Author Archives: Nidadavolu Malathi

Nidadavolu Malathi. Eminent Telugu Scholars and Other Essays

A Series of analytical/informative articles on Telugu scholars and a few topics in Telugu Literature.

The articles include prominent authors: Kanuparthi Varalakshmamma, Nidudavolu Venkatarao, Nayani Krishna Kumari, Utukuri Lakshmikantamma, Tenneti Hemalatha, and Arudra.

Topics include tanscultural transference from Telugu to English, structure in Telugu story, elements of oral tradition in Telugu story, what makes a story a good story, humor and family values in Telugu stories, and bilingualism in Andhra Pradesh.

EminentscholarsRev.

Your comments are appreciated.

Nidadavolu Malathi
August 10, 2023.

That’s Me

My life is a cereal box half empty.
   My life is a book of poems
   The blank half of every page.
My life is the little vacua between branches
   of the humongous Banyan tree
Shooting down branches and rooting in.
My life is not your world
Filled with umpteen little meaningless objects.
It is the vast expanse of the sky
  Sporting Stars and Signs.
You cannot comprehend my life
 Until you will take in the total view of the sky.

 7.01.2023

Munipalle Raju. Beyond the Shores of the River Existentialism

Beyond the Shores of the River Existentialism By Munipalle Raju, translated by Nidadavolu Malathi.

An Anthology of short stories in Telugu by Eminent scholar and writer, Munipalle Raju, entitled Astitvanadam avali teerana, translated into English by Nidadavolu Malathi, under the title Beyond the Shores of the River Existentialism, and published by Kendra Sahitya Akademi, is available now at Swati, Temple Road, New Delhi, 110 001, India. You may also contact sales@sahitya-akademi.gov.in. Rs.270.00
This project had been quite a challenge for me. Among other things, the stories are imbued with Mr. Raju’s vast knowledge of ancient works, Indian and Telugu culture and traditions. In fact, had I provided notes and explanations for all the references he had woven into his stories, it would be one more book, possibly, bigger. I have noted some of the challenges in the book under the title, “Translating astitvanadam avali teerana; A Unique Learning Experience,” though.
In short, reading these stories would be a unique experience for readers interested in Indian culture, traditions and the essence of Indian philosophy.
I have provided some footnotes, sometimes, with the help of my knowledgeable friends. I am grateful to them.
With nearly twenty years of experience in translating fiction from Telugu into English, this is my best work yet, I would add. I hope you will enjoy these stories in English.
Much obliged for your kind comments. Thanks in advance.

Nidadavolu Malathi
6.22.2023

Sunita Ratnakaram. Speech on Two Novels of Malathi.

(Sunita Ratnakaram garu spoke at a meeting organized by Kalpana Rentala [Founder and organizer of Molla puraskaram] garu to award Molla Puraskaram to Nidadavolu Malathi garu on March 11, 2023. Sunita Ratnakaram is an avid reader of Telugu and English literature, and a professor of business at a reputable college in India.)
000

A Review of two novels, Chatakapakshulu and Marpu.

Preamble:
First, I congratulate Malathi garu on receiving the Molla Puraskaram. I extend my namaskarams to all the speakers assembled here to discuss the literary works of Nidadavolu Malathi garu. My only qualifications to say a few words about Malathi’s novels at this meeting are reading her fiction zealously; also because I like her as a writer and as a person.

Kalpana garu, [Founder and organizer of Molla Puraskaram], thank you for creating this opportunity for me to speak today.

The first thing I should mention is what nearly 50% of Malathi’ followers on Facebook would say; she is the reason I have retained my Telugu language skills to this extent. After watching her determination, I started with writing small words in Telugu. Now I am writing even English words in Telugu script, if necessary. We all know the words remain in our control only as long as we put them in writing.

The one factor that always amazes me about her is: her fiction, the titbit writings on Facebook full of humor, satire, and dialogues; and, her knack to update her technical skills regularly, and continue her literary activities on Thulika. Coming to my topic, other speakers will be speaking on other topics, I confined my speech to her two novels, Chatakapakshulu and Marpu.

Whether it is a story or a novel, the general rule is not to recount a summary. Therefore, I will follow the same rule and share my understanding of the two novels only.

Chatakapakshulu is her first novel. Previously, I have expressed my opinions on both the novels in a separate article.[Sunita’s article previously published on tethuika.wordpress.com here] Due to my job and other responsibilities, I could not read this novel novel for a second time, but I have read d Marpu again. I apologize.

Chatakapakshulu
Malathi said she had started this novel in the 1980s, stopped for a while, and again picked it up and finished it in 2004. The novel has been published as a serial on APWeekly.com the same year. Currently, the Telugu original is available on her blog, Telugu thulika. [For Chataka Birds in English click here]

Briefly stated, Chatakapakshulu is about a young woman, Geetha, who arrives in America after her marriage with Hari, an NRI. She lives her life as it comes without any goal or plan, while absorbing local culture, reminiscing about the place where she had grown up, watching the other Indians who had arrived under similar circumstances as herself, and trying to reconcile all those with her own thoughts.

One might wonder, “Why read this now; there was a time when barely one person from one city had been to America; later, it was one person from one street, and now, every household has one in America. That being the case, what is there in this novel that we don’t already know?” We can accept that argument if the author presented it as a travelogue or a description of American way of life.

But, in this novel, author delineates human psyche and analyses of the characters; that is what makes it a ‘must read’ book.

All the characters – from those that appear briefly, such as Sivam, Kanakam, Emmanuel, and Achala, to the main characters like Geetha, Hari and Tapathi – are depicted as characters full of life and zest. The interaction between the characters are authentic and captivating. We see all of the through the eyes of Geetha, who remains detached, like a dewdrop on a lotus leaf. Author’s restraint not to make Geetha a perfect model because she is the protagonist has done enormous good to the character.

Malathi touches upon a wide variety of issues from social programs and devotional gatherings in an attempt to maintain the spirit of native culture to the travesties of social groups or literary meets. She has accomplished it through humor, satire, and brevity. From what I have read, I find Malathi’s stamp as a straight-to-the-point narration without unnecessary theatrics. You will find this peculiarity throughout this novel. I consider it a characteristic of a good story; and, I admire it, both as a reader, and personally. Her observations about the field of literature are few, yet notable.

Marpu novel [Change]
What a great way to make use of the breadth available to the novel! I was amazed how widely she has discussed the changes in several areas, and all in crisp short sentences. I was amazed to not she has commented on so many areas elaborately. They include: the evolution of man-woman relationship from personal to societal; familial relationships; metamorphoses in the lives of Indians, Americans and Indian Americans; changes in the metaphysical perspectives of individuals; literary groups, and their activities. She has not, however, give in to the temptation of offering solutions to each problem.

I will not say this is her magnum opus work, but marpu certainly belongs in the trove of best novels I have read. We must be grateful to Malathi for writing on the changes so eloquently.

Now, let’s examine it further in detail.
In this novel, after describing a party of Telugu people, author says, “Just in those two and a half hours, I’ve got the feeling I had seen one half of the city.” In just one page, the readers get a bird’s eye-view account of political, societal, familial, individualistic, and theological matters; it is as exasperating to the reader as to the narrator. One can visualize the suffocating atmosphere distinctly. The narrative flows briskly and realistically. And with equal genuineness and ease, she discusses potent questions such as what is happiness and what makes life complete. This discussion should or could be lengthy, but Malathi accomplishes it in a crisp, brief narration.

She does not constrain herself only to Telugu characters, but also extends to matters relating to American society, as and when it is appropriate fot the development of the story. Some of them are: glitches in the Social Security, credit card troubles, political parties’ rumpus, local politics, lenders, grocery store stories, not so obvious formalities in the invitations, playing ‘good’ hosts, and so on.

About the main characters in story, I would put it this way: Aravinda and Vishi represent the present generation; Leela and Sundaram belong to the previous generation; Vishi’s parents, Prabhas Rao and Sivani, are from two generations prior. So also are Aravinda’s parents; yet one more generation behind is Aravinda’s grandmother, Sridevi. Her older sister, Peddakka, is the oldest of all. All of them are from upper middle class and lower middle class; or, just one step below.

With all the characters at play, this novel may be taken as a commentary of the narrator, Malika, on the changes in human relationships as mentioned earlier, the good and the bad in the institution of marriage, and about the changes in all matters.

That does not mean the author constrains the discussion to only one topic. Just like in all the novels in general, Malathi includes subplots also, while narrating the main plot. She makes the best use of the breadth available to a novel, like any other good novelist. To put it in one sentence, this novel has not been written to illustrate only one subject. I would say, using the English phrase we are used to, the narrative ‘evolves’. One day, she speaks about the value of ‘word’ and how sharp it could be; on another day, it is about the laughs and cries in real life situations; yet another day, about a young boy who elaborates on the pleasure and pain in life from a theologian’s perspective; or about the origins of feminism in America and whether it is suitable for Telugu people. She also discusses the changes in the conditions of the lives of our women powerfully, including a few researchers’ input on those matters. About a person’s progress in the Hindu tradition and their methods of finding solutions to their problems, and the family’s role in it, on another day. Also, the hardships of a grandfather after the family he had supported, throws him out and after they find no use for him. There are so many stories woven into this story; and, all of them merge superbly into the main story, but for a couple of incidents that stand out.

The poet’s trip to America is a must read account. Another sub-plot similar to this, is the literary meets and the speeches at those meetings. Malathi’s comments are rendered in her decisive style complete with her in-depth look and scrutiny; and, not a part to be passed.

Here are a few gems:
“What do you mean experience? Is it not the only lesson we have learned from history? That we learn nothing from history? If we had learned from history, we would have no more wars after the Maha Bharata war of Dwapara yuga. We all would be living happily forever.”

“Nobody knows better than yourself, what your situation is, what your capabilities are, and what makes you happy. You are the only one who knows it.”

“You are still young. You make decisions based on what you see. Let alone each subject, you will put everything in dry words, in black and white. For me, everything is a conundrum. No matter how much I have learned, I still feel like there is more to it.” – A very good example of the change in the mode of thinking in different generations; she puts it in simple words with ease.

Author’s observations

Malathi’s observations are carefully thought out. For instance, she says we tickle babies and see them laughing; but, do we really know if the babies are enjoying it?

Here is another example. While speaking with Tarakam, Sridevi speaks at length about the changes Battula Kamakshamma, Nalam Suseelamma, and Veeresalingam[ Renowned social reformers in the 19th and 20th centuries. ] had brought about. But, with Aravinda, she talks about her own childhood and tells the stories she had heard at the time in a cozy friendly conversation. The readers are charmed as they notice the difference between the two conversations.

In essence, the author’s conviction is clear: there is no single rule that works for all occasions, like there is no one mantra that works for both fear of thunderbolt and begging for alms[ A proverb. There are different mantras, one to waive the fear of the thunderbolt and the other for begging alms. ]. Each individual should make decisions in accordance with the times and their competence, and based on their own experiences and potential.

Malathi’s fliar for sarcasm

Lastly, my personal favorite is her use of sarcasm. We all know sarcasm gives great pleasure to the readers, if the writer knows how to make the best use of it. Malathi is one such writer. For instance,

“My social skills kill me.”[A pun The Telugu sentence plays on a word, goru in kalupugoruthanam.]


“True, sir. In this country, we can’t even die without prior appointment, like varala abbayi[ A once a week food arrangement with a family. The family agrees to feed the young man until he finishes school. ]. If the Yama [god of Death] comes to take me away, I will have to tell him to come back after six months.”


“The movie has started. Nobody seems to know what is happening. Nobody is ready to admit they have no clue what is happening. Maybe, they will, tell after a few more minutes.”


“So, who all came to the meeting? I mean the eminent people?”
“What can I say if you put it that way? All of them are eminent people. Why would they be invited if they are not eminent?”


“Nevermind. Tell me what you have talked about?”
“Why bother her like that? Actually, that was not a meeting of speeches; it was awards meeting. It is like serving food at our weddings. They call the names, the awardees go on to the stage; and somebody hands a plaque or a certificate to each awardee; they may or may not mention the recipient’s field of expertise. At the photo session, however, they make a big point of telling the awardees to stand up with a big smile and showing off the plaque. That’s about it.”


This concludes my observations on these two novels. In these two novels, we find several insights that can be made possibly by this narrator only. I urge Malathi garu to write at least one more novel for giving us more of such in-depth observations.

Malathi garu appears, on the surface, as overwhelmed with worldly activities, but, in reality, is detached, I think. Maybe detached is not the right word; she is focused on detachment, I might say.
Since this Molla Puraskaram (ceremony) is not the kind of ceremony mentioned earlier, but one of the 8 pleasurable events I have enumerated above, I congratulate Malathi garu one more time and take leave of you all.
000
(Original speech delivered at a zoom meeting, Molla puraskaram ceremony on March 11, 2023. Translated with speaker’s permission.)

April 8, 2023

P. Sathyavathi. The Song

                                         My Song by P.Sathyavathi

   I checked my appearance in the mirror and felt satisfied. The sweet face that looked back at me
was indeed, enticing. I was about to embark on a journey on to the other bank of the river.

I was inexplicably happy that day, perhaps due to my youthful energy, or due to an imaginative
mind that always desired for the moon. Armed with a confidence that I could get that moon if I
wanted to, I was on the clouds. I picked up my colourful bags, three of them, made with coloured
beads, bright flowers and colourful threads. Of course, I wouldn’t leave my friend behind, the ever present song on my lips, would I? In fact, I cunningly extracted a promise from the song, never to leave my lips.

Thus equipped to face the life, I stood on the bank of the river, watching the sun rise, awe struck. A small boat came along. It looked a pretty sight, swaying in the mighty, dignified river. There was a man in the boat.  He had a smile fixed on his lips and looked very handsome, indeed.

“Do you want to jump in?” he asked.
“Now, what are those bags?” he enquired further.
“These bags? My friendships, my memories, my ambitions, my likes, my talents and many things that define me,” I replied.
“I see! Ok, jump in. Don’t forget all those bags. You might bring that song on your lips too. Do you need to hold my hand to get into the boat?”
“Of course not! I can get into the boat all by myself, thank you. In fact, I know how to row the boat, as well. By the way, where are you off to?”
“Nowhere in particular. I will row as long as I can and stop when I feel tired. You can get down
where ever you want to get down,” he replied flippantly.
The idea appealed to me and I jumped into the boat.
“Welcome aboard,” he said as he looked into my eyes with a smile. I saw the light in his eyes and felt an inexplicable thrill.

The river flowed silently, displaying all her moods and colours. The blue hills along the banks, the greenery in the fields, the clear sky above, my song on my lips, the lively whistle of my friend, his witty talk, everything made me blissful. He told me about all his dreams, opinions and desires Lulled into a drowsy sleep with his songs accompanied by the ripple of the river, I hoped the journey would go on forever! In that happy, carefree moment I invited the young man into my thoughts and my heart. I shared everything with him, all that I called mine. I felt richer by the experience. I sang in ecstatic abandon. We vowed under the beautiful moon that we shall travel together always.

Up to that moment we had been taking turns in rowing the boat. But then he said, “Darling, you
look tired. Your bright eyes are drooping with sleep. Why don’t you take a rest while I do the
rowing?” I was proud of the love I inspired in him.

I closed my eyes listening to one of the songs he composed for me. Then he disappeared. I woke
up in fright. My song on my lips called him loudly. He returned panting.

“Where did you disappear?” I asked in fright.
“My dear! I realised we have a long way to row before we settle down. It is going to be a tiring,
boring job. I am trying to make a machine that will row this boat automatically.” He replied
earnestly.
“Oh yeah? What will you do if the boat is going all by it self? Look into my eyes all the time, I
suppose!” I teased him.
“My poor baby! We are young now. Do you want to spend the entire life rowing the boat? Don’t we need to settle down? Don’t we need to live happily ever after, like kings? I can’t have you rowing this stupid boat for ever! That is why I am slogging now, so that we can reach the other bank quickly, then build a nice big house and settle down comfortably.”

“What is this comfortable living?” I asked curiously.
“We will discuss that later, but now get me some food.” He became impatient.
“Did you not bring anything to eat with you?”
“No, I am going to be busy for a while with that machine. Here after it is your business to organize food for both of us.” He declared.
I got up yawning. I plunged into work. My friend, the song got bored. It said, “Hey, you seem to be too busy to notice me. I am going for a walk in the woods.” So saying it left me to go for a stroll.
“Don’t leave me now. I find it easier to work when you are with me,” I begged. “Don’t be silly. I will be back,” it replied hurrying out.

Eventually my lover found that he had no time to listen to my song. Nor did he have time to adore me.  When I stopped the boat near the bank to cook food, he searched in the nearby bushes to gather some material and filled the boat.  He demanded that I organize all that material and clean the boat to make it look nice. He began hoarding material.

His focus and hard work got to me. I admired his determination and strength. He is so strong and
loving, I thought happily. I decided to make him happy and keep him free of worries, at all times
and by all means. I cooked for him with more devotion; I shared his work to give him some free
time and relaxation. I insisted on taking turns with rowing. I did all this with love and sincerity.

The boat started to get filled with different kinds of things. Just for the sake of reaching the other
bank and settle down to live happily ever after he accumulated lot of material. The boat also
started to be filled with different kinds of noises. Hammering, sawing, drilling nails and all kinds of mechanical jobs made peculiar, unfamiliar noises in the boat.

One day, I was startled when I remembered that my song had left me long ago. “Where did it go
for such a long time? How could I stay for such a long time without my best friend?” I wondered. I called my song loudly. It came after a long time, reluctantly. I missed the affection in its voice which was always there.

“Where were you all these days? I had to call you loudly, to bring you here,” I complained. “What else could I do? I couldn’t bear the noises in this boat any more. In the beginning I found some rhythm in his hammering, sawing and drilling. I tried to join them. But slowly I started hating that sound, so I left. I cannot stay in this cacophony. I will come and visit you once in a while, if you want me to,” the song said defiantly. I did not know what to say. “Come on, let’s go for a small walk in the trees,” my song invited me.

“I can only come once in a while to comfort you. I cannot live on your lips any more, I am sorry!” so saying my song left me.

I lost the man who invited me into the boat with brightly shining eyes, the man who offered to help me into the boat, and the man whose face seemed to be fixed with a smile. I saw him only at meal times. All that laughter, that chattering, those songs, that love, everything disappeared. He seem to spend all his time and energy filling the boat with material and machines. I saw him working at something new one day. I asked him about it. He said that it was a weapon to protect us with.

I felt restless. I thought I will open my bags and look at my friendships, memories and my
belongings. But I could not find my bags. I searched everywhere on the boat. Looking under the
bricks, inside the tool box, under the hammers and every other inch of the boat yielded no result.

“My bags! I have lost them. My talents, my memories, my experiences, everything is lost. Where
are they? How could I have lost them?” I wept inconsolably. Did I forget myself in my love for him? Have I lost everything that belonged to me?

He took my grief very lightly. “Oh, don’t make such a big fuss. We must have chucked it out of the boat some day while cleaning. But, first come and see what I have got for you.” He led me into his work shop. “At last, I have finished what I had started. This machine will run the boat automatically.
You need not work hard any more. Take rest, here after. Look at yourself. Your hair started to turn grey. Your skin lost its lustre. You can leave the rowing and spend time looking after yourself. Make yourself beautiful as before. I still have some more things to finish. I don’t know if I have accumulated enough things to live happily ever after. Here, press this button. Throw those miserable oars into the river. I am making many more machines like this to make life easy for you. All that you’ve to do is to press the buttons.”

I pressed a button. The boat sped up. I sat down. I lost my song. I lost my beaded bag with
flowers. I hardly see my beloved. Now I don’t even have the job of rowing the boat. What do I do with myself?

“What shall I do now? I lost all my talents. Can I work with you in the work shop?” I asked him
eagerly one day.

“Oh no!  You take it easy and look after your beautiful figure. Cook for me. Look after me. That will be sufficient.”

I looked at my reflection in water. My lips looked dried after the song left them. The innocent sweet face with which I jumped into the boat looked jaded and tired. The boat went speeding, cutting the river. It suddenly seemed to be getting heavier.

I did not know what all things he filled the boat with, for us to live like kings, for a future full of
riches. Strangely, right from child hood I hated riches and kings. To live like kings we need to feel superior over others, which I disliked. I detested equally riches and treasures. What can we do with all the treasure in the world, except buying more and more meaningless stuff, I used to think.  My beloved harped on those two words which began to annoy me.

My best friends and my song left me and never returned. I lost my man whom I loved above
everything else. Why did I stat this journey and where am I going now, I wondered. What is my
destiny? Why did I fall in love with him as soon as I saw him? Why did I jump into this boat upon his invitation? I lost all that I shared with him. He mesmerised me with his eyes, with his smiles and with his love. He threw away all my belongings when they annoyed him. He promised to make a beautiful world for me. I surrendered my heart and my soul to him. Where has he disappeared?

I heard a small groan. I was surprised and got up to look. In this boat it is only both of us living.
Then whose voice was that? The boat was still running. Whenever the boat complained of increasing burden, he threw away old stuff. He threw away old memories, old habits and everything else he felt useless. Only the machines remained.

Then I heard somebody laugh. I was more surprised. Who groaned and who laughed?
“Yes of course, it is me who laughed. Could you figure out who groaned?” asked the rowing
machine.  It paused for a while and said, “I think it is time for you to jump out of this boat. I
cannot stand your weight any more.”

“First let us call him. Both of us will jump out of this wretched boat together. Or even better, we will kill you and row the boat with our oars as before,” I replied angrily.

“Call him? He won’t be able to come. He is stuck among those machines that he made and those
he plans to make. He is never going to make his way out of those desires in his mind,” the
machine laughed cruelly.

“Oh no! That is not going to happen. I am going to free him from those monstrous machines. All
these days I was in a kind of trance. He always managed to convince me into obeying him. Why did I listen to him? Why did I not convince him? Why did I not save him from these meaningless
desires? Why did I not hold on to my bags? How did I loose all my belongings? How could I be so careless? I want all those back, I also want my man,” I lamented.

“He is beyond your help now. You lost your song too. Who will help you in getting him out? Forget about him and jump out of the boat. Otherwise I am going to sink under all this weight.” The boat warned me.  

Who cares about this miserable little boat, I thought. But I am not the one to give up like that. I
raised my voice and called my song. I put my heart and soul into it. Of course, the song was my
best friend. It came rushing to my aid. It settled on my lips as always. Together we set out. To get him back, with the things that he loved.

To get back my man who invited me into this boat, to make new beaded bags, to throw away all the rubbish we accumulated in this journey, to keep only what we needed and liked, to live a life fully with some work, some creativity, some imagination, lot of love and to spare some thought for others, to fill my beaded bags with values, I set out with the help of my song. With my best friend on my lips, I was confident of a victory.
[End]

(The Telugu original, nenostunnaanu, was published in Andhra jyoti.
Translated by Sharada, Australia, and published on thulika.net, August 2008.)

Molla Award to Nidadavolu Malathi

Nidadavolu Malathi will be awarded Molla Puraskaram on Saturday, March 11, 2023 at 10:00 a.m. EST.
You are invited to join Zoom Meeting
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/8117006366

Update: The meeting has concluded successfully. You may watch it on YouTube at Molla Puraskaram on YouTube

Meeting ID: 811 700 6366
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Munipalle Raju. The Royal Fighter

Sprinkling outside; inside the air was at a dead stop, causing humid. The house was a crummy dump. It felt like the time had come to a standstill for over ten thousand years.

No dialogue between the father and the son. Both of them were royal fighters; carried a commanding physique. Thriving in the heroic service of the royalty, their muscles had put cowardice out of their minds. Their forefathers had served the same lineage of sovereigns for generations. Their blood was boiling like a burning pond; seemed to have got caught in the scathing stillness and stopped moving.

There was no lamp in the room. The senior fighter, Narasimhulu, well-known as Jetty, struck two fire stones and made a flame to light up the tobacco rolled in a raw leaf. His gray hairs glimmered like gold against the flicker from the fire stones.

His son, Veera Raghavulu, sat by the water pot in front of the clay stove and kept stirring the splinters to keep the flames going. They both sat down across from each other. Veeranna (Veera Raghavulu) was facing the east and Jetty the west. There was not enough heat since the splinters were raw; and it annoyed him further. The pot contained barely a handful of grain—that was all they could get after pounding the partially shelled rice. That tiny house was trying to break the dead stop of time with a momentary hope. The house turned into a platform of a hopeless goddess, a brisk, heavy, and presumptuous incarnation in the conflict of two heart-broken souls expecting a potful of gruel amid the smoke and venomous dead stop. Veeranna’s eyes were burning from the smoke.

Jetty was impatient; he was about to throw away the cheroot, but his hand pulled back. Veeranna, the junior fighter, felt pangs in his stomach; was about smash the pot, but his heart would not allow him. He threw down the bamboo pipe. The flames revived and the gurgling noise in the pot picked up simmering.

They were silent. Not that they hated each other, but neither of them spoke a word to the other.The common property they shared was made up of hunger, blood and valor.

Jetty hurled the cheroot in his had away. Without looking at his son, he transported his soul into the toxic air, “His Majesty sent for us.”

Veeranna blew into the pipe like an avenging snake. He did not utter a sound, not so much as an um. He was aware of the power of those words; he knew those words could break the silence and the toxic stillness of ten thousand years. But he did not reply. Blood shot through all his blood vessels and straight through his heart like a blast of lava.

The senior fighter said slowly, “They said the young prince has returned from abroad.”

There was no reply, no Oh or Ah.

“Asking us to teach him hunting.”
No Oh or Ah.

“The directive was ‘get rid of the cheetahs in the western forest’.”

A bolt thundered. “I have told you hundreds of times not to bring up the matter of those donkeys in front of me.”

“As they say, we have had their salt. Veeranna! We owe them.”

“I am telling you one more time. Never bring up that stupid subject with me again. Whose salt we have had? We ate only what was ours. Mother died the death of a stray dog. Which salt do you think brought it down upon her? And whose salt landed us in this wretched life? We can’t have a sip of broth without a fierce struggle. Why? And about that wooden leg of yours, whose salt has gotten that for you?”

Jetty’s muscles puffed-up at once. He could see his own demeanor even in that darkness like in a mirror. It was red like a beet; an overripe, dark beet. Veeranna’s words summed up his entire life span. He could not take it anymore; his leg moved heavily making a screechy noise. It came from his wooden leg.

Outside, the sprinkles turned into a heavy rain. Inside, silence took over the reigns of the outside world once again. The stove stopped hissing like a cobra. The man sitting in front of the stove stopped grinding his teeth. On the other side, the wooden leg stopped screeching.

The rain was pouring like the wailing of a large army of chariots, elephants, horses and infantry from the heaven, all at once. It looked like the fire in the stove died; the ashes on top of the burning coal underneath.

Veeranna poured the broth into two clay cups, put one next to the pillar, and sat down with the second cup. The broth in the two cups was letting out steam like the grief of Mother Earth.

The young fighter blew on his broth and took a sip. It had no flavor, no salt. He got up with abruptly, gritting his teeth like two tree trunks in the woods. He groped in a few places in the eaves. He could not find it. He pulled a stick from the stove, blew on it, and made a torch. With the torch, he found the salt in a paper folds. He opened it impatiently. There was not much salt in it. He shook it into the cup by the pillar and went back to his cup.

The wooden leg also moved. No more steam from his cup; the cold breeze blowing in cooled it down.

“Listen, Veeranna!”

Son was quiet.

Senior bent down, holding on to the pillar with one hand, and grabbed his cup with the other hand. He took a few sips quickly; stopped for a second, and swirled the cup in circles to mix the salt in the broth.

“Listen. Whatever happened has happened; it is over. You have not found work yet; not even royal horses to groom. They sent them away to the city. And I am not as brawny as I used to be. If we go for hunting with the prince, we’ll see a little money again. It gets us through until you find work.”

Not one word came out of the son’s mouth. He went on sipping the broth.

“I swear on your life. We are facing bad times.. Let me go this once, at least.”

Son did not speak. The broth in the Jetty’s cup was down to the last drop. Not a drop less in junior’s cup.

Father spoke again, “The prince is a nobleman. You two had learned to fence and shoot together. What a poise in his bearing! Have you not noticed it?.”

Son had only one question to ask. “When they accused mother of stealing and let their underlings broke her bones, did your poised prince stop them?”

The rain was pouring down as if a million hole were drilled into the sky; it was like all the divine space in the sky was wailing unanimously on that dark night. It was getting heavier by the minute. The cold wind added its mite to the rain like an older brother.

One sentence, one question, one unbearable, harsh truth; One family; One wife, one son, one father, and one atrocity.

The senior swallowed the wrath that gushed to this throat, like a lava. Who is that human who is still alive even after hearing that question? His own son! He was still alive only because the words came from his(Jetty’s) son; that was why he was alive.
“I gave them my word, Veeranna! Listen to me. We are dealing with the royalty. We can accomplish nothing by fighting them. We just have to learn to live on broth,” he said.

Son picked up his cup and threw it straight into the pillar ahead. That was the man’s offering to the sky’s howling. He screamed, “Go, go, please go. Of course, you’ve given your word! You are their minion. I am not your son anymore. I will never be born to a lowlife again. You and I are done. Go, just go.” And then he leapt into the dark rain outside.
The grief-stricken gods up in the sky did not ask him to go out. He disappeared into the darkness.

The broken pieces from the cup pricked the senior’s other leg. He peered through the rain. He put down the cup in the rain as a representative of the aggrieved people in universe above.

***

On the day before, the senior fighter had received an invitation from the palace. “The Prince set out to go hunting. The Yanadis[ A scheduled tribe engaged in services like agriculture, hunting, etc. ] have been waiting since morning. Agreed you are great senior fighter, but how dare you delay the plan? Come quick; move.”

What an invitation:
An invitation from a prince who would have a photo taken with the lion Narasimhulu had killed, and would be recognizes in the newspapers; his way of climb up the social ladder.

Narasimhulu’s wooden leg screeched again. He could crush the messenger into a hundred thousand pieces, just like Dhritarashtra had crushed the steel Bhima[1]An episode in Maha Bharata. On a different note, all these episodes referred herein from Maha Bharata and Ramayana, are too long to explain in a footnote. If you are interested, you may check them on … Continue reading. But the invitation came from the royalty; and the growling hunger from his guts! The senior fighter knew that.

 ***

 Father looked at his son lying on the jute-rope cot and moaning. I wish he had not returned home, he thought. The son had dashed into the rain last night, returned home completely drenched, threw himself on the shabby cot, and kept coughing heavily. He was running high temperature, lying in bed, and breathing heavily. He wished, for a second, his son did not return home that night. But he is my son, this is my house, and this is house. He lay in the beat up cot, coughing.
He looked at his son again. His wooden leg screeched breaking the silence following the messenger’s voice. Who am I? Yudhishtira or Dhritarashtra?[2]Characters in Maha Bharata.

Son stopped coughed one more bout and stopped. He uttered feebly, “Go ahead, Nannaa!”

Senior fighter looked at Junior. Father watched him keenly. Narasimhulu watched Veera Raghavulu, fixedy. Those words did not fall from the sky; nor they came shattering through the earth. That was his son’s voice; those words were spoken by his son. They came from the shabby cot and in between bouts of cough. Father’s wooden leg moved forward.

He sat in the jeep along with Yanadi drummers. Behind the jeep, the prince and his friend followed them in a Cadillac. The friend came from the city; his interest was only prostitutes.

Narasimhulu was brooding over: the cheetah could jump on the prince, after noticing the prince or getting shot. In either case, Jetty should save the prince by risking his own life. He must protect this prince with baby cheeks; must make sure that he was not hurt, not even a scratch by a thorn. He was the prince’s savior; But he was not eligible to sit next to the prince. The hurt crushed his heart. He saw his son’s face lying on the cot and coughing in the jeep’s murky the side mirror. Like the darkness of the night, dark thoughts spread across in his heart.

Within a mile from the woods, the king had a foot-path laid, but that had disappeared. The vehicles stopped there. It was not dark yet. Fighter Narasimhulu got down from the jeep, and greeted the prince respectfully. The prince threw away the cigarette in his hand and called the driver.

“Who has sent this crippled idiot to accompany us?” he asked.

Jetty did not hear what the driver had said.

The driver said, “Your Majesty may have forgotten, He taught you how to fire the gun and also martial arts in your childhood, your Majesty.”

Those words of wisdom did not reach the prince’s ear. He was consoling his friend who worried because he was missing the beastly pleasures he had enjoyed the night before.

Stupid cripple?

Arrangements to kill the cheetah were underway. But the senior’s heart was not on the arrangements.
Stupid cripple? He belonged to a long line of valiant fighters who had protected the king’s life, queen’s honor, and the treasury when the enemies attacked the country. He faught in competitions with other wrestlers and held the royal flag up high. How did he get the crippled leg? Was it when he risked his life and fought the tribal warriors and protected the forests the king claimed as his? Was he not the servant who had waited on them day and night, while suffering from jungle fever, ignoring his sores, and protected the palace? Did he not paid back ten times for the food he had eaten at the palace?

But these new breed of rulers – Bhishmacharya and Dronacharya[3]Characters in Maha Bharata – had acquired a new, fake urban values, and forgotten to give him the respect they would give to their servants. They were behaving worse than the low class people, worse than their arrogant driver. They would rob the people’s land, sell it, and buy factories and race horses in the city. This new sovereignty would not allow anybody to take refuge in the palace, not even in the bodyguards’ quarters.
Who is stupid cripple? This stupid cripple was a hero, a warrior, and fighter, as good as a guru; the king’s lifesaver. He had been an enemy of the public in the past. He is not Bhishmacharya, but Sikhandi. He is Vibhishana for Ravana[4]Characters in Ramayana.. He would not be Dhritarashtra[5]Characters in Maha Bharata by he would not die as Yudhishtara[6]Eldest brother of five Pandava princes in Maha Bharata. He was Aswathama who had escaped the clan of Kaurava lineage. Now the only Vedic chant for him was the word his son had spoken in the rain. That would be his goal and his duty. He would pay his respects, doused in blood, to the tombstones of all his ancestors who had lost their lives in the king’s service. His duty was to do justice; time to pay back the despots who had been holding the rifles over their heads for centuries. Now the lion would arise from lions, humans from dust, and from the past heroes to the new generation of heroes.
 ***
 It was getting dark. The quiet moonlight escaped from the clouds and spread over the dense forest.

Fighter Narasimhulu set the stage for hunting. He tied a goat to a tree, withered and just sprouting, and fifty yards away from the lake. Across from the lake and behind the tamarind trees, they built a temporary platform. Narasimhulu helped the prince get on the platform and explained the ins and outs of hunting to the prince in a soft voice.

The drunken city friend of the prince and the driver stayed back in the car. He was brave only in assaulting helpless women, but not in hunting.

The Yanadi drummers hid in the bushes on all sides by the platform. Their job was to play the drums at the right time and confuse the cheetah.

The cheetah was expected to pounce upon the goat, and after eating it, go to the lake for water. While enjoying the water, the bullet hits it. The drummers make huge noise. The cheetah could not figure out where the enemy hid; that confuses it. Then another bullet his it. That was it; that was the plan.

“We need to examine the place thoroughly and have our guns set to fire,” Jetty whispered in prince’s ear. “If the cheetah smells a human, that is the end of it; we can’t get it.”

The prince brought the Austrian double-barrel gun he had bought in abroad. The fighter had an old, rugged gun he had received as a gift during the First World War. Bu, that gun had ripped through the brains of a dozen animals.

It was quiet all around. Jetty could hear the prince’s heart thumping.
The prince was not as cheerful as before.

Jetty looked at the gun he had been saving with great care for all these years, like his own life. He had cleaned and polished it. The barrel was shining bright in the dark.

The prince’s heartbeat traveled down his double-barrels, past Jetty’s barrel and touched Jetty’s heart. It was quiet.

Suddenly, his own name came to his mind: fighter Narasimhulu. In the story Lord Narashimha killed[7]Refers to the story of a child prince, Prahlada, and his attempts to convince his atheist father and king that God exists, two demons, Hiranyakasipu and Hiranyaksha; and saved the young prince, Prahlada. But, he(Jetty) sat there, unmoved, like Lord Narasimhaswamy in Mangalagiri, who rested on the mountain swallowing hundreds of pots of sweetened water.

Suddenly, he asked the prince, “Babu, what is your name?”

The prince recited a yard-long name, including all his titles, and then asked, “Why do you want to know?”

“Just. I taught you how to use the gun in your childhood, but never asked your name. You were little then.”

Again, silence.

At a distance, they noticed a shadow in the bushes. The prince tapped on the fighter’s arm quietly. The hand was shaking.

“Cheetah.”

“Wait a little.”

Silence.

The shadow grew bigger; they could see the figure. The visible figure moved toward the groaning goat. In the following minute, a desperate cry came searing through the heart of the sky. The forest, shocked by the injustice, looked around and lowered its head. But an echo responded to the desperate wailing and echoed from another corner. Silence.

The eyes of the men on the wooden platform shone. Their breathing stopped. The barrels of their guns also shone in the dark. Man’s justice was about to arbitrate the injustice and the inequality in the world as prescribed by nature.

Jetty pulled up to the prince and said, “You.” The prince’s Austrian double-barrel gun was shaking. Even in that darkness, beads of sweat on his face were shining visibly.

Jetty nudged him again.

DHUM, a huge sound flashed and shook the wooden platform. But the bullet did not hit the animal. His shaky hands missed the target and landed in the water.

There was no more silence.

They heard a terrifying roar like the preamble of a despot. The drums resounded in every direction, like the orchestra at the time of Vedic rituals performed by the rulers of the eight directions.

The cheetah turned around and looked at the platform. It sensed the human smell, roared and jumped at them. The prince dropped his gun, jumped from the back of the platform and ran away, He left Narasimhulu alone.

Jetty stopped breathing. DHUM. He shot the animal. It spun around three times. Narasimhulu took out the javalin from the bushes and threw it straight into the cheetah. It was like an axle between the animal and the earth. The drums stopped. Silence filled the space.

The fighter took a deep breath and looked around; he spotted the white shirt hiding in the shrub; the prince could not run far. Jetty picked up his gun, aimed at the prince from above the shrubs and shot DHUM. Far off, silence bowed down to the echoes. One more round of DHUM, DHUM, DHUM.

A thin veil covered over the white shirt. The prince fell to the ground.

Jetty got off the platform and sat next to the cheetah. He pulled out the javelin from the cheetah’s body and tossed it into the river. The drummers hurried to the vehicles.

Not until early next morning, the police van surrounded Narasimhulu. He was sitting by the prince’s body. He let the police see his face in the dim light of the lantern; stretched his hands forward, and said, “My name is Narasimhulu. I killed him. Arrest me.”

The senior fighter set to be hanged.

The police allowed his son to visit him in the morning.
Son touched father’s feet respectfully and said, “Nannaa, you are a world-class fighter. I am your son. Please, forget the words I had said to you on the other day.”

 [End]

(The Telugu original, Jetty”, was published in Andhra Patrika weekly, September 22, 1954,and included in the anthology, Munipalle Raju kathalu. Visalandhra Publishing House, 1992.
Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net, January 2005. Revised February, 20, 2023)

Photo of the author courtesy of www.museindia.com

References

References
1 An episode in Maha Bharata. On a different note, all these episodes referred herein from Maha Bharata and Ramayana, are too long to explain in a footnote. If you are interested, you may check them on Wikipedia.com
2 Characters in Maha Bharata.
3, 5 Characters in Maha Bharata
4 Characters in Ramayana.
6 Eldest brother of five Pandava princes in Maha Bharata
7 Refers to the story of a child prince, Prahlada, and his attempts to convince his atheist father and king that God exists

Magical Realism in the Stories of Munipalle Raju

by Nidadavolu Malathi


I have known Sri Munipalle Raju for over 60 years. I have come to know of his experiments with magical realism only in April 2014, when I started working on a translation of his anthology, Astitvanadam Aavali Teeraana (Beyond the Shores of the River Existentialism)

In his preface to the anthology, Raju stated that the western literary historians claim that the term “Magical Realism” has been coined by Latin American writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, but the same amazingmayavada rasa has manifested itself in the Indian folklore and puranas like Ramayana, Maha Bharata and Bhagavad Gita. He added Vyasa Maharshi was the first poet to captivate it in a way nobody else could. Raju stated he undertook his story-writing process, keeping in mind the works of guru Vyasa, the creator of Magical Realism, and within the purview of the complex problems in our daily existence.

In analyzing Raju’s stories, I kept in mind his premise regarding the themes as enunciated by him. According to Raju, the fundamental questions of humans in the Indian metaphysical world fall into three categories of agony: those caused by the mind (adhyatmikam), those caused by others (adhibhautikam), and those caused by Providence (adhidaivikam). “This complex set of questions has been pestering the humans in every yuga each time the wicked diabolical forces create the deadly fire and destroy the quietude of people’s lives. If we take the period when someone assembles his creative energies and destroys these lawless rogues as a transition period, in that twilight period these questions are the same as the doubts that cause the individuals to ache.

“… The social consciousness, and the consciousness of self are two flanks of modern man’s consciousness. They travel in the inner celestial chariot in his prolonged and distraught dream life at night. This magical realism is an attempt to articulate those mysterious vibrations. This genre has the power to transcend Time and Space. … … The magical realism, the marvellous reality, is the instrument that extricates the supra-mundane truths beneath the truths that are visible to the naked eye. Its natural form becomes visible only in the style of word-constructs of mayavada and chayavada schools. This does not follow the empty slogans of literary trends.” (Preface. Astitvanadam Aavali Teeraana).

Against this background, I attempt to shed some light on the concept of magical realism in Raju’s stories.

Both in print and on the Internet, a vast amount of discussions of the term “Magical realism” is available. However, for the purpose of this article, somewhat simplistically, I would like to define magical realism as an element that is faithful to everyday events in our lives with a touch of magic or mystery. The spirit of this element has been achieved in these stories through setting and expression.

Invariably, the term “magic” brings to our minds an assumption that it goes beyond what is visible to the naked eye and what we believe to be normal—the mysteries in our everyday lives. In our Puranas, a man born out of an earthen pot (Kumbhasambhavudu), a dog which followed Pandava Prince, Dharmaraja, to heaven, Hanuman, a monkey, growing to gigantic proportions at will, and crossing the ocean in one jump–all these constitute a kind of magic, and require the readers to stretch their imagination in order to visualise the event. In our daily lives, we hear or tell stories; we do not question or doubt their authenticity. We tell children the story of a hare challenging a tortoise to race, or a lion convincing a baby goat to pay for his father’s sins. No child asks in what language the hare the, tortoise, the lion, and the baby goat spoke. In fact, in today’s ever popular Sci-Fi and mysteries, this magic is present. Nevertheless, the core theme is, most of the time, if not always, the virtue conquering the vice. And, let us not forget we attribute human values of “virtue” and “vice” to the animals. The point is, in each case, a group of animate objects is created to drive a point home. We, the listeners, accept them with “willing suspension of disbelief,” and proceed to grasp the underlying message. That is magical realism. An aura of magic or mystery is created in a given story in order to transport the reader into an unknown milieu. Within the context, the story is told to reaffirm the truth reflecting the author’s point of view.

The dog in “Satrayagam in Naimisa Forest” (Naimisaranyamlo Satrayagam) plays a significant role in the life of the protagonist. The bird in the “Goddess of Good Fortune” (Adrushta devatha) plays the role of a friend and an intermediary. The big tree in “In the Shadows of the Maha Bodhi Tree” (Maha Bodhi Chayalo) speaks not only words of wisdom, but also offers comfort to the protagonist. The parallel between this tree and the Peepal tree under which Gautama Buddha had received enlightenment is unmistakable. There is, however, one difference between the two. The tree in this story goes beyond imparting spiritual knowledge. It provokes him to ask mundane questions and to act according to the responses he has received. In fact, he is also aware that nobody believes him if he says the tree has spoken to him. It is real for the protagonist and magic for the rest of us.

Of all the stories of Munipalle Raju, the story that has received the highest accolades is “The Red Dot that Honors a Hero” (Veera kumkuma), in which the bull, Pullanna, plays the hero by protecting his owner, Pratapa Reddy from two butchers. We all are aware only too well the relationship and the mutual appreciation that exists between farmers and their animals. Pratapa Reddy inherited Pullanna from his grandmother; he21 was born in their home and, therefore, treated as their eldest son. That being the case, it is no surprise that when Reddy’s life was in danger, the bull went to his rescue and crushed the enemy. At the end, Pullanna hauled Reddy’s body with his horns on to his back and brought him home. The author said that he had heard the story while traveling in Rayalaseema in the early 1950s. In this story, the magic is not completely unimaginable, but it sure is out of the ordinary and must be construed as an instance of magical realism!

The role of the dog in “Satrayagam In the Naimisa Forest” played out is interesting in its own way. At the beginning the protagonist, Chakri, found it at the railway station, fed it for a while, and later tried to get rid of it as he boarded the train to Naimisa forest. Chakri went to Naimisa forest in an attempt to renounce his worldly attachments and to seek liberation. He struggled to leave his old baggage without success. His language clearly showed anger, but not renunciation, when he narrated his past to Prof. Baruva. He was still upset about the way the woman (Kamala) treated him and let him down; he blamed her for all his miseries. Normally, the first step for a person seeking the life of renunciation is to forgive all those who had wronged him. He achieved it only after watching the death not only of Kamala, but also the dog. At one point, he even wondered if the dog was symbolic of his attachments. Thus the dog’s demise seems to complete the process. The magical element is evident in two instances – in the reappearance of Kamala and, second, the appearance of the dog in Badarikavanam, twelve years after he had taken the vow of renunciation and become sansyasin.

We will have to assume that the spatial relevance of the dog in Badarikavanam contributes to the idea of the magical realism. Chakri (later known as Goswami Avadhuta) left it behind at the railway station on his way to the Naimisa forest. The same dog appeared at the foot of Himalayas in Badarikavanam and played the role of an envoy from Kamala. How it could overcome the distance is left to the readers’ imagination. Similarly, Kamala’s appearance appears to be more than a simple coincidence.

The tree in the story “In the Shadows of Maha Bodhi tree”(Maha Bodhi Chayalo) was, unlike the Bodhi tree of Gautama Buddha, more than something that divulges knowledge. To him (we know him only as Chinnayya), the tree stood for all the six kinds of gurus mentioned in the same story—preraka, suchaka, vachaka, darsaka, sikshaka and bodhaka. It was also his confidante. He found immense solace under the shade of the tree. It consoled him, asked him potent questions, and provided sensible answers. In some ways, it was like his conscience and the better part of his judgment. The part in which he heard the tree communicate with him was similar to the experiences of the sages who lived in the woods. People receive ideas or thoughts when they move away, far from the madding crowds, and listen to “the still small voice within.” The point is, we all rely on an animate or inanimate object for inspiration or for answers to the confounding questions we come across every day.

Silence is a unique concept in Indian culture. In the west, silence carries a negative connotation; silence is weakness. Smart people speak and ask questions whereas the weak remain silent. In our culture, on the other hand, silence is a poignant spiritual experience. A term for sage in Sanskrit is muni, which is a derivative of the noun maunam (silence). The author refers to this concept of silence in “Satrayagam in Naimisa Forest” in two instances: First, when a sage on the banks of River Gomati put stones in his mouth to help him maintain silence; and second, when he quoted a sloka from Dakshinamurthy stotra which says guru Dakshinamurthy remains silent and the disciple’s doubts are dispelled (gurostu maunam vyakhyanam, sishyastu cchinna samsayaah).

The author depicts in this story silence is not just an abstract idea but a powerful spiritual experience, “Silence is not just a word” (nissabdam oka padam kaadu). For me, however, the magical realism in this story is equally pervasive and evasive as the idea of silence itself.

The protagonist Rao barely spoke, and when he spoke it was a monologue; he spoke to himself. His wife complained, ‘We never know what is on his mind; he never tells us what’s bothering him. … He worries only about his people; not a whit about things here at home,” His son was supportive of his father. “Everybody has a soft spot for one’s own people. What’s wrong with that?” he asked. The phrase “his own people” was not explained; no characters were introduced directly. The daughter-in-law’s explanation of her mother-in-law’s annoyance was: “She suggested that he (Rao) should perform his father’s annual death ceremony not at home, but in a choultry, and after that, he (Rao) stopped talking.” From this line, it would appear there was no love lost between Rao and his wife, and possibly, his mother and the siblings, if any. Maybe she meant siblings when she mentioned “his own people.” The point I am trying to make is, so much information was left unsaid. Probably, not only Rao, but the narrator, also, courted silence. Life is elusive; human nature is elusive; we never know what another person has on his mind at any given moment. The silence of the protagonist and the narrator forces readers to draw their own conclusions. The author might be implying that the “unknown” is the magic, and that is the reality. I am not sure, though.

In the “Goddess of Good Fortune” [Adrushta Devatha], there is a fascinating episode in which the protagonist, Murali, listens, enraptured, to the music from his mother’s flute. At the end of the song, the wade of butter in the little cup placed in front of the god disappears. Murali believes that baby Krishna had come and eaten it. The description of this event is fascinating.

As she began with the praise of Sabda Brahma [Creator of Sound] softly and continued to sing the Radhesyam bhajans and ashtapadis of Jayadeva invoking exquisite postures by a danseuse, he listened to the music, enraptured. In that moment, there were only two listeners—the baby Krishna and Murali. His mother swayed to the music with absolute devotion. The wad of butter in the silver cup, like a kiss of the moonlight, vanished leaving the imprints of the baby boy’s fingertips at the bottom of the silver cup. “Ammaa! Ammaa! The wad of butter?”
“Yes Babu, Krishna heard our prayers.”
It is a magical moment when baby Krishna responded to the mesmerising music from the magic wand called flute, played by his mother. The experience of the child Murali, totally immersed and lost in the magic of the music, is fascinating. Is it possible that little Murali identified himself with baby Krishna, unconsciously of course, and ate the butter? Such interpretation is sustainable but takes the charm out of the story. The episode is probably intended to create that mystical aura around his mother, for whom he has enormous respect, and later allows him to communicate with the bird.

Murali needed to create a halo around his mother, matrumurthy (supreme mother incarnate); she was an outstanding musician, who had devoted her life to music, but the world called her a “mistress,” unaware that his father had married her while she was on her deathbed. He lived all his life with the resulting inferiority complex, incapable of speaking up at any cost, and incapable of acting on his own. He needed the bird for a friend.

Yet another example is the ending in the story “On the Shores Beyond the River Existentialism” (Astitvanadam Aavaliteerana). It is an interesting story. It illustrates the life of a man known as Bairagi in the beginning, and later as Raghu, seeking a life of renunciation. He ends up in a hospital where his friend Satchindanandam treats him. The narrator’s play upon the name—sat, chit, ananda —is probably intended to be a prognosis of the protagonist’s predicament. He was searching for that ultimate Ananda and he attained it while on the stretcher. Dr Lavanya removed the sheet on the stretcher to check upon the patient and found nothing, no Raghu, no patient. Presumably the gross body dissolved into the ether. One might think of a magic show where a person disappears from a box or a cubicle.

Earlier in the story, the Bairagi had set out to free himself from worldly entanglements, and to obtain the ultimate absolution. For all appearances, he had left everything back, and moved on with only a shirt on his back and a small handbag. That he was inclined to relinquish everything he had, is evident when he gave the sheet from his bag to a half-naked woman with her baby whom he had found on the choultry steps. While pulling out the sheet, three rupees fell out of his bag. Somebody alerted him, but Bairagi dismissed it as his last possession he was willing to let go, and went away. Later, however, while he woke up in the choultry and realized his bag and the camera in it were gone. My question here is, would a person who had relinquished everything carry a camera on his way to absolution? Probably, we have to take it as an element of magical realism. For want of better explanation, we may say that as long as one has the appetite to cling to something, it does not matter what the thing is.

In addition to the events that seem to spark an aura of magic, there is another contributory factor in the stories—that is the author’s experiments in the narrative technique, his use of peculiar figures of speech, metaphors and phrases, out of the ordinary at times.

Modern day short-story gurus instruct writers to write in a simple, straightforward language, at the level of a 10th grader, to be precise. Sri Raju goes against this trend, especially, in the magical realism stories. He draws heavily on his knowledge of our culture and language to create a specific mood in the reader’s mind. No doubt he trusts the readers’ intelligence, instinct and imagination. His use of unusual phrases is a stretch, at times; nevertheless, it serves the intended purpose. For instance, here are a few constructs: “Are some mysterious everlasting parents worried about the welfare of their heir on the planet below while in yogic sleep on the banks of a wholesome pond in the world above?” (Amidst the Monologues of Another World); “Dewy melodies amid flames of musical notes” (On the Shores Beyond the River Existentialism); and, “Friendship with my classmates that has just started sprouting like the first response at dawn” (Under the Shade of Maha Bodhi Tree). These constructs make readers stop and try to comprehend the meaning. Let me add that the above translations are mine. Readers need to go to the Telugu originals to appreciate them fully.

We see this kind of expansiveness mostly in the stories intended to create the milieu of the moment. This usage, naturally, puts readers’ imagination to test. But then, there is no magic that does not force the readers to stretch their imagination.

The stories that are anchored in magical realism reflect Sri Raju’s in-depth knowledge of Indian culture and command of diction. As I tried to establish, it certainly helps to create the needed characteristic in those stories.
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Author’s note: The stories, referred to in this article are included in my translation in the upcoming book, On the Shores Beyond the River of Existentialism by Munipalle Raju. Sahitya Akademi, Delhi. (In press at the time of this writing.
Update: Published in June, 2023.)
Originally published on Museindia.com in Sept-Oct, 2015, issue.
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(February 5, 2022)
Revised February 17, 2023

Recapturing traditions in fiction by Nidadavolu Malathi

I was twelve or thirteen at the time. A young man used to come to our house for meals once a week. I do not know where he is now or what he is doing. Nevertheless I have this one vivid image of him in my mind—he coming early in the morning and standing by the pillar on the front porch to remind my mother of his vaaram [my mother’s commitment to feed him] in our home on that day. That is what captured my curiosity when Kameswari sent me her story, vaaraala abbaayi among others for translation.

There are a few angles to this story, vaaraala abbaayi. First the title. The Telugu original was published under the title, “weekly boy”. I am not sure whether Kameswari was aware of my apathy for the usage of English in Telugu stories or she changed her mind about the title after the story had been published. She crossed out the Telugu title on the tear sheet and wrote vaaraala abbaayi in the ink. If she had not written the Telugu phrase, I would never have guessed what it was about. This, of course, is an issue for translators, which I have addressed in another article.

I have been seeing comments even from Telugu people questioning the authenticity of a dialogue or a character in current day stories. “That is not the way things are” is a comment by several readers, possibly because the current generation is out of touch with our past, maybe not every young person but most of them, especially those who have been  educated in English medium schools. I have received emails from several young men and women saying that they did not know this or that until they had read about it in a given story in translation. For those who are unaware of this tradition of vaaraalu, Kameswari’s story is an education. That brings us to my second point. If the same story were written in the sixties, the author would not have described the tradition in such minute detail as she did in this story, published in 2002.

The author presented one angle, the plausible outcome emanating from this practice—a poor boy receiving education and becoming a successful judge because seven kind-hearted women had agreed to feed him seven days of the week, one woman a day on a regular basis. Another famous writer, Munipalle Raju, wrote a story (his first story, I understand) by the same name, vaaraala pillaadu, in which he depicted the negative effects emanating from an indifferent and/or humiliating attitude of the hostesses. The protagonist in Kameswari’s story also had experienced this kind of apathy from some of the women. Venkataramana, the protagonist, says, “Your mother was an incarnation of the goddess Annapurna; not all mothers were like that.” On the other hand, Raju narrates a series of incidents in which the host families humiliated the young boy and drove him to a life of degradation and finally to his death by execution.

The gist of it is as follows:

Narayana was a little boy, probably about ten, when his paternal grandmother died. Nobody in the family explained to him where his grandmother went or why.

Narasimhvam was a vaaraala abbaayi in Narayana’s house. Narayana, having no one else to talk to, approached Narasimhvam and asked him about the dead. For the first time, he learned that the dead people would never return; their bodies would be burned to ashes. The burning would happen in the graveyard. Narayana asked Narasimhvam to take him to the graveyard. Narayana, surprised by Narasimhvam’s knowledge, changed his attitude toward this vaaraala abbaayi; swore that he would never tease him again, would not doodle in his notebooks, nor hide them.

Narayana wanted to learn more about Narasimhvam’s way of life. Narasimhvam narrated his experiences—cruel and humiliating as they were; he did not get food always as he was supposed to. Some women would forget their commitment, were resentful toward him as if it was his fault, and almost everybody treated him like an insect. “The windows in his [Narayana’s] little heart opened fully for the young boy, a student in a local Sanskrit school, who came timidly to their house once a week, ate and went away.” During the same period, Narayana learned a few more things about this vaaraalu tradition. He asked Narasimhvam naively where he would eat on the other six days.

“A different house each day.”

“What if they don’t give you food?”

Vaaraala abbaayi hesitated for a second and said, “Starve.”

For Narayana, the information was fascinating; he saw the tradition as a way of life, independent living at that. Soon after that, his father was blamed for bad accounting at work, for no fault of his, and committed suicide. His mother sought her brother’s help for Narayana’s education. The brother sent him to the city and set him up as a vaaraala abbaayi. He was faced with the same experiences as Narasimhvam first hand and they were not pleasant. Ironically, at one point, he met Narasimhvam, but this time the tables were turned. Narasimhvam was in the ‘host’ position; he barely recognized Narayana.

Narayana turned a petty crook first, and then a thief, and eventually a gang leader. He committed murder and was sentenced to death by hanging. On his way to the execution, he told his mother that he had implored the court to turn all his property and belongings over to her, and asked her to support a vaaraala abbaayi.

A famous critic, K.V. Ramana Reddy, commented in his preface to the anthology of Raju’s stories that it is a powerful narration of the heartrending lives of delinquent children. I think it is as much about the tragedy of a poor child as the manifestation of the inhuman attitude of some people in the name of tradition. I am not sure if this vaaraalu tradition is to be blamed exclusively for a young man’s downfall. Several factors come together and undermine one’s self-confidence and lead to his delinquency and destruction.

It has become quite common in India to blame religion for all the evils in our society. By putting these two stories of two poor boys in pursuit of education in juxtaposition, we may obtain a perspective that is more balanced. I believe that any system is put in place with the best of intentions. Most of the problems arise from its misuse or misinterpretation by some individuals. In one story, a woman with good intentions helped a young man to improve his lot while in the other story several individuals forced a young man to evil ways through their inhuman behavior. We need both stories to understand how a system works or fails.

After several years, I have come across the autobiography of Sripada subrahmanya Sastry, Experiences and memories [anubhavaalu, jnaapakaalu], in which he describes elaborately his experience as a vaaaraala abbaayi. That narrative clearly shows how the measure of commitment and discipline on the part of both the parties in the practice. It was quite an education for me. It is not just about food or education for that matter. It contributes to the student’s personality development immensely.

We may be able to read similar perception in the story, “Chicken Burglars.” The author describes the lives of two women—a mother and a daughter—and their animal poultry farm. Within their means, they were living a happy, carefree life. A small group of men with evil thoughts on the daughter, Nookalu, failed to get her attention and decided to hurt her with a devious plot, an act of cowardice. They would snicker and gloat over their own transgression but in their heart of hearts, they knew it might not last long.

In the story, “Why would I lose it, daddy?” we see a child’s agonizing longing to go to school and his father’s helplessness in sending him to school. The story is considered one of the best of the author, Chaganti Somayajulu. It reveals his ability to illustrate a potent issue through the narration of a few everyday events and make them a powerful medium to make a point. The author seem to draw a parallel between the father’s unsuccessful attempts to quit smoking and the child’s longing to go to school. The story opens with the father sending the boy to fetch cigarettes for him and closes with asking the child if he still had the money or lost it. “Why would I lose it, daddy?” the child asks. Is he asking why father would think that the son could lose the money? Or, is it a mild reminder to the father, “I am acting responsibly with the money you’ve given me; what about your responsibility of giving education to your child”? Our age-old tradition dictates that father has a duty to educate the child and the child has a duty to take care of the father in his old age. It is a lifestyle of “give and take” in the larger scheme of things.

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© Nidadavolu Malathi

April 1, 2007