus] to the Andhra Prabha weekly office. My sister subscribed to Readers Digest in my name during my teen years. My mother would suggest reading stories of Hindu saints. I am not sure whether it was supposed to be my religious training or writing career, but in my mind, the stories helped me to think about stories. My uncle, father’s youngest brother and writer, Nidadavolu Lingamurti once critiqued a story I wrote for Chandamama, a popular children’s magazine. Like most of the women of my time, I was reading whatever I could find. Nobody in my family objected to my reading Lata or Chalam [both unacceptable by the standards of some moralists]. Nobody in my family ever said anything that could dampen my spirits. In recent years, my second brother, N. S. Rao’s involvement in my literary activities is something I would cherish as very special.

In support of my perception, I am including the comments of two acclaimed writers, Turaga Janakirani, highly educated and with rich literary heritage, and D. Kameswari, a housewife and equally prominent writer. Both Janakirani and Kameswari are straight forward in stating their position, no beating around the bush, no fluff.

Turaga Janakirani said that her mother was niece of Chalam, a renowned and controversial writer of the 1930’s. Janakirani said writing came naturally to her. In response to my question whether her family members encouraged her, she said, “If you are asking me, if any of them came to me with a pen and paper and told me to sit down and write, the answer is no. I wrote whenever and whatever I felt like writing. I am not a prolific writer. I will write only when something touches me. And the publishers were very encouraging. Actually I was even proud since whatever I wrote was getting published right away. Sometimes they write back to me, critiquing my story. Gora Sastri, editor of Telugu Swatantra was one such editor.
I know Chalam has excellent philosophy but it is not all-inclusive. His vision is partial at best. And I was not afraid to tell him so. I have written all that in this book, “maa taatayya Chalam,” [my grandfather Chalam]. We had wonderful conversations. He liked me a lot. That does not mean I have to agree with everything he had said.”

D. Kameswari said she started writing after her marriage. She was a voracious reader, used to read anything and everything she could lay hands on and sometimes secretly. “I have read Chalam and Kovvali novels also, sneaking behind my parents back,” she said. Chalam and Kovvali novels were viewed as objectionable for their sexual content by many parents in those days. “I am not highly educated, just a housewife. I started writing after my marriage, and my three children were born. Nobody said anything one way or the other in regard to my writing. Occasionally, my husband would read and say something if he feels like it. But there were never occasions when I felt sneered at for writing. Money was never a motivation. I admit it feels good to see a few rupees as my own. It was not much but it was fun. But clearly it was not a motivation for writing.”

The two comments summarize the positive climate Telugu women writers enjoyed at home. From my personal experience and knowledge, I can safely state that in the middle class families of Andhra Pradesh, women enjoyed the freedom to express themselves in their writings. There was no taboo in writing and/or publishing. The negative response and ridicule in public started in the late 1970’s when they reached the height of their success and probably it will always be there since it is part of our culture.

Published on thulika.net, March 2003.

THREE POEMS by Seela Subhadra Devi

Word Flow.

Since I came of age
don’t remember mother help with writing,
like a bird feeding its fledglings
can’t recall who crammed mouthfills of nourishing crumbs.
I only recollect my mother lament
if I would ever learn my 3 r’s.
Since then, have been pecking words.
In that direction
my certificates blackened with four letters
though quench my hunger
don’t satiate my mind’s appetite.
My self is full of them.
I swallow every letter coming my way
I don’t indulge in it to while away my time.
I chew them hard in my mind, slow and contented
and if gripe grips me midway, I give up.
Sometimes familiar words smear themselves with fresh meanings
get stuck in my throat
but the restless mind is keen as ever.
More……once more
I chew them and chaw
till my blood absorb their juices.
Healthful thoughts when savored
circulate through my body entire, and
my heart echoes health and cheer.
Brain chambers invigorated,
every cell roves with glee.
It is then
transmuted into a meaningful word flow
I well out of my pen.

(Translation based on Smt. Seela Subhadra Devi’s poem “Akshara Pravaham” )

————————————————————-

My Small, Little Poem

Sometimes intermittently
thought gets stuck
mind freezes.
Like a cuckoo looking for a song
when I look for words
letters fly away like birds,
don’t even come in the reach of my pen.
Expecting that somewhere something
would attract my vision
I look beyond horizons.
However far I stretch
magnetizing my glance for filings
not one comes my way,
Like serpents storm- scared
all lines slither away into some pit.
In journals, literary seminars
On TV and Radio
I am still looking for it in nooks and corners.
Castes, creeds and regions,
not knowing where to belong
my small, little poem
is sitting timidly
in the coiled center of heart’s pit.

(translation based on Smt. Seela Subhadra Devi’s poem “Chinni Naa Padyam” )

———————————————————————

Dream Snippets

Like a pen writing
stops exhausted of will
my moving and roving dream
snaps all of a sudden.
In the hangover, still the heart
Continues tossing sensational songs.
Rising from the bright rainbow in the corners of my lips
We spread our heart out bathed in ardor
we stitch our eyelids with sleep’s thread
not prepared to see the world outside.
We invite dreams, but
the botched dream limps.
When we intend running dreams on green pastures
the morning’s routine
scares us even in our dreams.
That is all
like a moonbeam bursting from the coconut leaf edge
moon shreds are spread at the root of the tree.
Collecting the scattered dream snippets
In the ‘pallow’of our saree
we open our eyes.
Like horse in a mill
disinterested we complete our chores
no scope for thought in that.
Finding time
remember the forgotten dream!
Try putting together the pieces.
When have they melted and slipped away
from the washed and dried garment?
There’s not a single sample left!

(translation based on Smt. Seela Subhadra Devi’s poem “Kalala Mukkalu”)

———

Translated by Popuri Jayalakshmi.

Published on thulika.net, March 2003.

THE FRIEND AFTER MY HEART! by Sai Padma Murthy

You never know until you try

What you really meant to me

What I am to you

What we can b e when we are together

When you can break the silence

Just say “I believe you”

Which is more precious to me than love?

I am lost without you

In this world of calculations

Quaint amidst chaos…

Searching for you like a shadow

Like a child in a carnival

Preserved like an antique

Which no body wants to take home

I always look for you..

Are you there for me or not?

I know you, yet Checking

Over my shoulder of responsibilities

My untold inhibitions and fears

Hidden deeply in my heart’s closet

Which you only can wipe-off with just a shrug..

I am waiting for you forever

In the light and darkness of life

In my automatic routine things

I See you whenever and wherever

Similar to a ray of hope

I always hope to come true

Why I’m never tired of waiting?

Are you tired of trying? ..

Well you never know until you try..

Introspection

Walking thru shadows

Numb mind and thoughts freezed

Wry smile at the corner of lips,

Remember the day when you left me forever..

Trees are listening

Nodding their heads with devotion

As if they are feeling my pain,

Gives me solace which humans can’t give

Creek of the porch gate

Hum of the curtain saying it’s all over

Hurried breeze to take my tear away,

Saying I am not alone….

Surprised why I feel?

When I have you in and with my soul,

But… believe me

You will never go if you look back once…

———————

Published on thulika.net, March 2003.

MY MUSE! by Dr. Nayani Krishna Kumari

Like the nectar

Permeating the

sprouting bud

My poetry

oozes love

for my fellow humans

 

No

Thick-knit poetic

display of heavy phraseology

No fireworks

It is–

Not a glitter of gold

Not a goblet of honey

 

MY poetry

carries

no spite for the world

But emits

A sweet aroma

of the champaka flower

You call experience

 

My poetry

Does not chant

Washed-out phrases..

Like used up manthra

Does not

growl like a dog…

Hoping

the world to

back off

with her tail

between her legs

 

If I plunk

My frustrations

and blame it on others

 

My muse

Gawks at me

like a mother

enraged by my inanity.

 

My muse will never

Separate me

From the world ‘n

Fix on a pedastal.

 

My poetry

Springs not from sorrow,

Tears are not

My inspiration.

 

It compares not to

The fanatic world

To revel in the past

nor will it ignore the present

It is no

Weakling to curse the present

And Wallow in a fit of despair.

 

My muse

Dispels the gloom

And envisions the future

It gleams

like the morning reflection

in a dew drop

My trust abounds my muse.

 

My muse

Will kill the ill-will

And articulates ME!


THE BLAZING CHILD

[Telugu original entitled Agniputri]

 

My heart is

Like a thin dark veil

Like the sky taking shape—

Indolent and crimson

and dabbed with the evening hue

 

Dropping from

Heights unknown

and

gliding off the

Brick walls at the horizon

Flames of frustration

Rising Like metaphors

 

The drowning beams of the sun

Fighting To stay

The engulfing darkness

 

The nondescript creatures

Incomprehensible

Even to

My wildest imagination

 

The flies

Hovering incessantly

Around

The rays

Forming budding sprouts

 

Some

Aweful noise of

some wiggly

Creature stirring inside

My head

 

The sounds of

Little red scorpions

Etching question marks

On my brain

 

The eyes

are not showing

the bright red desires

 

No visible hopes

of rainbows

in the sky.

 

No magic flutter,

No shimmering wings

called hope.

 

These

Blazing blue flames

Are shrouding the

Internally fixated conscience.

In my state

Of Uncertainty

Not knowing

What I want and

What I am searching for

And that’s scaring me out of wits!

***

 

(Telugu original, agniputri, published in Bharati, 1970)

 

I’M THE OCEAN!

 The tiniest wave

Born in the

Viscera of the ocean

 

Wakes up,

Slender and tender

Like a creeper on the fence

Soon to rise

Like a ferocious Lion

Giving in

To the surges of water

And gusts of winds.

 

The desire

in my heart

Is just a speck

at the start.

 

As the

Opportunities appear

Round the corner

Blaming the

Elusive pegs on which

It Could hang on,

Blasts off

In an undue outburst

Escalating to new heights

Unrestrained.

 

The Desire,

Confusing and startling,

Turns into

Stormy seas

Causing turmoil

In my mind.

 

 

The Desire

With its

Incessant attacks

on Me

 

Knowing

I’m defenseless

And vulnerable

Probes deep Into the

Innermost corners

Of my heart

And is

Turning me

Into numb

Sea sands on the shores.

 

The Desire is

Frightening

My wits.

Casting a spell

“You turn to a Stone

You be Ahalya[1]

Utters ruthlessly.

 

Hence

I bear in mind

Each time

I see the sea

It reminds me

With its

Constant uproar

And commotion

The self I am

The unfathomable bond

Between me and the sea

Continues to baffle me forever.

***

[Published Telugu original entitled nenuu-samudram in Bharati 1970]

Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net, December 2002 

————————–

[1] In Hindu mythology, Ahalya was the wife of Sage Gautama. Suspecting her of infidelity, Gautama curses her to turn into a stone, later to be redeemed by Lord Rama.

Turaga Janakirani – interview

Turaga Janakirani. Interview. October 6, 2002.

 

Malathi: When did you start writing?

Janakirani: I started writing in 1951. My first story was published in Krishna patrika. I was only 14 or 15 yet the theme and the experience were adult-oriented.

Malathi: What was the subject?

Janakirani: It was titled bhavishyattu [future], about man-woman relationship.

Malathi: How did you come up with that theme?

Janakirani: I don’t know. It came to my mind. It was somewhat artificial though. The editor of krishna patrika published highlighting it by mentioning that the author was 15-years old. I was writing for both Telugu Swatantra and Andhra Patrika weekly. At the time, Gora Sastry was editor of Telugu Swatantra. Mostly my themes were centered around educated women, their frialties and vanities.

Malathi: Were you in college at the time?

Janakirani: Yes. I wrote while I was doing B.A. M.A. and even after I passed M.A. Nanduri Rammohan Rao was in andhra Patrika team. Among others were Bapu, Mullapudi Venkataramana, Thulikaabhushan, that is Buddhavarapu Ramadas, and they all showed appreciation for my stories. Bapu used to draw beautiful pictures for my stories; and often, my stories were printed on the center page. Thus I received recognition early in my career. There was hardly any lapse of time between my writing a story and getting it published. I was never put in a position where I would have to send a story and sit around wondering whether it would be published or not.

Malathi: Did you send your stories to the publishers as is?

Janakirani: Yes, right away.

Malathi: No editing or revising?

Janakirani: Nothing. In fact, it was a matter of pride for me. Every letter I’d written got published as is; no deletions, correcting my language, moving paragraphs up and down, nothing of the sort. I wrote some 6 to 8 stories or maybe more which were published in Telugu Swatantra. I’ve translated some stories of J.B. Priestley and O’Henry also for the same magazine.

Malathi: How did you come across those stories?

Janakirani: I don’t know. I’ve read them somewhere. I had no idea about copyright and such things. I translated them and Gora Sastry published them. My first experience with Gora Sastry was when I sent a story entitled erra gulabi [red rose] to Telugu Swatantra. Gora Sastry not only published the story but also wrote a long letter to me right away. He complimented on the development of the story, and on how cleverly I crafted the unexpected ending.

Malathi: Do you still have that letter?

Janakirani: Hum, probably not. I am not sure. Later Dandamudi Mahidhara Rao published Hindi version of the same story in dharmayug and Rayaprolu Srinivas translated it into English and published in Indian Lit.

Malathi: When was that?

Janakirani: 1956. My stories got published in Telugu Swatantra every alternate week. I have done some translations also under the title bhavavesam [thrill of ideas]. I took it from the writer’s book by Somerset Maugham. He noted some ideas in his book, incomplete stories, and indicated that they were free for others to take and develop. I took some of his ideas. One of them was naa jivitam nakiccey [Give me back my life]; it was about a divorce case. A woman, after 20 years of marriage, files for separation or divorce or something. The judge awards her 20 dollars towards settlement and the husband puts the money, in coins, puts on the table in front of her. The wife picks up the coins, throws them in his face and says, “Give me back my life.” For her the award meant nothing compared to the pain she had suffered for the past 20 years. Gora Sastry published my stories always, which was very encouraging.

Malathi: What kind of encouragement you’ve got at home? Were your mother and father supportive?

Janakirani: Well, encouragement was not an issue for me. Gudipati Venkatachalam was my maternal grandmother’s brother. My grandmother also wrote a little. I belong to a writers’ family. I mean there is a literary atmosphere in our house. I am also related to Kutumba Rao. Some of the well-known writers of our times were Kommuri Sambasiva Rao, Usharani Bhatia and such. I should say writing [a story] is no big deal for me.

Malathi: The reason I am asking is, lately, one of the hot topics is the discouragement women writers have been supposedly facing at home and outside. My question is whether you’ve sensed any such negative feeling.

Janakirani: No, not at all. Besides I come from Bandar (Machilipatnam), a well-known elitist society. Even in those days, one of my mother’s younger sister studied medicine,and another went to Law College in Madras. In other words, it was a natural thing for me. I was born in an environment; it was more like what else can I do if not write. I never needed somebody else’s encouragement. If I sat down to write, I would just finish it and throw it in the mailbox the next morning. I didn’t have to worry where I would get the quarter of a rupee for the postage. Another contributory factor my frequent visits to Madras. I took dance lessons in Madras. I was moving with movie stars, participating in debates, speaking about Telugu literature and reciting poems by Rayaprolu Subba Rao. I was 9 or 10, we were yet to achieve independence. We used to go around on the streets singing freedom songs.

Malathi: What factors helped female writers to become so prominent in those days?

Janakirani: In those days, it was a new wave, I should say.

Malathi: What was that new wave?

Janakirani: The educated woman got a chance to step outside from the confines of home, go out, and express her opinions and ideas; it became possible for her to depict her newly acquired position. Secondly, the magazines. There were already two in existence, and a third weekly, was started. Later in 1970’s Andhra Jyoti came into existence. Other magazines at the time were Gruhalakshmi, Andhra Mahila, Telugu Swatantra, Chitragupta, and so on. All these magazines needed stories and sketches each month. Thus there was a great demand for fiction in the 1950’s and 60’s decades. We, the educated women, needed no encouragement. You, for instance, started writing. Did anybody give you a pen, a paper, and postage stamps, and tell you, “Sit down and write a story”? In those days, Malati Chendur started writing; so also Ramalakshmi Arudra, and Visalakshi. Later in the 1960’s, Koduri Kausalyadevi, Ranganayakamma started. Ranganayakamma is a lot younger than rest of us. They all started writing profusely by the 1970’s. I think Sulochana Rani faced some opposition [sic].

Malathi: What do you mean by faced opposition?

Janakirani: I mean lack of the kind of encouragement you’ve mentioned—the difference between somebody saying, vow, here, your story is published and here is the weekly, there is your story, and tossing it on the table. In my case, it happened very casually. Writing was no big deal. But then, I was never a prolific writer. I was writing only when I felt like writing. There’s a novelty in my stories, though. My stories depicted educated women who were responding sensitively to the prevalent conditions in our cities at the time.

Malathi: Did men write with similar themes?

Janakirani: They did not write such stories. How can they? They wrote about people in general. To write specifically about women and youth, they would have to stretch their imagination. Secondly, in many families, women were not yet educated and were not liberal in their views. Thus men had no opportunity to observe this class of women. I don’t agree that men can write like women [a female as the narrator] in the first person.

Malathi: Why not?

Janakirani: They won’t be good.

Malathi: What is the reason? [see editorial for further discussion]

Janakirani: Hum.

Malathi: When did the universities start recognizing female writers? Female writing was not taken for study in the 1960’s. To my knowledge it started in the 80’s decade.

Janakirani: I don’t know about that. I moved to Hyderabad. I have no contact with the academy. I have no idea about the people you have finished master’s and Ph.D.’s in Telugu literature. In fact, my field was economics. I studied Telugu only as one of my subjects in B.A. At the time there was some activity in Andhra University but very little in Osmania University. Only a couple of names like Nayani Krishnakumari and Yasoda Reddy were known at the time. Even in their case, it was more poetry rather than fiction. Sarada Ashokavardhan also used to write during those days. So, what else?

Malathi: Does fiction serve a social purpose? What’s your purpose in writing fiction?

Janakirani: I would write whenever I wanted to write about something. I would study incidents and people for the purpose of writing a story, and then, I write about them; I think a lot about; I’d be restless until I am done with it. It’s a condition. Usually I stumble on something and then I tell myself, yes, I must write about this; that’s one reason. Secondly, I’m assured of an outlet. I was never in a situation where I had to write and stow it away in my desk drawer, and be worried whether an editor would accept or not. There was that kind of demand for my stories. Radio also encouraged us very much. I wrote in 1965, or maybe earlier, wrote plenty of stories for the radio. They needed 3 or 4 stories per week. Many male writers like Poranki Dakshinamurty, Akkiraju Ramapati Rao, etc. also wrote for the radio. Panduranga Rao came later. Nelluru Kesavaswami, Burgula Ranganadha Rao–they all used to write for the radio. And the radio stations broadcast them as long as the stories fell within their criteria.

Malathi: Are you writing with a message for a specific audience in mind?

Janakirani: No. For me, depiction is more important than the message. For instance, let me tell you about a story called jaganmaata, wrote sometime in the 1970’s. It was about the right of a woman to be a mother irrespective of her marital status. It didn’t matter whether she was married or not, whether the man was a friend, husband or somebody else. She has a right to give birth to a baby, raise him and enjoy the pleasures of motherhood in her own status quo. My point was she should be allowed the pleasure of being a mother if she wanted it. I wrote the story only to make that point. She has two friends. One of them says, the woman did something bad, it was disgusting, it was immoral, she had no shame, she should be shot to death,” and so on. The second friend says, “Let’s go and comfort her. She is our friend, after all.” They both visit the mother. And much to their chagrin, the woman was not despondent; she held her baby and was reveling in a state of supreme bliss. She tells her friends, “Look, my little baby boy. Such a sweet little thing. And that big idiot of a man was a coward; he ran away, abandoning us. What do I care? I am not afraid. This boy is my son.” The two friends did not know how to react under the circumstances and left. Later, one of them asks the other, “You said you were going to beat her up, kill her. How come you did not say a thing?” The second friend replies, “What can say? She did not give us a chance to say anything; she was reveling in the seventh heaven. I would have a chance to yell at her, if she had admitted that she’d done something wrong. What about you? You said you wanted to console her. But you didn’t say anything either.” The first friend says, “Same thing, how can I console her when she was not crying. She was very much like jaganmaata [mother of the universe], sitting on a high pedestal proudly and looking down on us. She’d given us no chance.” Malladi Subbamma and Rammurty, known for their liberal views, read this story. Their response was superb. Rammurty turned to Subbamma and said, “Look, you write hundreds of pages and go about lecturing to crowds,. This story has captured just in about four pages the entire message of women’s freedom movement. The entire array of your writings and speeches could not accomplish that.” For me, that was a great compliment.

Malathi: Yes. Was it translated into other languages?

Janakirani: Yes. It came in two books. Central Sahitya Akademy included it in their anthology, edited by Abburi Chayadevi, I think. That was the Telugu version. A publisher from Warangal included the English version in their anthology of feminist stories. What I do is whenever I sense a truth or an incident, I weave it into a readable story and bring about a twist which is crucial for a story. I’d state unequivocally, that a story must have a distinctive narrative style. If the story gives away the ending even at the very beginning, the reader tosses it away. A very famous female writer wrote a story; the opening line was Subbayya died. I asked her at once, “If you say, at the very beginning, that Subbayya died, where is the suspense to keep the reader guessing? Why would he continue reading?”

Malathi: Don’t you think there still can be questions like why and how he died?
Janakirani: Why take chance? We should write without giving away that clue. The reader should be kept in suspense wondering, what’s this? this is strange. Story is no good if you can’t maintain that suspense. From my experience of working at the radio station, that’s what we’ve learnt: We must have the ability to hold the attention of the audience; or else, they will put it away. The rule applies to all things.

Malathi: Who do you think are good writers among the present day female writers? I mean, with reference to the criteria you’ve stated just now?

Janakirani: Female writers? Lata was a good writer. Sulochana Rani, Dwivedula Visalakshi, Malati Chendur, Ramalakshmi—they all wrote brilliant stories. Their stories showed originality and creativity, they’ve taken issues like hunger; they’ve given no ground to mark them as female stories. Their stories had human interest.

Malathi: Where are they now? I mean, how they are positioned in the history of 1950’s and 60’s literature?

Janakirani: They certainly have their place. There was a book titled bangaaru kathalu [Golden stories], published by Central Sahitya Academy. The fiction of the female writers of the 1960’s carried their unique stamp. The stories that came in the following generations are wiped out, especially the stories based on some kind of –ism or written for light entertainment. Some of the later fiction included stories of demons, corpses, etc. They don’t stand the test of time. And another important factor was the commanding diction [bhasha pushti].

Malathi: Do you think our women writers possessed commanding diction?

Janakirani: I have my doubts about the present day writers. The language expertise of the writers, especially those who have started writing in the 80’s and 90’s, is not fully formed; no telling, no readability. Most of them have grown used to relying on English idiom. I admit, I am using lot of English now while talking with you. But when I am writing a Telugu story, I will not scribble away English sentences under any circumstance. I may use some English words like road and light but I will certainly make an effort to write in Telugu; I think it is necessary to express myself powerfully.

Malathi: I didn’t see the names of women writers in critical works. Am I right, and if so, why?

Janakirani: No, that’s not true. Women writers were taken note of.

Malathi: I am referring to the criticism written in the 60’s and 70’s.

Janakirani: That’s not true. There are critical works on women writers. There is an organization here, Yuva bharati. They’ve published articles on women writers.

Malathi: When were they published?

Janakirani: In the 70’s. It was called pathikella swatantryam [a quarter century of independence].

Malathi: Could you tell me when the book was published, the exact date?

Janakirani: It was published in the 70’s decade. There is also a book entitled Mahati, on women writers. That means they’ve given a special place for women writers. Bhanumati wrote excellent stories—stories that are memorable forever. See, if you’d eaten a sweet, the taste must linger in your mouth for a long time. People remember such stories for a long time. That’s why many researchers now are still focused on the 1960-80’s writers. We’ve had very good stories in those days. Technique also developed well. By technique, I mean clever narration, knowing where to abridge, where to prolong, how to maintain brevity, where to work up an unexpected twist and end the story—in all these aspects, Telugu story excelled. After 1985, there was a considerable change in the topics. They are mostly attacks on politics, social conditions, caste and class, and also about the oppressed class. For about a decade at least, 1985-1995, I was confronted with a question. During that period, I didn’t write much. I was included however in the list of women writers—which meant I was noticed by people in general. I wrote with originality and creativity. A lecturer once mentioned to me about a story I wrote in 1959. She said, “In your story, jivita satyam [truths about life], you wrote at the end that the farm hand [paleru] kissed the lady’s foot; and the foot moved like a mogali petal [mogalireku]. I can never forget that.” Another friend, V.S. Ramadevi, also said she could envision that pretty lady sitting and the farm hand kissing her foot. Since I wrote such incidents which, though small, stay in readers’ minds forever, I am remembered. Anyway, back to my doubt in 1985. I was confused as to what makes a good story? Does it mean it should be only about the poor, about the rich hurting the poor; should I say the poor person can never be wrong? and that the rich can never be right? I was befuddled for sometime—a kind of guilty feeling. I was almost convicned that a good story is the one that which makes the reader cry and that spurts drops of blood. I wrote a story on those lines. It about reservations of jobs for the scheduled caste candidates and the hardships a scheduled caste boy suffered in the process. It was published in India Today in 1990. Another story was anveshi—about a woman who faced hardships while trying to bribe to get a job. If you ask me why I wrote those stories, all I can say was I was trying to be trendy and go with the flow. I was convinced at the time that, if I had written, for instance, that I was sitting in a comfortable sofa in an a/c room and my heart was in a turmoil, it would not work. Readers would ask what kind of problems you could have. For a long time, I had the impression that, if a person had food to eat, clothes to wear and a roof over his head, he could have no problems. I even wondered if all my earlier stories were only stories meant to kill time and there was no other purpose. I came out of it soon enough. I wrote in high style.

Malathi: What do you mean by high style?

Janakirani: By high style I mean, I did not dilute the narration in terms of diction. I was particular about keeping the high-brow language. I remember a book written on music; forgot the author’s name. The writer did not worry about whether it could be understood by an ordinary reader; he used the vocabulary that was appropriate for his subject, and that was indicative of his sophistication. Readers with average knowledge of English may not understand all the nuance yet he did not make any effort to make it easier for the average reader. He did not worry whether it was too somber; presentable or not; was it too pedagogic, etc.

Malathi: Since you’ve broached the subject, let me ask you this question. There was a comment that Telugu women writers could not write like Arundhati Roy. What do you think?

Janakirani: Of course, they can. My daughter read her book and said, “amma, you’ve been telling us stories about your mother, grandmother, maternal grandmother; they were all good stories. Arundhanti Roy wrote about the same things. You did not hesitate, wondering whether they might not appeal to the public; and at the same time, did not describe it in vulgar language. She wrote all such details which we would consider inappropriate—things about our elders, and the details we hesitate to discuss in public—she wrote openly. Additionally, I might add, the social conditions—communism, the state government of Kerala, and Christianity—also were propitious for her. They are sensitive subjects, hard to bring up in public. They must be kept as grey areas. It is difficult apply them to real life. But Arundhati Roy amalgamated all these elements and wrote it. There is a human element, a theory about life, and analysis in her writing. Also I find maturity in her writing.

Malathi: Is there any Telugu female writer who wrote at that level?

Janakirani: They should.

Malathi: I was wondering if any female writer of 1960’s or 70’s had written like that? Is there any writer who reached that level in style and analysis?

Janakirani: As far as the middle class lifestyle is concerned, some of our writers hava written at that level. Ranganayakamma and Dwivedula Visalakshi wrote fiction, balanced and readable. What we should look for in novels is characterization. Most of the novels we have nowadays are just extended short stories, not novels. The characters in novels must be so strong as to refuse to the dictates of the writers. Which means, the likes and dislikes of the characters, their thought process, trends, and behavior—must be their own; they could never be different in any manner. Even their language must come from them, not from us. Those who understood that experience wrote good fiction. Take for instance Ranganayakamma. She wrote excellent fiction. The reason she chose middle class life; the reason was that was the life we had an opportunity to observe. So also Malati Chendur and Ramalakshmi. Let’s set aside storyline and framework for a second. They wrote that made the readers exclaim, “Oh, yes, this man’s life must end only like this”. For a story to be complete, that is what’s needed and they did it; they wrote with such conviction. There is no doubt about it. I agree they did not reach the level of Gopichand or Bapiraju. I mean, they did not take such a wide canvas. Probably we believed that a story must be short; it was a state of mind. Take Bapiraju for instance. He wrote novels like Narayana Rao, Konangi; did not care about the length; he wrote at a leisurely pace. He was never worried, like us, that it should be finished in three pages since that’s what andhra patrika wants. That is most essential for a novel. We must not say let’s end it here, maybe it will not go well if we prolong, let’s cut short the garden scene—we should never have such thoughts. .

Malathi: Comment on kalaateeta vyaktulu.

Janakirani: It was a trendsetter. Sridevi started a new trend. It was also produced as a radio play and I played Kalyani’s role. Sivam, a great dramatist, wrote the script. I was the producer too. Sridevi’s husband gave me a copy of the book.

Malathi: What do you mean by trendy?

Janakirani: I mean she confined herself mostly to Vizag medical college surroundings. It was about the young women of that era, their behavior on college campuses, male-female friendships, and such. Take Indira for instance. She represents a philosophy—living for the sake of living. She says the same thing to her father too. Sridevi depicted about love, girls acting willful, rebeling, moving forward fearlessly despite adverse circumstances; she did it very well. If she had epitomized it into a 16-page story, it would not have been the same. She took the time to develop the mental state of her characters, stage by stage, and depicted it superbly. I will not consider making a story concise is a virtue. It is unfortunate she died young or we would have had lot more stories from her.

Currently, there is a lot more demand for utility books. Publishers are showing more interest in development books.

Malathi: But the purpose of fiction is different, isn’t it?

Janakirani: But now, there are more books from utility point of view. The way I’d put it, my children can sing but are not cultivated in music. They have no understanding of the tunes and such.

Malathi: Where is this demand for utility books coming from?

Janakirani: It is a recent trend, came with literacy. Neoliterates are craving for books they could read. And often they are how-to books on small things and in simple, easy-to-understand language.

²²²

(Interviewer: Nidadavolu Malathi, October 6, 2002.

Published on thulika.net, March 2005.

 

 

WILTED LOTUS By M. Ramakoti

The western sky glowed bashfully with powdered kumkuma scattered around by the good old peddamma.[1] Bits of clouds were gliding away on the sky like new brides with henna-tinted feet. Darkness was engulfing the world.

“Come on, girl! Let’s go to listen to Sastri’s discourse on puranas,” my mother called out for me. I came home, after four years, to visit my family in my hometown. I was yearning to see all my folks from old times. Well, all people or not, certainly I was dying to meet with my old friend, Visalakshi, and hear all about her family life with her husband.

“How is our Visalakshi?” I asked amma.

“How is she? Great! She is a bubbly new mother, with a chubby little bundle of a son in her arms. Why don’t go and see her,” amma replied.

I was waiting only for that word. I said okay and left at once. Visalakshi, her husband and I were born and raised in the same town. I thought she was lucky to have both her natal home and in-law’s in the same town. I couldn’t attend her wedding. I wanted to write a letter apologizing, at the least. I was worried that she could be hurt since I didn’t attend her wedding. But what can I do? That idiot cannot read, not even a single letter. So I dropped that thought. Now, after four years, I could see her again. I went to her place dragging my feet and fearing that she might get on my case and give me hard time.

In the hallway, a wick lamp was flickering, looking desolate. There was no sign of people in the house. Even the other houses in the neighborhood looked the same. Here and there, some cobwebs were hanging from the corners; the dim lamp added further to the atmosphere creating an imagery reminiscent of a prosperous family that was long gone. I was upset with myself. Look at them – may god bless their souls -they living happily with little kids and here I am entertaining negative thoughts. I scolded myself as walked in. The little boy was lying on the bed as if he was in meditation. Only God Brahma should know what that little baby saw in his dream; he laid back with an indelible smile on his lips. Next to the bed, Visalakshi was sitting, removing the tendrils from the paan leaves, applying lime paste, rolling paan into shapes of birds and chewing them leisurely. She looked up as I walked in, “You, Janaki! Wretched me! I was lost in thought and didn’t even see you coming in. When did you come? Why are standing there? Come in. Come, sit here.” She jumped to her feet, quickly grabbed my two hands, and dragged me into the house. In that moment, I remembered our childhood days when we wore skirts on atla taddi[2] day, held on to each other’s hands and twirled around; tears welled up in my eyes. It felt like an unbridled affection flooded the room. She threw herself onto my shoulders, hugged me tightly and drenched my saree and the blouse underneath with her warm tears. In that moment our hearts were dumbfounded. We forgot all our vocabulary. We sat on the swing board in the middle of the hallway. Visalakshi, radiant like a lamp, wiped her tears with her saree palloo and laughed heartily. As is, she is a doll of molten gold; on top of it, a new mother. A chain of black beads in her neck shone like the only gift god had bestowed on women folks.

“Hey, Janaki, how come it took so long for you to come to mom’s home? Did your hubby say no? Or, did you decide yourself that you don’t have to visit these rural idiots? Anyway, why would you remember us, stupid me even to think that?”

Visalakshi did not give it to me directly but certainly let me have it in a roundabout way for not attending her wedding! Hum, sneaky.

“You are something else. Why would I listen to my hubby if he says I can’t go? Don’t you think I would want to come too? Doesn’t any woman yearn to visit mom’s home?” I replied without bringing up the real subject—me not attending her wedding.

“Then, how come her ladyship has not been to this place for so long?”

“Just. Days went by without notice. He was being transferred frequently; or else, went to camps. Talk about demanding job. Stupid work. Squeezing the life out of us. You know he has no family on either side. In whose care could I leave him?”

“What do you mean leaving him in somebody’s care, Janaki? Please, don’t you ever do that. Good thing you didn’t. Don’t you ever think of leaving him into somebody else’s care. Husbands are like lamps that could be blown away by the slightest breeze. We have to fence them around with our palloos and protect them.” She threw a naughty look at me and smiled. I was surprised and wondered whenever had she become so witty! As she laughed the dimples on her cheeks caught my eye. I’ve been watching the beauty of those dimples from my childhood days. Now they are looking like whirlpools. Her words are even deeper than her dimples. I was touched by the affection in her humor. She was splendid, all of a sudden, and I wasn’t sure where she’s got it from. Why didn’t she ask about my family life? Not even one word! Maybe she was thinking I would tell her myself. I wanted to know all about her marital bliss. I hesitated. She did not ask about mine, how could I ask about hers? Yet, why should I stand on formalities with her? Why bother, who cares who went first—between her and me, why worry about propriety? I kept staring at her hoping to pick up the courage to broach the subject.

“Why are you staring at me like that? What are you thinking? That poor husband of yours might be pining away, feeling lonely? Maybe burnt his hand while cooking? Is that what you are worried about?” She chided me, jokingly.

“Oh, no. I wasn’t thinking of anything,” I replied in a hurry.

“Why lie? Don’t hide it from me. Tell me, what is it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Alright, don’t tell me,” she said, pouting. For some reason, I couldn’t speak. I came here hoping to talk about so many things. Not a single word was coming out of my mouth, why? My mouth was bolted at the sight of Visalakshi. I had given lectures at women’s clubs on numerous occasions; now I couldn’t say a single word. Whatever happened to all my education. I felt ashamed. I was about to say something. “How is your family life, Visalakshi?” I blurted out and then quickly pulled back. Visalakshi picked up the little baby from the bed, adjusted the sheets and handed him to me. The baby opened his eyes wide, looked at me, and then, closed them again, as if he did not care who was holding him. We both laughed.

“I couldn’t come to your wedding, Visalakshi. God only knows how much I was distressed about it,” I said, somewhat out of context.

“Let it be. You’re here now to hold the baby at least. That is good enough for me.”

“Your son is a little pumpkin.”

“What do you mean? Your mother said he was a melon.”

“What do you think?”

“I think he looks like my son.”

“Ha! Doesn’t he look like your husband?” I thought I was clever and returned the compliment. Her face fell. I was confused; I couldn’t figure out what went wrong. I felt awful; I said something for fun and it turned into something else. I have to change the subject.

“How come the house is looking empty? Where’s everybody, your folks?”

“They all went to the religious discourse. Vadina went to her mom’s place. Annayya went to the city.”

“You, a new mother, are left all alone, to be by yourself?”

“So what? Cat will snatch me away?”

“Whoever could snatch you away?”

“The Yama[3]” she burst into a laugh. My heart groaned.

“What kind of talk is that,” I said, grasping onto her shoulder.

“Wait, my girl. Do me a favor.”

“Favor? What can I do for you?” I asked her.

“Wait, I’ll tell you,” she said, went in and returned with an envelope in her hand. She went to the door, looked around, bolted the door and came back to me. She pulled out a letter from the envelope and threw it on me. She hid the envelope under the pillow, sat on the bed and said, “Read it to me.”

“Is that all? I was thinking of something big.”

“What? Were you afraid I might ask you to lift rocks?”

“Not that …”

“Enough of that. Come on, read it.”

“What’s that, anyway?”

“If I knew that, why would I be begging you to read?”

I opened the letter and looked. “This is a letter. Why are you asking me to read it?”

“Who else could I ask? Only you could read it to me. You’re educated, the lucky one. Please, do me this favor.”

I had no choice but read it. I was embarrassed. The letter read:

“Emandi! How long are you going to leave me here like this? You’ve turned my natal home into a cage with metal bars. Even a mom’s house becomes a jail if a woman is left there forever. I am eager to show our little baby to your mother. I am anxious to meet your mother and and father. I am dying to hear your word pictures you paint—the beauty of your village, the fields there—and want to share the pleasure with you. Why are you delaying like this? I am not ashamed to come to our own home. I can walk in like a queen. I am only scared for you, in case you misunderstand me. Just tell me, is it okay with you if I show up there? It wouldn’t hurt your position in any way? If I’d taken a hasty step and showed up, maybe you’d be upset with me. How can I explain the hurt I am suffering? Everybody here looks at the baby and says he resembles you. Remember the day you came into the delivery room with the excitement of fathering a boy? I was so embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say; what to say to you; and I was nearly choked. I was your wife. Yet, I didn’t know how to hand in your gift to you. In a desperate attempt to pass the baby to you, I nearly dropped him, screamed ‘ayyo’ and pressed him tightly to my chest. Remember what you’ve said at that time? You may not remember it but I wouldn’t forget it ever, not even in the next several lives.

‘Little mother,

Not knowing how to care

For the newborn child

Lifted her eyelids and looked up,

At the father awkwardly.

That’s what you said. What a beautiful song. The liveliness in those words touched my heart and my heart jumped with joy. In that moment, the madhavi creeper, wound around the window railings; the aroma hesitating to enter the room, burst in and filled the room; it was the same creeper you used to smell; a wisp of cloud, which sneaked into our room like a thief and watched our clandestine meetings, raced away, like my heart filled with hopes and oozing a spell of charm. In that moment, you haven’t noticed them at all. Your eyes were glued onto our baby. I don’t know how but you’ve realized my inability to pick up the baby; you put it in such a beautiful language, so touchingly, and charmingly! emandi, could you please let me be in your presence forever and catch your words in my lap like gems?”

The letter continued in the same romantic tone. Suddenly I wanted to look into Visalakshi’s face. Her heart must be a cuckoo’s nest to be able to resonate such sensuous feelings, I thought. I stopped reading and looked into her face. She was blushing and her eyes fluttered as if frightened. I kept staring at her eyes, darkened with katuka[4] and imagining how those eyes would have flustered as she handed the baby to her husband.

“Why did you stop? Read it. What’s in my face? You’re staring at me, why?” Visalakshi said.

“Your eyes are so beautiful, Visalakshi,” I said.

“Ho, ho. Even you are reciting poetry, now! So be it. They looked beautiful to you, at the least.”

“Why do you talk nonsense like that, silly you? You have a husband with such a sweet heart.”

“Yes. Neat way to put it.”

“Let it be. Did you write this letter, really? You’ve become real shrewd, I must say.”

“Oh, God! If I could write so beautifully, why would my karma be like this?”

“Meaning?”

“I am saying why would I be in this miserable situation; why would I be asking you to read it for me?”

“Ah, I see. So, you had somebody write it for you. But, Visalakshi, how could you conceive such excellent thoughts; you who could not read a single character?”

“What an idiot you are, Janaki. Can’t the uneducated have a heart and beautiful thoughts? Aren’t they human beings? When a woman is pregnant, so also her heart, bears fruition. Think of it a parrot’s nest. As soon as a woman becomes mother, it makes her complete. I have tasted its sweetness but I can’t describe it. How can I? you tell me. Anyway, it is only a matter of time. Soon you’ll experience it yourself,” she said, taking my hand into hers and playing with my bangles.

“Who taught you such a beautiful language,” I said, surprised.

“You’re coming back to the same thing, again. For each individual, the heart ripens at a different time. That’s all. Nobody needs to teach it,” she dismissed it in a snap. I did not like the idea of leaving the letter in the middle. I know I can’t write one like that. I wanted to make sure her letter got to her husband.

“This is good. But how can you have such a beautiful letter written and hide it in a box. You stupid, send it to him right away. Your husband will faint before he finished reading it,” I said.

“No, no. I can’t do that. Not me,” she said hesitantly.

“Why not? What’s wrong in sending it? Why be shy to write to your own husband? Send it at once.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“I did not write that letter, nor had it written for me. To tell you the truth …”

“What’s that? Keep saying, that, that, that. What is that?” I snapped.

“Nothing much to say. That is the letter Vadina wrote to my brother.”

“Then why did you have me read it to you? What a stupid thing to do. Don’t you know it is not right to read others’ letters?”

“What others? No big deal. We all are women, aren’t we?”

“I suppose. What a beautiful letter your Vadina had written.”

“That’s the reason they two are like a couple of parrots or blackbirds. The baby is such a lucky boy. His mother describes every one of his movements charmingly. And here I am; the idiot who can’t read a single word; I know nothing, not even one bit, that helps to capture the heart of the man I married. In fact, why do you think women like me should live at all? Janaki, never mind. This monologue is boring. You could be carried away by our chitchat and forget the letter. Come on, reading the rest of it,” she said. Now I am really interested in reading it. If I don’t, Visalakshi will not let me go, anyway. I had no choice but to read.

“Emandi, the little rascal rubbed his eyes with his tiny fists and dabbed the dark katuka all over his face. He is looking like a moon hiding behind the dark clouds and playing peek-a-boo. No matter whatever avatars[5] he takes, he reminds me of you constantly. I could open my heart completely and tell you everything but for my shyness; abbha! it is a snag, affectionately though. That’s why I couldn’t express myself. In the middle of the night, he would finish drinking milk and kicks in my stomach with all his might. Each time he touched me with his hand or foot, it brings back some other memories. Then, I can’t sleep for the night anymore. Emandi, abbha, how can I, being a woman, not write here. I can’t be shameless. I can’t live here without you. Please, come and take us, me and the little boy, home soon.

 

It’s me, yours forever.”

I looked up. Visalakshi was dabbing her tears.

“Why are you wiping your eyes?” I asked her, surprised.

“Nothing. That’s what I’d call affection or caring. How would the other person know unless you express it?” Visalakshi said, looking miserable.

“That’s nice. How can everybody express their feelings like that? Maybe everyone who has legs can walk but not everyone who has hands can write, nor everyone who has mouth can speak so eloquently, right?” I said.

“That’s why some people aren’t blessed with warmth and affection.”

“What did your Vadina study? Does she write poetry too?”

“She’s educated, I guess.”

“You don’t know?”

“How would I know about any education, for that matter? Hey, Janaki, will you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“I feel the same way when I look at my baby. The his feet underside are so delicate like petals of a flower. Look at his lips; like tender mango shoots; and his laugh, whatever he could be laughing at! I could hear the sounds in my heart. Even when I closed my eyes, I could see them. I want to tell all these things. The idiot I am, I’ve never learnt the alphabet. What can I do now?”

“Learn from your Vadina,” I said laughing.

“Your laugh is killing me, stop it; instead, why don’t you …”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Why don’t you write a letter like that for me?”

“Why do you need a letter? Your husband lives right here. Didn’t he come to see his son?”

“No. He is busy with his studies in the city.”

“Okay. I am not sure if I could write like that. I will try. Tell me what do you want me to write. I will write whatever you say.”

“Will you? I’ll be born to you in my next life.[6] I’ll be indebted to you forever. You tell me how to clear my debt to you,” Visalakshi said and stood up to go to the next room. There was a knock on the door. Visalakshi snatched away the letter from my hand in a hurry, shoved it under the pillow and then went to open the door. Her mother walked in and stopped at the door; she was taken aback as she saw me.

“What! What! Is that Janakamma? Long time! You, girl, you haven’t come to the wedding either. So, when did you come to town? Your mother didn’t mention it either,” she said with her fingers on her cheek. She poured a torrent of questions and inquiries nonstop.

“It’s not that, pinni. I came to your house as soon as I arrived here. Probably amma didn’t mention it since I was coming here anyway.”

“What does your husband do? Where do you live?”

“What can I say, pinni? It’s not our land. Don’t ask me about those people and that language—a world all too different. It’s only because of the job that we’re stuck in that corner, so far away,” I said.

“It’s okay, who cares about the distance nowadays. Both you and your husband are living in the same place, and that’s what counts. Your mother could worry about your health and such; but then, it’s also a big relief that you are doing fine. What else is there we mothers could ask for, if you ask me.”

“What are you talking about, pinni? How long we girls can stay in our natal homes? We have to go with our husbands, even it meant going to a forest. Wouldn’t Visalakshi leave in a day or two? That’s the way it is.”

“Where would she go? Her husband has set up a family in the city.”

“Ha!? With whom?” she said. I was shocked. Visalakshi looked at her mother furiously and then laughed aloud. She said, “With his studies. My mother is making fun of her son-in-law.” Her mother was about to say something, looked at Visalakshi, and shut up. I was perplexed completely. I stared at them with blank looks. Visalakshi’s mother noticed my predicament and changed the subject, “Janaki, did you see the baby?”

“Your grandson is looking like a ripe mango. But you didn’t show me your son’s boy. Probably he looks like a melon,” I said.

“Oh, God! Am I that fortunate? I even made a vow to the Lord Venkataramana that I would name the baby after Him if I had a grandson through my daughter-in-law. I had the couple, my son and the daughter-in-law, perform circumambulations around Lord Subbarayudu; had performed a special worship at Simhachalam; had installed the Serpent statue. Don’t ask me, how many ways I’ve prayed. It’s my karma. It’s no use, I am accursed.” She went on on those lines for a while and kept smacking her forehead. I was confused and looked at Visalakshi. She sat there for a while looking down and doodling lines on the floor with her toes. Then she got up and left the room. Her mother was surprised to see her daughter leave the room and followed her. I felt as if I was sitting on a bed of thorns. I didn’t know what to do. I got up, went to the baby’s bed and was about to pat on his cheek and adjust the pillow. I felt the envelope. I looked at the envelope and noticed the address. It was addressed to Visalakshi’s husband.

My head spun and my heart was shattered. The ground under my feet was crumbling. Was Visalakshi the cloud that would not pour down as rain? She who swallowed such a huge burden of pain, and laughing and looking around with weary eyes for a husband who would never show up; loving, caring, and worshipping him; who is she? Is she the wilted lotus stuck amidst a mass of weeds? Is she an incarnation of sorrow in the form of a laugh? Is she the rage that could defy karma? Who’s this Visalakshi? Who’s this Visalakshi who could honor her husband simply to protect her mangalyam?[7]. Is she the same childlike Visalakshi who played all girlish games like bujabujarekulu and gujjanaguullu, performed pretend weddings of dolls? What a tremendous change she’d undergone! That one, the past Visalakshi was an artless child. This one is a sarvamangala[8] who had swallowed everything which an ill-fated life would bring, and showered blessings on the world with the tears she never shed but sucked up into herself. What kind of sin she’d committed to have such a heavy punishment meted out to her? Why is she the target of such a huge injustice?—I was burning inside and looking for answers. In my head, millions of visions and zillions of questions were howling like demons. I pressed my forehead desperately and looked up. Visalakshi was standing in front of me like a carved statue, looking sad and flickering her eyelids as if begging for my forgiveness. I couldn’t control myself. I pulled her toward me, hugged her tight and sobbed, stroking her hair gently. She freed herself from my arms, wiped her tears, smiled vaguely while her lips curved sadly, and walked me to the door. Her laugh was not audible to the human ear; heavy like a mountain; that was the laugh of an ill-fated woman who was helpless and crushed; it was the laugh of Sitamma, who agonized with despair and sought refuge in Valmiki’s asram; the acerbic, torrid laugh of the mountain that contained the fiery lava, the venomous, bubbling combustion that is contained in the nadir of an ocean fierce enough to burn the entire world. I couldn’t take the intensity of that laugh; couldn’t defend myself from under that weight, and so, I dashed home in just a few leaps.

My mother was waiting for me, without eating. My stomach was full. How could I eat? But I was afraid of the ensuing rumpus if I didn’t eat the very first day I arrived at mom’s home. So, I laid down the plank and sat on it, ready to eat a bite.

Amma said, as she poured ghee on my rice, “So, did you see Visalakshi’s little bundle of joy? How is he?”

“How else? An eyeful like a melon,” I said curtly.

“How is Visalakshi? Poor thing, a new mother, you see,” my mother continued her questioning.

“Yes, how is she? She’s looking like a million. A new mother with a son like melon,” I said and looked straight into her face. She was quiet, as if it didn’t matter; and continued to pour buttermilk into her plate. Apparently she didn’t even remember that those were the same words she had spoken earlier in the day!

[End]

Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published originally on thulika.net, April 2004.

Discussion: Author crossing gender barrier, click here

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(Telugu original, kamalina kamalam, was published in “Yuva”, December 1966, and later included “Priyadarsini: Samagra katha samputam” by M. Ramakoti, and published by Jyeshta Literary Trust, 2000.)

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[1] pedarasi peddamma, a mythological character in Telugu folklore, known for narrating the travelogues gathered by her visiting travelers, while feeding the poor traveler.

[2] A festive day for young women; occurs in October. Young women sing and dance in the early hours, play on swings and fast for the entire day, in the hope of getting a loving and caring husband.

[3] Lord of Death.

[4] Home-made dark paste, applied as eye-liner, also known as colyrieum..

[5] Literally, ten incarnations of god.

[6] A popular notion that sometimes a person might be born as one’s child to clear the past debt.

[7] Traditional marital status.

[8] Goddess Gauri, who is believed to be an incarnation and a grantor of the very marital bliss.