Category Archives: Informative articles

What is a good story? by Nidadavolu Malathi

This article is about a question I’ve been struggling with for some time. Although thulika.net has been created to introduce Telugu fiction to the American readers, it is also reaching out to the young Indians who have adopted English as their medium of communication. Herein, I will try to illustrate the peculiar features prominent in Telugu stories.

Before I go into the definition of a good story, let me briefly comment on the nature of our audience. First, it is common knowledge that different parts of a story appeal to different readers. Secondly, the readers with different cultural background perceive the story from yet another perspective.

For the purpose of this article, I could classify the readers into two categories—the participant and the critical. The participant readers interact with the story on a personal level, identify themselves with a character or a situation or the conflict in the story and participate in the course of events. Their comments could be simple statements like I’ve been there, I know what you mean or go deeper and offer suggestions such as what a given character could have done differently or what else the author could have provided to resolve the conflict. For instance, in “Moral Support” why was Gopalam so stubborn? Why couldn’t he get off his moral high horse and do something to please his wife and parents? Did he not have a moral obligation to his family? At another level, the readers put some distance between themselves and the story but still react like participants. They see the story as a story, a figment of the author’s imagination, and at the same time, want more from it. They raise questions like why Gopalam could not see that buying goods at a cheaper rate and selling for profit was neither illegal nor unethical. That is business101. That is basically the rule we all are living by in our present day world. For some readers Gopalam’s arguments are in tune with his character. For others, it is a flaw in the depiction of his character.

The critical readers distance themselves further and study the story totally objectively. They look into the structure, technique, characterization, diction and the message. At times, it is possible for the critical reader to get carried away in his critical thinking and lose sight of the author’s purpose.

Taking the earlier example, Gopalam, like all the idealists in real life, lost sight of the realities of life and failed to see the setbacks in his mode of thinking. Whether Gopalam’s character was depicted well or not depends on what the reader considers a good characterization. This is only one example of how various views could emanate from the same story.
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Getting back to the topic under discussion, what is a good story, two pieces fell into place for me automatically—the cultural nuance and the insights of the Telugu elitists. I reviewed some books and articles written by Telugu writers in the past three decades. Based on my readings, the essential components seem to be the same as in the case of world literatures. The list included the opening, the development of a plot or conflict through a series of incidents, the resolution or the ending, technique, the message or the author’s point of view, characterization, unity or structure, and author’s command of language. Using some of these elements as touchstones, I tried to examine some of the stories published on this site.

Broadly speaking, when a person sees or hears about an event, he responds to the scene emotionally and feels a strong, innate urge to relate it to others. That is the motivation to write a story. And then, he is confronted with how to start it.

The title: Although authors do not always start with a title, let’s take the title first since that is what captures the reader’s eye first. In the current issue, the story, “Diary” is a good example. The original title in Telugu was “Kukka” [Dog]. For Telugu people, the term “dog” invokes an image of a sick, stray dog eating garbage on the streets. For the western audience, dog is a domestic animal, man’s best friend, and the impression on the reader’s mind is not as revolting as in the earlier instance. So we consulted the author and decided to change it “Diary.” The term diary raises curiosity since it allows the readers to peek into somebody’s private thoughts. The very first lines tell us it is a peek into a child’s mind. The child’s use of a dog as a metaphor to make his statement is even more interesting which was the basis for the original title, “Kukka.”

The second title that caught my attention is “Soham” [He is I]. The phrase is from the Upanishads, referring to an individual identifying himself with the Supreme Soul through a long and rigorous process of contemplation and reflection. The title for this story is open for interpretation. I had a hard time interpreting it and contacted some of my friends, writers, and also Malladi Narasimha Sastri garu, the author’s grandson. He said the title meant, “I am part of God because he stays within me, meaning I love and worship God and when he is within me, I cannot abuse my own body. I must respect myself and in turn respect others.” Satya Sarada commented, “Perhaps the protagonist just realized who he was and stopped trying to be someone else based on false pride or instigation.” I understand the logic but fail to see the necessary incident to justify the revelation the protagonist was supposed to have experienced. The discussion between the young man and the protagonist towards the end does not lead to this realization. The young man’s description of his experience at Rattamma’s house was left to the reader’s imagination. What do you, as a reader, think happened at Rattamma’s house? Was it the same as Swamiji’s experience? Why did the author leave out this particular, apparently crucial, incident out of the story? Was it the author’s intent to provoke the reader into thinking? Or, did the author imply we all have our share of the inexplicable in our lives, and we all live at random? Is this a strength or weakness in the story? Yet the story caught my attention because of the title. Was that the author’s plan in choosing that title?

My understanding was: The story opened and ended with the young man and so I assume he is the protagonist. Since most of the story was narrated by the second protagonist, Swamiji, the young man possibly felt a connection with Swamiji. At the end, after Swamiji returned to his wife, the young man could have told himself, “That is my story. He is I.” The use of first person, reflexive pronoun taanu in the Telugu original is significant. In Telugu taanu indicates that the views are expressed from the perspective of taanu, an equivalent of I. Thus the connotation appears to be that the story is not about an individual but about exploring a universal truth. The title, an aphorism from the Upanishads also meant that the drifting away for a while and returning home is a part of male psyche or human nature in general.

The title “The Drama of Life” also is open for discussion. Madhurantakam Narendra, son of the author and a writer, pointed out that the term prahasanam (in the original title, “jeevana prahasanam”) meant burlesque or farce as opposed to the term I used. I however felt that the implicit irony and satire are apparent for the native speakers but not for the English-speaking audience. I think a term like farce diminishes the intensity particularly because the sarcasm is lost in the translation and for those who are not familiar with the culture, the term drama conveys the gravity of the conflict the performer [Harinarayana Sarma] was grappling with. I am open to suggestions from readers, particularly non-native speakers.

Opening scene: Different writers open the story at different points in their narration. Some stories begin and continue sequentially while others start in the middle or at the end and go back to the beginning.

The opening lines in the “Primeval Song,” once upon a time, take us to the good old days of oral tradition. It is a song about the enchanting times. The first paragraph depicts a luring scene only to highlight how far we have come from that heartening time to the disheartening present.
In the “Illusion,” the story opens with a shrewd, seasoned lawyer lecturing on the stark realities of law practice to a junior lawyer, a simpleton and fresh from law school. The senior lawyer’s crude and abrasive presentation makes the reader want to know what the junior lawyer would discover at the end. In both the stories, the opening scenes set the mood for the reader as in a play. The opening paragraph is a brief statement of what is to expect.

In “The Man Who Never Died,” the felling of a tree is the midpoint in the story. In the first few lines the author informs the reader the crucial role the event was set to play in the lives of the two main characters, Appanna and Markandeyulu. One of the important ideas in the story was the difference between the two—one person clinging to life and the other clinging to nature.

The development/unfolding of a plot or conflict: The incidents are like building blocks. Each block reveals a little of the story, building readers’ curiosity, satisfying it partly and then creating more curiosity, keeping him wondering what next. The incidents add to the length of a story, although that is not the purpose. While some stories include only two or three incidents and jump to the end, other stories build the conflict through several incidents, and let the story evolve with a strong base and bring it to a head. Possibly the magnitude of an issue—the central theme—plays a role in the number of incidents the author would like to include. In the longer stories provide the incidents contribute immensely towards recreating the milieu. The result is two-fold. For those who are familiar with the culture it is nostalgic and for those who are not it helps to appreciate not only the story but also the culture. The more the details are the clearer the setting is. For instance, in the “Primeval Song,” the incidents are straightforward and, actually, traverse the bounds of time and space. A curious baby monkey walks through several experiences only to return to the forest where she finds her home and her identity. The allegory format confirms its primordial nature. It is something readers could relate to anywhere anytime.

In “The Drama of Life” the author recreates the village atmosphere to an remarkable degree. The story moves systematically from the villagers’ appreciation of tradition to modern ways of rearranging their priorities. The story delineates meticulously the scenes in a carefully orchestrated fashion. The very first line tells the readers that it was about a performance. The village head, Naidu, was impressed by the moving performance of the traditional narrator, his originality and creativity. Each incident or episode—the description of the village, the customary celebration of Maha Bharata yajnam, Naidu’s zealous references to numerous episodes in Maha Bharatam, and the manner in which he extended his invitation to the performer —is filled with charming minutiae. For me, this was one of the hardest stories to translate. I however thought it was worth the effort since the story provided so much of the life in the villages and also the changes that are taking place in the attitude of people and the society.

The first half of the story includes several incidents leading to the conflict. The second set of incidents leads to the denouement or resolution; it is needed in order to bring about a satisfactory experience in the reader’ mind. In “The Drama of Life,” the detailed descriptions of several gambling stalls—from the games with small bets to the games with high stakes which are a ruination of the local families—leading to the final catastrophe (breaking the heart of the traditional performer) serve that purpose.

The Conflict: The conflict is the pivotal point in a story. In “The Man Who Never Died,” it is the impending death. The protagonist was willing to compromise his values and cut down a 40-year old tree and ruin a 30-year old friendship in the process. Why we fear death and why we would want to live forever are the questions for which we don’t have answers. But can we do anything to conquer death and live forever? The story illustrates how the fear of death is fed by the people around us.

There is a subplot in “The Man Who Never Died,” the friendship between Appanna and Markandeyulu. Felling the tree has a symbolic significance for both of them for different reasons. For Appanna it was a blow to their friendship. For Markandeyulu it was a life-saving event. But their disagreements overlap and Markandeyulu does everything in his power to save Appanna’s life. This part of our culture, the interpersonal relationship that defies the caste and class distinction, is rarely presented in Indian fiction, translations or original, outside India. It is also interesting to see that, in this and a few other stories, the illiterate persons from the lower strata of the society are presented as instrumental in making the educated persons see the light of the day.

The end wraps up and reveals the author’s point of view. That is the simplest statement in any good story. Some readers felt that the ending in “Illusion” was left much to be desired. Bhaskar Rao commented that the ending fell flat.

My understanding is that the central theme in the “Illusion” is our botched up court system. The story is about the failed system as perceived by Muthelamma, based on her experience with the courts. The senior lawyer in the opening scene expresses his disillusionment of the system in scathing and unequivocal language, e.g. comparing the lawyers to the foxes hanging in the graveyards. Later Muthelamma, a client from the working class and an illiterate fires away a volley of questions and even challenges the junior lawyer to prove her wrong. Her speech is considered one of the most powerful speeches in Telugu fiction. The author created a rebel-victim in Muthelamma who was betrayed by the system and who comes to understand that the only way to stay out of jail was to play along. That was the revelation, a poignant point, for the junior lawyer must face. At the end, Muthelamma rises to a level where she could even be patronizing, “You did good. I was there. I saw it. You shook them [the police] up,” she tells the junior lawyer. I wonder how many readers smiled at this twist, the reversal of role playing. To me, it looks like the author has succeeded in bringing the illusion—what the system claims to do, what it actually does and the hurt of the people betrayed by the system—into bold relief.

At the outset I mentioned that some readers would ask why the author did not give us more details. My question is, is it necessary to summarize his point of view? Does the author have an obligation to answer all the questions on the topic he chose to write about? In that, are we erasing the difference between an essay and a story? Personally, I feel that it is the author’s privilege to decide what and how much he wants to say.

In my story, Frostbite the story revolves around the female protagonist’s silence. The readers would continue to read the story looking for the reasons for her silence. In that sense, the story ended when she broke her silence. I however was confounded with the one question at that time and has always been—why do people hurt others and often for no good reason? So, I continued the story, killed the protagonist in the process, and went on until I could raise the question. You, the readers, have to tell me if that made any difference to the story one or the other.

The other elements of a good story are technique, characterization, diction or command of language, structure, and author’s perception of the society he is living in. I do not intend to go into all these components but only some that are relevant to my selection for publication on thulika.net.

One of our editors, Satya Pappu, said that her general reaction to Malladi’s stories has always been one of satisfaction and contemplation. That kind of satisfaction and contemplation is possible only when the author is skillful in his delivery and also in the reader’s disposition to lose oneself in the flow of the story. Any one of the elements—a character, an incident, the diction, figures of speech, proverbs, descriptions of the environment, or some other element in the story, that is normally ignored or overlooked by people, can suddenly pop up in the reader’s mind and bring about a kind of revelation or understanding. It is for this reason, stories that rush to the end without establishing the conflict and resolution sufficiently leave the reader with dissatisfaction.

One story I would like to review in this connection is Woman’s Wages. The conflict—the disparity between a woman’s wages and the services she is entitled to—is the main theme in this short story. The protagonist, Naidu, raises the question—why should the woman pay the same fare as males when she was not paid the same wages for her labor. And the story ended there. For the readers the unanswered question is what happened next? If I want to develop a story around this incident, probably I would include a few more incidents such as the protagonist protesting vehemently, even standing in front of the bus, insisting for a fair value of their labor and money, the passengers taking sides, the driver struggling with a dilemma—whether to make a special allowance for the woman or run over the man in front of the bus. Then we have a story. Then there is a room for the readers to empathize, room for a piece of social history and a story that goes beyond the immediate moment. But then again am I contradicting myself here? Earlier I have stated that it is the author’s privilege as to what and how much he wants to tell. What do you think?

Narration: The story “He is I” was a difficult one to translate for me due to its complex structure. There are two narrators besides the author. The story opens with taanu but for the most part the story was narrated by Swamiji. It was also presented as a conversation between these two characters—Swamiji narrating the story to taanu, the young man. On rare occasions, the author narrates the story, referring to the other two as they. There are also instances where the actual incident was left to the imagination of the reader. For instance, the young man’s experience in Rattamma’s house was not told. Swamiji’s comments seem to indicate that the young man had the experience Swamiji craved for. Or, was it only Swamiji’s interpretation of the young man’s unrecorded account? The story raises several questions and seems to have too many loose ends.

I took it up as a challenge and tested my translation on some of my American friends. To my surprise, they were not as baffled as I was. Is it possible I was reading too much into the story because of my cultural background? Or, was it the author intention to force the readers to see that we don’t get all the answers always that we live at random?

Characterization: Creating believable characters is part of good writing style. Depicting a character does not necessarily mean providing a physical description of the character. This is superbly done in the delineation of characters in Moments Before Boarding the Plane by Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry, a noted writer from earlier generation and well-known for his command of diction. From the conversations, readers can visualize the characters in age, deportment and maybe even some physical attributes.
Another example is the character of Vennela in the Old Letters (December 2002). Just from the letters written by Vennela to thatha, the readers understand that she was a young woman, married, divorced and was perplexed by serious questions about life in general.

This type of characterization however is not common. In general, readers envisage the characters from their behavior, author’s description, and the comments made by the characters themselves and by other characters. The incidents and characterization are interdependent. It is impossible to write a good story with livid characters.

Technique: Technique is the element that is specific to individual writers. The writer is the technique as far as his writing goes. In addition to the elements discussed above, the technique includes the idiom, his knowledge of his culture, his awareness of his society, and his ability to pull them all together to make that one indelible impression on the reader’s mind.

Most readers can identify a writer from his style. Style is an element that does not lend itself to translation. Here is for example a line from Marigolds – buDDideepam cheta pucchuku aa guDDivelugulo chukkallaati kaLLato bikkubikkumanToo choostondi Kamalabala.
“With her starry eyes, she was staring at the marigold plants furtively in the dim light of the tiny wick lamp in her hand, and slouching over the flower bed.”

The original lines are poetic. The alliteration is striking. The translation is very pale compared to the original. The poetic quality is lost. The word count in the translation is three times the original, which speaks for the author’s skill. The author, Viswanatha Sastry is one of those writers who stories will not allow the readers to skip lines and rush to the end.

Another example of unique style is the references to the stage performers of the mid-20th century in the story, “He is I.” For those native speakers who had enjoyed stage plays in the past, the references are gratifying. Sometimes, it is a little humorous too. Swamiji says, “she [his wife] was like Purushottam in his role as Chitrangi.” This analogy brought up a smile for me. Purushottam was a male actor playing a female role. Did the author intentionally compare his wife to a male actor playing a female role? Did the author expect the reader to take it as his observation of male psyche? Human nature? Or, was it just to show the author’s appreciation of the performer?

In any case, individual writers use such reference whenever the occasion supports it, and in an attempt to evoke the nuance in the mind of the readers. Would the stories read the same without these references to classics and classic artists? For the native speakers, it is a bonding experience. For foreigners the story might be the same or even easier to follow without them. On the other hand, these details also provide an opportunity to understand the culture better.

Author’s point of view: Whenever a story is written a point of view is expressed. What specifically that point of view is a moot point. As I mentioned at the beginning, different readers relate to different aspects in the story and different critics see different viewpoints. The story “Choices” (Empu) provided a platform for different viewpoints. The author, Chaganti Somayajulu, was one of the early modern writers well-respected for his social consciousness fiction.

Let me first explain my perspective. The story was first published in 1945. At the time, most of the literature was focused on the middle class issues—the hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears and frustrations of the era. If the working class characters were depicted they were depicted as victims of either the system or the centuries old tradition, which meant depicting only stereotypical images. The author of “Choices” seemed to point out that the hopes, dreams, and family values of the beggar community are not different from other human beings in the upper classes. The father, musilaadu was looking for an eligible bachelor for his daughter within their own community, beggars community. The father prefers the blind man and the daughter has her heart set on the crippled man. The father’s logic, the correlation between the marriage and economic status, and the persuasive arguments of the crippled man are the same as in any middle class family. The only aspect that sets them apart is their status as beggars. Keeping that in mind, I mentioned that the story was about the beggars community—their hopes, dreams, aspirations and family values. Dakshninamurthy, a noted writer and critic, also commented that, “Their [the beggars’] philosophy was that all the beggar girls must invariably look for and find only a blind men to marry”(498).
Chaganti Tulasi, a well-known writer and the author’s daughter, offered the following explanation: “The story, ‘Empu’ was published in ARASAM special issue, September 1945, and that was 58 years ago. But the situation of arranging a marriage for one’s daughter has not changed much. Though Chaso took his characters and life from beggars it is about the fundamentals of economics of all communities, rich and poor alike. The richest man’s philosophy is also the philosophy of the poorest. Chaso wrote a small keynote sentence in the story – musilaadi upanyaasam mushti lokaaaniki Upanishattu (tr. The old man’s speech is a Upanishad for the beggars’ community). Here mushti lokam has an inner meaning besides the meaning ‘the beggars world.’ The word mushti is used as a derogatory term for the entire human community. In your translation the second meaning has not been conveyed. It tells about the panhandlers community only. Fathers , daughters, would-be son-in-laws are all alike in all communities.”
Themes: I’m going to make only a brief comment about themes since enough has been said in the above paragraphs while discussing other aspects. I agree that a good writer can write a story almost about anything. However for the purpose of this website, I am looking for themes which are commonly ignored or overlooked, stories that throw light on cultural peculiarities, and stories that deal with human nature yet unique to Telugu people. Writers and translators may also note that humor and satire are culture-specific and hard to import in translation. I know I am taking some chances in this respect. But I would like you to be aware of how it turns out.
Language: Diction displays the author’s command of figures of speech, knowledge of traditional values, symbols, epithets, proverbs and the ability to suffuse the story with native flavor.

Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry and Rachakonda Viswanatha Sastry (not related) are often quoted as two writers who could present dialogue with the sharpness of a knife (Dakshinamurthy. 339). Srirangam Srinivasa Rao stated that Muthelamma’s speech in the story “Illusion” belonged in the world’s greatest literatures. Metaphors and proverbs are powerful ingredients of our sociocultural history. Most of our writers draw on the characters from ancient literature for what the characters stand for in the public perception. A writer need not believe in Rama as a god to use the name as a symbol for an ideal person. In the story, Reform the author, known for her Marxist ideology, described the state of mind of the couple at the end as “two persons lost in dharma yuddham.” The phrase dharma yuddham refers to the great war in Maha Bharatam, which was fought in the name of justice. The reference was only limited to that point. It invokes an imagery of a battle fought for a just cause and lost.

One more thought. My friends here are immensely helpful to me in bringing these translations to you, the readers. (Thank you, Judy, Lucille, Mary, Nancy!)
One of their comments was about long Telugu names. One friend said that the long names were like roadblocks and would not let the reader move forward with the story.
Generally speaking, foreign names are hard to remember for any reader and long names are the hardest. However the names are part of characterization. They add considerably to the narrative.
Tentatively, as an experiment, I tried to change the names in “The Man Who Never Died” after contacting the author. I could change one name, Appalakonda to Appanna, but couldn’t come up with a decent substitute for Markandeyulu. I was wondering what are the thoughts of the writers and translators on this one.

Finally, I would like to point out that my references to only some stories and/or some elements in the stories do not mean that they are the only stories/elements that are notable. I used them only as examples and must be understood only as such.

This article is not an attempt to provide guidelines for writing a good story but to bring up some of the topics for discussion and to show what I am looking for in my selections. I tried to point out what captures my imagination and by extension what I like to publish on this website. I hope to publish more writers rather than more stories of the same writer and, thereby, create an awareness of the widest range of Telugu culture among English-speaking audience.
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Published on thulika.net, June 2003.

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REFERENCES:
Brahmaji Rao, Ghandikota. Kathanika: Katha kamameeshu. Mamidikuduru, Vijaya
Publications, 1996.
Dakshinamurthy, Poranki. Kathanika: Swaroopa swabhavalu. Hyderabad: Author, 1977.
Katyayani Vidmahe. Telugu navalaa kathaanikaa vimarsana parinaamam. Hyderabad: Charita
Publications, 1995.
Rama Rao, Kalipatnam: Vijayawada: Swetcha Sahiti Prachuranalu, 1990.
Srinivasa Rao, Srirangam. Preface, Viswanatha Sastry, Rachakonda. Aaru sara kathalu.
Vijayawada, Visalandhra Publishing House, 1962.

English Translations of Telugu stories

Recently, there was a question why Telugu stories in translation have not captured the attention of global audience. Here are some of my thoughts. Readers are welcome to comment.

Two days back I posted a request on Facebook, asking to “Suggest two Telugu translators who in your opinion have done a good job.”

That was actually a follow up of an article published in Sakshi, September 12, 2014 in which a question was raised regarding the English translations of Telugu stories. ( http://www.sakshi.com/news/opinion/telugu-author-who-is-known-to-english-readers-166194 )

I am writing this post in English to address the readers, who cannot read Telugu script.

Briefly stated, it comes down to this: Do the currently available translations measure up to acceptable standards? If they do, why they have failed to capture the attention of the global audience? If not, what can we do to improve the quality of our translations.

Thus the question is not whether there are translations or not but how the existing translations are faring with foreign audience and what can we do about it.

For those who have not seen the previous discussion, the gist of it is as follows:

In a literary gathering commemorating Kannada writer U. Anantha Murthy, Vadrevu China Veerabhadrudu garu asked why there was no English translation of Yajnam (Kalipatnam Rama Rao). Since I am aware of at least two translations, I have contacted Veerabhadrudu garu. His argument is, although there are translations, they do not “sensitize American readers” in a manner Prof. A. K. Ramanujan’s translation had done.

On Facebook, I have received responses from Anil Atluri, Amarendra Dasari, Narayana Swamy, Rao S. Ummetthala, R. Vasundara Devi, Syamala Kallury, G.K. Subbarayudu, C. Raghotthama Rao, and P. Sathyavathi.

The translators, whose works they have appreciated are Ranga Rao, Prof. C.L.L. Jayaprada, Alladi Uma – Sridhar, Narayana Swamy, Ari Sitaramayya, and B. Indira. And there are others like Dr. Sarada (Astralia), Dr. Sujatha Gopal, and Dr. Vaidehi Sasidhar, who have contributed to thulika.net. I am sure there are numerous other translators and hundreds if not thousands of translations published each year.

Against this background, we need to review the current situation of English translations of Telugu stories. Secondly, if the existing translations are of poor quality, what we can do to improve the quality of translations. And more importantly, what can we do to bring them to the global audience.

It is common knowledge that people read translations when they do not possess the language skills necessary to read the originals. By default, translations are specifically aimed at readers who cannot read the originals in Telugu. Starting probably two generations back, the interest in English has increased to a point that Telugu language learning, reading and writing has decreased. However, I cannot help notice that there are Telugu readers both at home and abroad, who can enjoy both the versions. I have received emails vouching for this fact. Most of them are living abroad and are comfortable with both the languages. In other words, the translations demand certain mental disposition or aptitude on the part of the readers also. They are able to set aside the inherent idea that the essence of beauty of Telugu is not carried into English version but read it for what it is, an English rendering.

I start with the premise that all translations are not done with global audience in mind. Actually, Sahitya Akademi’s policy clearly states that their aim is,“to foster and co-ordinate literary activities in all the Indian languages and to promote through them all the cultural unity of the country.”

Currently, the situation in India is this:

Several universities and foreign language institutes, C.P. Brown Academy and Sahitya Akademi are working towards producing English translations of Telugu stories.

So, here are a few questions we should be asking:

  1. For translation teachers:

– What are your goals?

– What are your syllabi?

– Have you included translations of Telugu stories? If not, why not? (this question is even more important, if you are a native speaker.)

– If they claim there are no translations, is it not their job to train their students to translate Telugu stories?

– What are the criteria for their selection of stories for including in their syllabi?

– If they are working towards producing translations for global audience, are they aiming to meet the “criteria”?

– Are the critics, who say we do not have good translations, asking these institutions and universities to work towards producing good translations of Telugu stories?

  1. For scholars and critics:

– Is there any substantial study of English translations of Telugu stories currently available in India?

– Are there any critical/analytical articles of Telugu stories by a single translator or single book of translated stories?

In short, there is plenty of criticism to write off the existing translations but not much effort on the part of critics, teachers and institutions to improve the situation. Please, enlighten me if there are such studies and or attempts to conduct any study.

  1. Publishing. We need to address this area as well.

– I think most of the translations are being published by universities and literary organizations. However, I did not see any effort on their part to bring these books to the public. Once a year, they may have a book fair but is that enough? What else can they do to promote to make the public aware of their existence?

I would like to add a word about “sensitizing translations to American readers.” Some of the translators mentioned above live in America. Sarada lives in Australia. That means they interact with the foreigners on a daily basis and they do have a better of understanding of the sensibilities of global audience. I’ve been living in America for 40 years. Today I understand Americans better than Telugu people. I understand American English better than the English spoken by the Telugu people in Andhra Pradesh. In my opinion the translations of those translators are written off because they are not read with the mindset of a foreigner. If you are a Telugu person and read a Telugu story in English, automatically you tend to translate it into Telugu in your mind and then you are disappointed. I know I have seen some of the criticisms of my translations. From experience I can say that it is hard for a native speaker to set aside his preconceived notions and read an English version like a foreigner. I am talking from experience.

However, to be fair, I need to address the issue of quality of all translations in general.

I must admit some of the translations I have received were sloppy. After starting thulika.net, I tried to edit and show to the translators the mistakes in their translations. Then, the translations got sloppier because I was there to edit their sloppy translations! Now I do not do editing any more.

My belief is the translator has the original story and possibly in touch with the writer, and the end product carries the his or her name. Therefore, it is the responsibility of the translator to make sure that grammar, spelling and sentence construction are properly addressed in the end product.

Now, the pivotal question – why Telugu stories have not reached the global audience. As I mentioned earlier, the quality of translations may be partly responsible. And also the fact that some of them, like the Sahitya Akademi publications are not intended for global audience.

To me the reasons for not reaching the global audience are not just lack of translations but our failure to create an awareness of these translations.

It has to happen at two levels. 1. At the academic level; not only the Telugu professors at the universities and other educational institutions but any Telugu person working in an institution can make any effort to introduce Telugu fiction to the students at a formal or informal level. Are they doing it?

I am however not crazy about support from the academic circles. The actual work must start much earlier. The Telugu families abroad can create reading circles in their children’s schools and public libraries and read the stories to them. Yes, I am aware the children’s first response could be ‘this translation sucks.’ Probably those, who have spent time with grandmothers and grandfathers, uncles and aunts may not be surprised by the language in our translations. If they say the language sucks, ask them to tell the story in their words. They may enjoy rewriting and even talk about it with their peers. That keeps them on track.

Secondly, introducing to the general readers. In addition to the reading groups mentioned above, in your parties, youth camps, talk about the stories we have, regardless whether the originals or translations. How many of you talked about Jhampa Lahari or Arundhati Roy as opposed to talking about our own writers? How many of you introduced the Telugu stories to Telugu youth?

  1. For the translators:

I can’t stress this enough. While editing, do not rely on Word spellchecker completely. Half the time their suggestions are misleading. When I have a question about the usage of a phrase or word, I will type, “…. in a sentence” or “… synonyms” and it gives several examples. We can even ask for famous quotes with a specific word or phrase, which gives pretty good idea within a context. This is particularly important in the case of phrases. For example

Just do not start translating because you know English. It is more than knowing the language.

There are two articles on translating Telugu stories into English. You may find it interesting. One by Dr. S.S. Prabhakara Rao, Translation or transference: the Problematic of Culture Specifics, and the second, Dynamics of Cross-cultural Transference: Translating from Telugu to English.

I need to add one more point here. Some editors and writers refer to the editing practices in America. There is more to it than what meets the eye. The magazines undertake editing only when money is involved. It is a business, and they edit according to what they think their readers would enjoy. The editor is paid and the writer is paid. And where there is no money, there is no editing either. They accept or reject based on their requirement but do not undertake any editing. Then they may send letters asking you to attend their workshops, of course, for a fee of $300 or so.

In other words, the translators must of necessity pay attention to grammar and phraseology. That is also part, actually a major part, of translating.

And for all Telugu people, please do something about creating awareness that Telugu is a language with rich cultural and literary history.

Just for fun, I typed two search phrases, American stories and Telugu stories. The results for Telugu stories are far from flattering, actually appalling.

 

 

 

 

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R. S. Sudarsanam

An Introduction to an Anthology of Telugu Short Stories by R. S. Sudarshanam.

The modern short story in Telugu dates back to 1910, when Gurazada AppaRao published his piece, Diddubaatu (Reform) in a journal called ‘Andhra Bharathi’. Social reform was in the air and Gurazada Appa Rao and Kandukuri Veeresalingam were pioneers in social reform as well as in literary renaissance. Gurazada was a step ahead of Kandukuri Veeresalingam in using spoken Telugu for his creative work, viz. lyrical poetry, drama and short story. There is also a difference in their outlook on life reflected in their attitude to reform and in the portrayal of men and women in their writings. Kandukuri Veeresalingam was a Brahmo Samaj follower and his stance was one of ethical realism, while Appa Rao was a humanist with a lot of tolerance and good humor for the foibles of men and women including reformers. The five short stories he wrote bear this out no less than his immortal play, Kanya-Sulkam.

The realism and romanticism. While Veeresalingam and Appa Rao represented realism, romanticism was ushered in by Rayaprolu Subba Rao through his new poetry influenced by the EnglishRomantic poets and Rabindranath Tagore. Very soon there were novels and short stories reflecting the romantic ethos in the portrayal of characters and events, even when the reformist direction was not lost sight of. Indeed when we remember that the issues of social reform mainly centered round the status of women — the degenerate institution of dancing girls, etc., against which Kandukuri Veeresalingam and Gurazada Appa Rao waged a relentless war—it is no surprise to find literary themes, a majority of them, exploring and delineating man-woman relationship inside and outside marriage. And the short story has been no exception to that during the decades that followed Gurazada.

In the years 1920-40, social reform and romanticism dominated the ethos of Telugu fiction- Chalam, Velury Sivarama Sastry, Sripada Subramanya Sastry, Dikshitulu and Viswanadha Satyanarayana are the outstanding writers of this period, who contributed to the development of the short story and wielded considerable influence on the writers who followed them. In the period 1940-60, social reform gave place to ‘class-consciousness’ with the advent of the Progressive writers’ movement; and romanticism in its decline yielded ground to psychoanalysis. Gopichand, Kodavatiganti Kutumba Rao, Ravuri Bharadwaja, chaganti Somayajulu, Palagummi Padmaraju, Buchi Babu and Balivada Kantha Rao represent this period. Balagangadhara Tilak, Madhurantakam Rajaram and Rachakonda Viswanadha Sastry appear towards the end of this period. The decade 1960-70 may be described as women’s decade, when a number of women writers of fiction became prominent; and the problems of the ‘new woman’ inside and outside the four walls of the home came to be discussed in the novel and the short story.

Realism and romance single and alternate in the ethos of their writings. The women writers Ranganayakamma , Vasireddi Sita Devi as well as Puranam Subramanya Sarma and a host of others represent that decade. Since 1970, the Revolutionary Writers’ movement has exercised its influence and brought about a marked change in the ethos of the short story. The struggle of the dispossessed – the tribals, the bonded labour, the unorganized workers against feudal lords, middlemen and money-lenders, against the police and the courts, is delineated with great virtuosity demonstrating the need for the overthrow of a system, which cannot be reformed. Kalipatnam Rama Rao, Allam Rajayya, Nagnamuni, Jampana Peddiraju and Yerramilli Vijayalakshmi represent this trend.

With this background, we can now proceed to approach each story in its proper perspective to get at its intrinsic value.

Balivada Kantha Rao’s Varada Velluva (The River in Spate) portrays a woman’s sexual passion in its transcendental aspect. It transcends all social norms and decencies, ignores maternal concerns, and assuming the proportions of an elemental force, drives Rajamma like a possessed woman to unite with the flood-waters of the river and be swept away. This is reminiscent of Chalam’s romantic portrayal of sexual love which he glorified as an ideal against the humdrum existence of men and women in society. But Kantha Rao’s disapproval of it is duly conveyed at the beginning of the story itself: describing the discovery of the mutilated corpse of Rajamma torn by birds of prey as it is removed for postmortem by the police. Towards the end Simmanna, the lover is described to have turned into “a nisachara, who sqeezed the flower and pushed it into the flood-waters”.   And Simmanna goes mad for the rest of his life! In the story, the stoic goodness and forgiveness manifested by the wronged husband is purposely set off against the extraordinary passion of Rajamma, which is ultimately depicted as nothing but the supreme egoism of a beautiful woman. KanthaRao resorts to poetry and metaphor to describe Rajamma’s personality. “Though she appeared to be a lotus, like the stem of the lotus, underneath there was a certain hardness in her, and below that, like the slush, a certain corruption…” The writer continues the metaphorical description to narrate how a mere farm-hand Simmanna was drawn and inveigled to become Rajamma’s lover. The method adopts cuts a long story short, and achieves not only wonderful economy but also creates a romantic aura about the affair. Kantha Rao’s ethical idealism wondrous than Chalam’s transcendental sex, which it seeks to disapprove. Has Kantha Rao succeeded in refuting Chalam? What is the final impact of the story? The reader must answer for himself.

Buchibabu’s   Anuraaga Prasthaaram (The Flow of Love) is the exploration of a certain psychological subtlety in married love. The story starts with an assumption: if there be two women who look alike as twins do, but not related to each other…the story-teller forestalls the reader’s possible objection in the very first sentence: “No two persons are alike;” and goes on to persuade the reader, however, to make such an assumption for the sake of the story. Kamakshi and Sobhasundari look alike physically but they are also different, their characters and situations being different. The willing suspension of disbelief by the reader is obtained as a first step so that the story may have its full impact on him without any distraction. Kamakshi and Hariprasad married for six years and childless have arrived at a stage, when they are fast losing interest in each other. In fact Kamakshi has become ‘static beauty like a sculpture’ in the eyes of Hariprasad. With the appearance of Sobhasundari, a replica of Kamakshi, the frozen beauty comes alive and revivifies Hariprasad’s love. And Hariprasad’s new-found interest in Sobhasundari stimulates Kamakshi’s jealousy and she draws close to her husband. The result is Kamakshi’s pregnancy. Sobhasundari’s long-lost husband Vidyasagar similarly is attracted by Kamakshi’s looks, rediscovers his interest in Sobhasundari and is united with her. Buchibabu displays artistry and finesse in delineating the situations between the characters and bringing them to the happy conclusion.   After all a story is a story; it is for the psychological truth we read it!

Lakka Bommalu (Wax Dolls) by Ravuri Bharadwajais another piece of psychology pertaining to human relationships. What is it that an elderly man finds in an adolescent girl to sustain their friendship over the years till she becomes a mother and elderly too? After a series of encounters with Radha at different periods of her life, and seeking several explanations for his interest in her, he concludes at the end, when he finds her a conventional mother “the individuality in its growth, in its thrust, inevitably struggles with time, with the physical body, with age, with blood (instincts), and finally ceases and gets frozen. Radha has now a solid form. But this form has no movement. It does not breathe. It is a doll; a mere doll.” This elusiveness of human personality is a part of life’s mystery; and when the elusive quality is gone, the fascination is gone. The elusive and vivacious Radha ends up as a happy conventional mother. Is it a happy ending?

Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma’s story Kothi (The Monkey) is in the tradition of an earlier veteran practitioner of the short story, Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry who drew graphic pictures of characters and situations from contemporary (around 1930) middle class Brahmin families living in the Godavari districts. What Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma’s story presents is a fascinating picture of domesticity—the wife-husband quarrel, the relationship between sisters-in-law, the attitudes of parents and their married children, the family tradition and pride, all tinged with individual idiosyncrasies and mannerisms. It belongs to the period around 1950 and is already dated. The monkey in the story is both a character and a symbol and draws the reader’s attention pointedly to what the writer would convey as his stern message , for Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma does not mince his words: “Let it be heaven or hell, happiness or misery, one’s home and one’s life with the husband are one’s own…rejecting that, running somewhere and again jumping to some other perch, this business of hopping and jumping maybe in the nature of female monkeys and suit them, but does not behove human beings and family women” Saraswathi, the central character in a reflective and repentant mood tells herself: “It was my intolerance that turned me into a monkey.” And that makes for a happy ending!

Ranganayakamma’s Meeting Pelli  (Wedding as Meeting) …is a fine piece of satire. Inter-caste marriage is universally advocated as an item of desirable social reform. To perform the wedding in such a case, often the reformers discard the traditional ritualistic form. A public meeting is convened with ministers and politicians as speakers. It becomes not only a drab affair, but deteriorates into a series of lengthy meaningless speeches. Worse, points out Ranganayakamma, the speeches are highly insulting to the couple and contrary to the spirit in which the two have decided to join in wedlock. An inter-caste marriage is not between two castes but between two individuals, who wish to forget caste as an irrelevance. And the reformers and speech-makers don’t allow them! Ranganayakamma’s narrative builds up a fine tempo of irony till the accumulating tension is triggered off by the bride snatching the mike and making a speech to end all speeches.

Vasireddi Sitadevi is a feminist writer. The story   Tanadaaka Vasthe (Confrontation) is not one of her best, but serves to indicate her main concern as a writer. There is a cinematic element in it, the role Malathi plays to expose the true character of her suitor Sudhakar, a revolutionary writer and a professed champion of women. During the role she plays, Malathi keeps Sudhakar on tenterhooks deliberately breaking off her narration to point to a lizard on the wall in the act of watching its prey, which it finally succeeds in capturing. Simultaneously in Malathi’s contrived story Malathi is captured and raped; and in the real situation, Sudhakar is confronted and caught in his true colours, with his hypocracy exposed. The symbolism is a little too obviously contrived.

R.Vasundharadevi’s stories have no conceptual bias and are not motivated either by social reform or romantic ideology. Adavi Puvvu (Wild Flower) is a good example. The portrait of Ragamma, the wild flower, is drawn straight from life and drawn with love and imaginative understanding. For persons like Ragamma, life is not an economic problem with a hierarchy of values. It is just a series of vicissitudes bringing joy or sorrow. Ragamma lives by feeling. She inherited it to some extent from her father. But her mother and her in-laws look upon life differently. This contrast between attitudes is what makes the portrait realistic and yet profound. Nowhere does the writer intrude even to suggest what her thinking is in the matter. The portrait of Ragamma as well as the background is rich with filigree details meticulously furnished—so that even a sociological study can be made out of the story. The economically shattered weaver community in and around Nellore in the sixties, their men folk and women folk struggling to make a living. But that is not the point of the story at all! “Expressive of life and joy, Ragamma is a wild-flower, a blossom on a dry-tree bereft of leaf or any trace of greenness. The appearance of such a flower on such a tree was itself nature’s wonder.” Marriage means a transplantation for Ragamma. “A growing plant was transplanted on ground of gravel.” Her little son is Nature’s gift sustaining her in her alienation. After her son’s death, she turns to green fields, Nature again. That is the heart of the matter!

The following three stories: Nuvvulu-Telakapindi,   Bangaramma Kamatam, and Karanam Kanakayya’s Veelunaama are examples of the short story used as an instrument for demonstrating how typical “class- consciousness” works in individuals, whether they know it or not. Economic exploitation is the common theme in all the three stories.

In Nuvvulu-Telakapindi (The Crushing of Gingili Seed) by K.Kutumba Rao, The exploitation of Somayajulu’s singing faculty goes through several phases. Through marriage Jayalakshmi acquires Somayajulu with his singing voice just for nothing, that is for a subsistence wage economically speaking. She is not content with the pleasure she derives, but goes about showing off to others. Then Somayajulu is subjected to training in classical music to receive social approval. While Jayalakshmi loses interest in the transformed singing of Somayajulu, her brother in collaboration with another person markets the singing on the stage and makes a profit of twenty five thousand rupees. Of which Somayajulu gets nothing. Then the singing is further modified into the popular Punjabi style, Somayajulu being trained to suit the movies. Further profits would accrue to the investors, Jayalakshmi’s father and brother. That is how the story concludes. In all this Somayajulu’s inclinations are not consulted, and because of the family tie by marriage, he could neither demand wages as a worker, nor share profits as an investor. The status of an indigent son-in-law in a capitalist framework is no different from that of gingili seed processed and crushed for oil! The point of the story, however, is neither in this analysis nor in the analogy. The question arises whether Somayajulu’s story could have been different, if he had asserted his individuality. After all a human being cannot be identified with a gingili seed! The writer makes a significant observation in the prologue to the story:” Though economically they belong to the working class, certain Brahmin families, because of their caste-consciousness, try to maintain a middle-class or a bourgeois status. That way they forfeit the happiness and privileges in life they would otherwise be entitled to as members of the working class.” Somayajulu’s lack of perception about his ‘class’ in society, allowed him to be trapped by the middle class, who squeezed him dry and he had no escape. The message of the writer is imperative need for individuals to develop class-consciousness if they wish to get anything from life.

The second story Bangaramma kamatham (Bangaramma’s Farm) is similarly a story of exploitation. The land-owner Bangaramma is an ambitious widow, and the farm-hand Bhimayya, since he grew up on the farm, is oblivious of his rights. The surplus value of his labour ever goes to increase the size of the farm and enrich the widow, while Bhimayya remains absolutely poor. Even the hut on the farm, in which he lives, gets furnished only after his marriage-with the earnings of his wife. Bangaramma’s sexual leanings towards the sturdy masculinity of the farm-hand too were corrupt with an ulterior economic motive. If the farm-hand had yielded and shared her bed, he would have become a slave for life. But his virtue saved him. Then comes the rude shock, when his wife dies; because of Bangaramma’s callous act of omission he loses his wife. That awakens him to the situation in which he is placed, and he walks out of it: a comparison of this story with Kantha Rao’s The River in Spate will be illuminating. Both have a similar situation. The change in literary ethos between the stories is the change from romance to social realism.

Padma Raju’s Karanam Kanakayya’s Deed is a more complex presentation of the theme of exploitation with reference to the theme of woman in a certain milieu. Kanakayya has nothing but a contempt for his wife and resentment towards his only daughter, who married against his wishes. He conveys all his property to his son-in-law, whom he admires because the son-in-law has succeeded in subjugating the daughter who had always bossed over the father! Kanakayya’s activities of a whole life time, his flair for litigation, his amorous affair which for a time alienated his wife, his daughter’s marriage, which started a vengeful action against his brothers-in- law and his own dismissal from the post of village officer, everything is crammed into the short span of a conveyance deed. Kanakayya’s obiter dicta on woman’s role as a wife and man’s role as a man of affairs reveal an interesting cultural milieu of feudalism-in-decay in the first half of this century. The story assumes the form of a legal document with its characteristic modulations of language, and admirably clothes and proclaims the personality of Kanakayya, the village officer.

The next five stories are by writers associated with the Revolutionary Writers Movement. Allam Rajayya’s Srishti-Karthalu (The Creators) is forcefully direct in espousing the cause of the exploited tribals of Telangana. The establishment is on the side of the feudal lord Mutyam Rao, who brings the court-amin and a contingent of police to prevent the tribals from cultivating the forest land which he claims to be his legal property. The tribals are arrested and presented in the court. The public prosecutor brands the tribals as inveterate thieves, murderous goondas and destroyers of property. The aged Odenna on behalf of the tribals answers the charges in his inimitable way, and this is the best part of the story. He says: ”How could it be that we have nothing but shreds on our backs, if we are thieves? How could it be that we have not killed Mutyam Rao yet, though there are so many of us against one man? We are of the earth; we create and do not destroy. We produced bags and bags of food-grain for the feudal lord. We made him rich, We are builders and not destroyers.” The case is adjourned. The writer doesn’t go on to tell us how the case is decided. The establishment would never mete out social justice to the dispossessed, because of the existing court procedures and the inequitable laws. The struggle continues.

Kutra (Conspiracy) by Kalipatnam Rama Rao is more a political tract than a short story. A hundred and fifty political workers are arrested on the charge of conspiracy against the state. There can be nothing ‘conspiratorial’ about it, argues the writer, when citizens in such large numbers seek to change the social system and the government in their own way. But should it not be through constitutional methods? What is a constitution? Is it not a set of rules framed by the privileged to suit their convenience? The conspiracy truly began when they framed the constitution which has not worked in favor of the poor? The conspiracy deepened with the establishment of the Planning Commission and the adoption of what has been called ‘mixed economy’ at the instance of Vaidyanathan, a sly operator with no commitment to socialism. Mixed economy led to a position in which the private sector {native industrialists) could blackmail and dictate to the government and the public sector to wrest concessions and privileges to fatten themselves, and exploit the toiling masses, who constitute the consumer public. In the process the rich have grown richer and the poor poorer, a fact sadly acknowledged by Jawaharlal Nehru himself. What Kalipatnam has narrated in a manner intelligible to the exploited sections is, according to him, the story of India after 1947. The manner of telling it reminds one of Antony’s oration in Shakespeare’s Julius Ceaser: the rhetorical devises employed are similar. Kalipatnam Rama Rao has written other stories with men and women; while the present one deals with ideas and not men. Even here his talent shows.

Kabuli by Nagna Munideals with the irredeemable indebtedness of the lower middleclass in our society. The inability to make both ends meet is common to everybody, whether one is a government clerk or a policeman. The sub-inspector of police who is a formidable figure in the eyes of the public cowers before the Kabuli creditor. The vulnerable point in the psyche of the middleclass is respectability and the Kabuli, by threatening to drag it into the street ensures repayment by his debtors. The story is written in a light vein and rounded off with a sardonic laugh at the policeman.

Foul! Foul! Is by Jampana Peddiraju, a promising young writer, who died at the age of twenty-four. He story focusses on the gulf between public concern and genuine human values. Tania, the tennis star, realizes it when she finds Tirupati, a coolie woman, working at midnight to level the tennis-court in spite of her extreme illness. When Tirupati dies after vomiting blood on the tennis court it takes some time for the shock to work up on Tania. The next day, playing tennis on the same court, she is overcome with sympathy for Tirupati. And in her absentmindedness, receives a bump on the forehead. The entire crowd witnessing the match makes a fuss over her hurt, but nobody has taken serious notice of Tirupati’s death while laying the tennis court. It’s not fair, it is foul, the way things are in our society. “Never think seriously. If you think, you cannot do even a little thing. There is your head—for combing the hair, for making up the face, but not for thinking. Don’t think. Thinking is dangerous.” Because, the ignored half of humanity was dear to Jampana Peddiraju.

Yerramilli Vijayalakshmi’s Borusu (The Other side of the Coin) reveals yet another side to exploitation in society. The mother’s love for her little son makes her a born-slave to the man who fathered him; but when the man exploits her, tortures her, and drives her in to risks beyond all limits of endurance, it is the boy who puts an end to the injustice by killing the exploiter to save his mother. Man’s inhumanity to woman in this story is painted in very strong colors, but the picture rings true to life and brings home forcefully the dehumanization of man, when money becomes the sole concern.

Maduranthakam Rajaram as a story writer is not committed to any political philosophy. Many of his stories are vignettes of rural life in Rayalseema. He has a fine sense of humor and great sympathy for the unsophisticated villagers. Villains are rare in his stories. Puthrotsaham (pride in progeny) gives us a delightful picture of the village school – the attitude of parents and pupils towards it, and the school master’s view of them all. Out of it emerges the pupil hero Rambabu, whose adventure away from home arouses in the parents only pride in their progeny. What is good bringing-up? What is the role of discipline? And to what extent children should be allowed freedom of adventure? The story sets one thinking.

Avishkarana (Book-Release) by Chaganti Somayajulu is a piece of critical realism. The subdued tone of irony and the details meticulously piled up make it very effective. The book release was by a big man of letters, presided over by another big man in politics. Pressmen were present, and the book received a lot of publicity.  Copies of the book were sold out in a short time finding their place in public libraries all over. But is it readable? No, it is only fit to be seen and not read, says the only reader present at the function!

Binadevi’s story Mrs. And Mr.Saxena starts in a light vein and proceeds with wit and humor ‘till the twist in the ending shocks us into sadness and silence. Mr.Saxena lives in a make believe world, and Mrs. Saxena keeps herself busy meeting friends. The façade of laughter hides a tragedy too deep for tears!

That is also the theme of Navvu (The Smile) by Balagangadhar Tilak. An existential crisis bestowed on the teen-ager Ramachandra Rao the vision of life’s profound anxiety. “This creation this life is a funny thing! There is neither order nor pattern to it. Even if there be anything like it, it is beyond our knowing… The whole thing is a big joke, a matter of laughter.” Retaining that vision, orphaned Ramachandra Rao passes through life with a gentle smile, which is the most mysterious and fascinating thing about him for his friend Murthy, who watches him in several crises and admires his equanimity and strength of mind. The secret of his vision of life is finally confided only to the woman he loves, who he succeeds in winning as his wife. “She understood it. It was not an empty smile. Behind the smile, was great sadness, behind that was Vedantha.”

The Corner Seat is a memorable story. The transforming vision of life in the presence of death, in contrast with death, directly communicated as a felt experience towards the close of the story makes it great. The paltriness of values by which we live and which we tend to identify with life is washed away in a moment, and the beauty and joy in being alive, the great mystery of life bathe the mind in a radiance which is at once saddening and purifying

By the mention of Korean war and Truman’s speech in the story, Rachakonda Visvanatha sastry’s The Corner Seat may be dated as pre-1960, but really it is dateless as literature. Tilak’s story was written in 1964, and Binadevi’s, a little later. The higher vision of life in the three stories is comparable.

In conclusion, it may be said that in the 20 stories gathered here, we have a panorama of the Telugu short story in its changing ethos and its multiflorous achievement as art.

 

Madanapalle,                                                                       R.S Sudarshanam

14-2-1988.

List of stories in this anthology:

1)    Balivada KanthaRao. Varada Velluva

2)    Buchi Babu. Anuraaga Prasthaaram

3)    Ravuri Bharadwaja. Lakka Bommalu

4)    Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma. Kothi

5)    Ranganayakamma. Meeting Pelli

6)    VasiReddi Sitadevi. Thana Daaka Vasthe

7)    R. Vasundhara Devi. Adavi Puvvu

8)    K.Kutumba Rao. Nuvvulu-Telakapindi

9)    C.S.Rao. Bangaramma Kamatam

10) Padma Raju. Karanam Kanakayya’s Deed

11) Allam Rajayya. Srishti Karthalu

12) Kalipatnam Rama Rao. Kutra

13) Nagnamuni. Kabuli

14) Jampana Peddiraaju. Foul! Foul!

15)   Yarramilli Vijayalakshmi. Borusu

16) Madhurantakam Rajaram. Putrotsaham

17) Chaganti Somayajulu. Avishkarana

18) Bina Devi. Mrs.and Mr. Saxena

19) Balagangaadhara Tilak. Navvu

20) Rachakonda Viswanadha Sastri. The Corner Seat

—————–

(A Note from R. Vasundhara Devi, along with submission::

I found this typed-script in Sri R.S. file long after he passed away. He dated it as on 14-2-1988.   I do not know for whom he wrote it nor who selected the stories.

I vaguely remember Sudarshanamgaru mentioning about Kannada poet/translator Sri B.C. Ramachandra Sarma of B’Lore requesting an intro for a Telugu short story anthology.Details of publication of this anthology is not available with me. Any information from readers is welcome.

– R.Vasundhara Devi)

Translation or Transference: The Problematic of Cultural Specifics

by Dr. S.S. Prabhakar Rao. 

Allen Tate has once observed, “Translation is for ever impossible and for ever necessary.” Down the centuries there have been unending debates about loyalty to and freedom from the original in a translation – ‘formal equivalence’ vs ‘dynamic equivalence.’ Whether a translation should read like a translation or like an original is still debated passionately. But it is possible to surmise that one should pursue the middle path agreeing on “maximum readability and feasible fidelity.” The other problem relates to the carrying across of cultural specifics from the Source Language to the Target Language. Terms, which have no equivalents in the TL, the author argues, may be transferred and expressions may even be literally translated so that optimum feel and flavor of the native culture can be re-created. He has cited the practice of Raja Rao in his path-breaking novel Kanthapura, in which he boldly translated Kannada expressions as well as transferred certain terms. The author devoted the second section of the paper to the problems he faced in his translation of short stories, classical poetry, a novel and a classical epic from Telugu into English and the tentative solutions he could arrive at. The author hopes that, despite the multiplicity of problems and the lack of encouragement and recognition, the tribe of translators will increase and contribute to much-needed cultural synthesis in the world torn apart by fissiparous forces.   

 Translation has ever been a tantalizing literary activity. It has been observed that translation is for ever impossible and for ever necessary. There is a term in the Italian, traducer, which means both a translator and a traitor and the activity is often considered the great betrayal. But for the much-needed cultural and emotional synthesis in a country like India torn by linguistic and regional fissiparous pulls, translation assumes paramount significance. Among the three streams/waves of Indian writing – the Anglo Indian, the Indo-Anglian (or Indian Writing in English: Prof K R Srinivasa Iyengar’s preferred terminology) and Indo-English Literature (Prof V K Gokak’s term) – the last one seems to be gaining ascendancy in the literary hierarchy in recent ties. The only Nobel Prize to be won by an “Indian” writer happens to relate to this wave: Tagore’s Gitanjali, which is a translation into English from the original Bengalee.  Without exaggeration, it can be stated that it is in the rich and vibrant literatures in the regional languages of India that one can find the real soul of the country. And to discover or unravel that soul translation is a necessary activity.

The term translation is derived from the Latin term translatio (to carry across.) It is kin to the Greek terms – “Metaphrase” and “Paraphrase” – which indicate the major problems a translator faces. Metaphrase refers to literal, verbatim (verbum pro verbo: word-to-word) translation, while Paraphrase (later used by Dryden) refers to “saying in other words.” The need for equivalence between the text in the Source Language and the final version in the Target Language is admitted but the problematic, should it be merely “formal equivalence” or “dynamic equivalence,” the terms used by Eugene Nida, has been debated for long. For long there has been an implicit view of master-servant relationship between the writer and the translator, who cannot afford to be creative. The 19th century British poet D G Rosetti observed that the work of a translator involved “self-denial and repression of his own creative impulses.” But it has not been so with gifted translators. Edward Fitzgerald, who gave us the immortal rendering of the Rubayat of Omar Khayam, was among the first who took liberties with the original in his creative translation.  He declared, “It is an amusement to me to take what liberties I like with the Persians, who, I think, were not poets enough to frighten me from such excursions.” And the end product is an eminently readable fluent rendering. But one wonders still, is it a translation from the Persian original or what Dryden called a “Parallel Text.”

In the colonial period the relationship was more of servility with the SL text author as a sort of feudal lord, ordering implicit loyalty to his text. Such an attitude led to treating translation as craft by Eric Jacobsen, while Theodore Savory considers it an art. Horst Frenz clinches the issue by declaring, “It is neither a creative art nor an imitative art but stands somewhere between the two.” The challenge before the translator is, on the one hand, to transfer the semantic constructs and the formal contours of the original and on the other, to re-create the spectrum of aesthetic/cultural features inherent in the SL text. Implicit fidelity to the original words has been largely discouraged. As Dryden noted, “when words appear literally graceful, it were an injury to the author that they should be changed. But since what is beautiful in one language is often barbarous, nay sometimes nonsense, in another, it would be unreasonable to limit the translator to the narrow campus of his author’s words.” It is where creativity or even what the Indian alamkarists (aestheticians) call pratibha comes in. The corresponding proper words may occur to the translator in a flash, very like the best words in the best order in the original work. Perhaps, the possible solution lies in pursuing the middle path of maintaining “maximum readability within the confines of faithful rendering.”

The attempts of linguists to offer a scientific base for this activity have occasionally added to the confusion. While Roman Jakobson categorically declared, “Poetry by definition is untranslatable” he also discussed three types of translation: Intra-lingual (re-wording or interpretation of verbal signs by means of other signs; Inter-lingual (translation through verbal symbols in another language); and Inter-Semiotic (transmutation of verbal signs by means of non-verbal signs). But except the second type, the other two bear no relationship with translation proper.

Believing that the process of translation involves a little of creativity, a translator like Prof P. Lal uses the term, “transcreation.” In the Indian languages, translation is called anuvaada, literally to toe the line of thinking/argument of another. To reflect the element of creativity, I coined the term, anusrijana, to create in the fashion of another. Prof C D Narasimhaiah in an evocative way considers the original Udbhavamurty and the translation Utsavamurty as all original writing is composed in antar hridaya akasa. The need for close relationship of the translation to the original is generally admitted. Prof K. Viswanatham, a scholar, who was also a translator stated, “a translator’s first and last duty is doglike devotion to the original. .. If one is not faithful to the original, one is not faithful to the spirit.” Adopting a diametrically opposite stance, KY M Patanjali, who translated his own novella, declares, “there need be no relation whatsoever between the original and the translated text.” A K Ramanujan, the distinguished translator, whose translation of the Kannada poems of Goaplakrishna Adiga, published by Writers Workshop, inspired me to translate the Telugu poems of Devarakonda Balagangadhara Tilak, Song of the Cosmos & Other Poems, also published by Writers Workshop, takes the middle path, when he noted, “A translator must be true to the translation, no less than to the original.”

There is another issue which needs to be considered. How should a translation read? Should it read like a translation or like an original text? As early as 1791, Alexander Tytler, while admitting the impossibility of both form and content in a translation, still lays down in his three ‘laws of translation,’ that “a translation should contain all the original ideas, the style should be the same as that found in the original and the translation should read like an original.” (Italics mine). But during the 19th century, largely under the influence of Victor Hugo’s dictum in his “Prologue to the Translation of Shakespeare’s Works”: ‘Une traduction est presque toujours regardée tout d’abord par le peuple à qui on la donne comme une violence qu’on lui fait. […] Une langue dans laquelle on transvase de la sorte un autre idiome fait ce qu’elle peut pour refuser’ the general belief was that a translation should read like a translation. But even a diehard ‘loyalist’ like Friedrich Schleirmacher could not overlook the inevitability of transparent reading when he included in “The Different Methods of Translation” (1823) the method that moves the writer towards the reader.

All along there have been spirited efforts to domesticate a SL text by bringing in the native/local flavor. During the 17th century, French translators attempted to Gallicize the Greek texts. Even Dryden tried to make Virgil speak in words that as he would probably have written if he were living as an English man. While stylistic equivalence could be the ideal, the imperative of ease of reading cannot be sacrificed. Coming closer to India, we notice that even in the translation of epics like The Mahabharata and The Ramayana translators did not hesitate to introduce local elements. Tikkana, who translated a large part of The Mahabharata into Telugu, introduced a few marriage customs and social activities prevalent in the Nellore region of Andhra, in his rendering of the Sanskrit original. The tendency of several translators has been to ‘domesticate’ rather than ‘foreignize’ the original. But care has been taken, by and large, not to distort.

My main concern in this paper is the problematic of “cultural specifics” in a translation from one language into another language when they are culturally unconnected. It is well known that any language is deeply steeped in its culture and to translate such cultural ethos into an ‘alien’ language calls for considerable resourcefulness and even inevitable compromises and sacrifices.

In most Indian languages, the elders are addressed in plural. In Hindi we have aap, while in Telugu we have meeru. But in English there is only you universally applied to all. Such cultural load is impossible to be carried across. By common consent, it might be possible to choose the archaic form thou for aap and thy for aapka and so on. But in several cases such improvisation may not be possible.

II

Now, I wish to present the problems I faced in translation efforts and the tentative – far from wholly satisfactory – solutions I came up with.

During the sixties I was deeply impressed by the work of Srirangam Srinivasa Rao (Sri Sri), the pioneer of progressive poetry in Telugu, and wanted to introduce a short poem to non-Telugu readers of a special issue of Caravan on Andhra Pradesh. The title of the poem in Telugu is Avatali Gattu (literally, the shore on the other side). It would be downright clumsy to resort to literal translation of the title. I thought about it for a whole six hours in the night and in the small hours in a flash it occurred to me: the title, “The Shore Beyond.”  In instances like these the play of what poets call “happy chance” or “vital reason” in the work of translator is not qualitatively different from that in the poet’s original work. It was relatively an easier task for me to translate the surrealist poems of Sri Sri in his later work Khadga Srishti (Forging the Weapon), when I was invited to translate a few poems from his collection by the Bharateeya Jnana Peeth Awards Committee for considering his work for the award, though finally he did not make it! The fluent style, akin to English idiom, in his longish poem, Sarat Chandrika (Moon Ray of Sarat), was a joy to translate.

The problem of culture specificity arose when I translated a short story by Tripuraneni Gopichand, who is steeped in rural culture, for Illustrated Weekly of India. The title of the intensely poignant story a villager was Dharma Vaddi, a kind of nominal interest charged in the villages, when one is not likely to get back the money lent, with the stipulated interest. Here again literal translation of Dharma Vaddi would not serve the purpose. I had to resort to an idiomatic translation as “The Nominal Interest.” The real problem was rendering the dialogues of the rural people and I made them sound neutral – not Telugu-specific, yet resisting the temptation to make the characters speak like the inhabitants of a Californian ranch or the Okies of The Grapes of Wrath.    

Some years ago, when the 400th birth day of the great Telugu poet Bammera Potana was celebrated, I was invited to translate a few poems selected by me from his immensely poetic Srimad Bhagavatam. The lilting cadences and the sweet melodies of the original are certainly untranslatable, but I made a brave attempt to approximate the translated version to the original mostly in the area of thought-content and tried to carry across a little of the poet’s profound devotion.  I attempted to retain a few verbal repetitions in a manner natural to English. Here are a few examples:

The maid of poesy, tender

Like the shoots of mango young,

Would a true poet surrender

To the meretricious mortal?

And eat of that morsel immoral?

Again,

The hand in the service of the Lotus-eyed

Alone are the hands;

The tongue praying to the Lord of Wealth

Alone is the tongue;

The eyes espying the Protector of Gods

Alone are the eyes ….

Central Sahitya Akademi had an ambitious project to take a few good short stories from Telugu to a larger national/international awareness and arranged a Workshop on Translation and at the workshop it was generally agreed that a few culture specific terms relating to social and familial relationships, religious customs and ritual may be transferred into English for providing the reader a feel and flavor of the original. For example, in a village a person belonging to a lower status addresses the one of a higher status, Ayya, and to translate the address as “Sir!” would be preposterous and would be tantamount to perpetrating cultural violence. It would be preferable to retain the Telugu term. The present writer argued that a writer like Chinua Achebe brought in much-needed cultural transfer in his novels by using terms, like chi. From the context the foreign reader would be able to guess the meaning or he may consult the glossary at the end of the work, without impairing the natural flow of reading. The discussions finally resulted in the publication of thirty short stories of well-known Telugu writers translated into English and published under the title, Golden Nuggets.  In my translation of Palagummi Padmarju’s Telugu original Padava Prayanam (“The Boat Moves On”), I freely retained Telugu expressions, like maridi (brother-in-law, husband’s brother), babayya (a respectful way of addressing an elderly or superior , in status, person) and Ammo (a cry of agony) to present the rustic passionate love of Enki for her stealing, abusive lover with her rustic speech. But when I translated Chalam’s O Puvvu Pusindi (“A Flower Blossoms”), it was a sheer joy to translate the poetic, highly symbolic language of Chalam, who was indeed a poet at heart, though he was known mostly for his prose. I wish to offer a few samples of his poetic prose:

A flower blossomed in the woods. Looking around at the encircling     darkness she cries out in fear. The surrounding leaves draw her to them, reassure her and comfort her.

The bliss of tender night, the touch of soft grass, the soft blue of the sky, the strength of tree-branches, the piteous notes of the koel, the playfulness of the breeze, the ceaseless sap of the roots – all flow into her.

Recently, I have been assigned the pleasant task of translating Dr Vasireddy Seeta Devi’s poignant novel, Matti Manishi (“Man of Soil”), by P S Telugu University. The novel is a delineation of the incursion of urban values and avarice on the rural lives of people. The portrayal of the central character, Sambayya, recalls to one’s mind the powerful, yet whimsical, protagonist Henchard of Hardy’s novel, The Mayor of Casterbridge, with his flaw of arrogance and uncompromising stance, even when it wreaks havoc in his life. The Telugu novel set in a small village and then a smallish town in Andhra is region specific and simultaneously the theme of erosion of rural values under the inroads of urban culture (or the lack of it) is of universal and timeless resonance. But the novelist has maintained admirable balance in presenting the rot that is inherent in the rural situation with scheming village accountants, petty but shrewd and unprincipled opportunistic businessmen, haughty and reckless individuals wallowing in false prestige and soon turning into paupers and young women, running after filthy lucre and extra-marital gratification, ending up as physical, financial and moral wrecks. But the rural specificity is the striking feature of the original. There is an abundance of rural, agriculture-related terminology, which needs a close acquaintance with the ethos of the village. It is neither possible nor always desirable equivalents in English. As with short stories, the crux of the problems faced by a translator relates to dialogue, replete with forms of address, expressions of relationships, and so on. The carrying across of the social/religious customs typical of an Andhra village also is a challenge.

At the beginning of the novel, there is a scene of threshing in the farm. One of the farm laborers says, “If ayya garu threshes the first sheaf, there is bound to be harvest of ten puttis.” To retain the feel of the original, I kept the Telugu term and also the tern for measure. The terms used in italics do not present any obstacle for fluent reading by the general reader; only the more keen reader might refer to the appended glossary to get inputs about what the terms stand for. In the same way, expressions, like ayya goru, instead of alien Sir and amma goru, instead of Madam, are preferred. In some cases, an attempt has been made to translate some typical native expressions, like Nee siga tharaga (May your hair be cut off), as long it does not violate the natural expression in the target language. This is a practice made respectable by Raja Rao, in his path-breaking novel Kanthapura, when he translated Kannada Expressions into English, adhering to the Kannada turns of expression, as in “I’ll drop a word in your mouth,’ ‘every squirrel will have his day,’ ‘Moorthy has gone through life like noble cow, ‘stitch up your mouth’ and ‘he wanted me to be his dog’s tail,’ apart from choice Kannada abuses like ‘son of concubine,’ ‘son of a widow’ and ‘I’ll sleep with your wife.’ The narration by Acchakka in folklorish tone is retained by the liberal transfer of native expressions, which succeed investing the tale with an authentic rural flavor. Even Mulk Raj Anand uses several literal translations of Punjabi expressions, apart from transferring terms like Badmash. It is to be noted that R K Narayan tries to evoke a neutral atmosphere – not that of Tamil – by minimizing (even avoiding) the native Tamil terms.

In my translation, I attempted to retain the original ethos by using translations of the Telugu idioms, like: “Will I cross your threshold of your house even if it means my death?” “Waiting like a fox near the pit,” “To remain silent liked crushed lice” and “Where is the comparison between a fox and Naga Loka?” I also transferred words like putti, thumma, bure and gare.

To present the culture specific traditions and rituals, I translated them, as in “applying turmeric to the utthareeyam and dhothi.”  Some of the personal habits are expressed vividly, as in “nod one’s head like a cow,” and the curse, like “Where is the canal? Only his funeral!” is translated – literally. The description of Sambayya, the protagonist, throbs with native vigor:

His nerves, like young serpents’, the muscles turned steel strong under hard labor are like the bowstring pulled full length… his thick-grown hair crawling on to his neck, his nose sharp like a ploughshare – all reveal that Sambayya is a man who trusts land and lives totally on land.

Man of the Soil, p 20

Although the translation may not read like an original novel conceived and composed in the target language – almost a parallel text – it tries to carry across a feel and flavor of the source language.

In another assignment, I was called upon to introduce a classical Telugu prabandha (an  autonomous epic), along with a few free transcreations of the original Telugu poems. With a view to introduce Telugu classics to the non-Telugu readers – even the native Telugu readers, who cannot read Telugu – C P Brown Academy, set up by Alpha Foundation, took upon itself the commendable responsibility of introducing the five classics (panca kavyas) and as part of the project assigned to me the job of introducing Allasani Peddana’s Swarocisha Manusambhavamu (Manu Caritra). The challenge was indeed stupendous.

For this task, I decided to narrate the story of the epic generally in prose, but chose the memorable poetic moments for a free transcreation. As with my efforts to introduce the mellifluent poems of Bammera Potana, here too I had to give up on mellifluent cadences of the source poems and attempted to carry across the thought-content and spirit of the original. I may be permitted to cite a few examples.

In the suggestive invocation to gods/goddesses for blessings, the poet ingeniously suggests/foreshadows the crucial developments in the epic. The case of mistaken identities is pivotal. To suggest this, the poet invokes Ganesa in the following manner:

Ganesa, who, while drinking milk from the breast of Paravati,

On the right side, through his natural childlike act

Searches for the breast on the left side and finds instead

A necklace of serpent and takes it for a lotus stalk.

In his picturesque description of the dwelling place of Pravara, the pious Brahmin, the poet portrays the Brahmins, who are more erudite than even Brahma and so do not praise Him and the Kshatriyas who can challenge Parasurama, he presents

The Vaisyas, who can lend capital even to Kubera;

The sudras can offer alms to the First Mendicant…

Even the tenderest twig there is strong and sturdy.

The appearance of the enticing lady, Varudhini, is presented:

A fragrance of musk, camphor,

Perfume from paan leaves and other aromas

Wafted towards Pravara,

Indicating the presence of a damsel.

After losing his way Pravara asks the damsel to enlighten about the way back to his town, she smartly replies:

You are gifted with wide eyes; why then do you

Seek guidance of others to find your way?

Isn’t it a pretext to talk with women who are alone?

Else, don’t you know the way you have come?

Apart from the portrayal of the infatuation of the damsel with Pravara’s peerless beauty, and the amazing sense of self-discipline of Pravara, who manages to propitiate the God of Fire and get back to his town, the pangs of separation suffered by the lady, the cheating by the gandharwa, who had fallen in love with the lady and was rejected, the story moves on to the birth of Swaroci, his growing up and becoming a king. But the memorable part relates to the hunting expedition, where the poet exhibits his personal knowledge of the details of hunting as well as the names of several animals and birds, which have been transferred into English.

The poet also shows remarkable ability in recording the various customs and rites, especially of the wedding, as, for example, in the presentation of the wedding of Swaroci and Manorama. As there are no equivalents in English for the terms referring to the rites of marriage and the materials, varieties of dress used during weddings, it is inevitable to transfer the terms from Telugu. In fact, the rites presented by Peddana are region and tie specific and do not necessarily relate to the time and region of the marriage described. They are mostly practiced in Andhra during Peddana’s time. The custom of receiving the bride groom by the bride’s party – especially, the father of the bride – is universal, but there are other region-specific rites like offering madhuparka, a drink of curds made from the milk of Kamadhenu (divine cow) or simply cow nowadays, honey and sugar; and holding the curtain between the bride and the bridegroom till the muhurtam are typical wedding practices of Andhra observed even today. The description of the raising of the curtain is evocatively presented by the poet:

As auspicious music was playing,

Elderly women raised the curtain slowly

And the bride Manorama appeared –

Hairdo first, then face, then throat and then bosom –

As though she were goddess Lakshmi rising

From the ocean of milk.

As for the terms related to marriage, terms like kanyadana, akshatalu, tala(m)bralu, tali and asirvacanam have been transferred into English. It is hoped that they lend optimum native color and feel to the translation.

As a modest translator, I strongly believe that there is really no perfect translation nor one perfect solution to the multiplicity of problems a translator has to face in his usually thankless and generally unrecognized job. He has only his passion to sustain him in his missionary activity with the unflinching hope that his tribe will increase and contribute substantially to the much needed “cultural synthesis” in the world ravaged by numerous fissiparous forces.

Works Consulted     

Basnett Susan et al (Ed), Translation Studies, 1988, London, Taylor and Francis

Catford JC, A Linguistic Theory of Translation, 1965, Oxford, OxfordUniversity Press

Hugo Victor, “Prologue to the Translation of Shakespeare’s Works,” quoted by Maria

Teresa Sanchez, “Domesticating the Theorists,” Translation Journal, Vol 11, No 1, (January 2007)

Gokak VK, ‘Introduction,’ The Golden Treasury of Indo-Anglian Poetry, 1978, New Delhi, Central Sahitya Akademi  

Kelly Louis G, The True Interpreter: A History of Translation Theory and Practice in the West, 1979, Oxford, Basil Blackwell

Narasimhaiah CD, The Problems of Translation, 1957, Mysore, Dhvanyaloka

Newmark Peter, Approaches to Translation, 1995, Hemel Hampstead, Phoenix ELT

Nida Eugene A and Charles R. Taber, The Theory and Practice of Translation, 1974,

Leden, EJ Brill

Patanjali KYM, Impish Chronicles and Doggish Dabbler, 2009, Spearhead

Communications, Hyderabad

Prabhakar Rao S S, Golden Bouquet, 2008, Delhi, Authorspress

—                           Man of the Soil, 2009, under print, to be published by Potti SriramuluTeluguUniversity, Hyderabad

—-  Manu Caritra, 2009, being published by C P Brown Academy,

Alpha Foundation, Hyderabad

Ramanujan A K, ‘Translator’s Note,’ Speaking of Siva, 1973, Baltimore, Penguin Books

Robinson Douglas, Western Theory of Translation, 1997, Manchester, St Jerome Publishing   

Tytler Alexander Fraser, Essay on the Principles of Translation, 1791, included in Douglas Robinson’s work cited

Venuti Lawrence, The Translator’s Invisibility, 1995, London, Routledge

Viswanatham K, Essays in Criticism & Comparative Poetics, 1977, Visakhapatnam, AndhraUniversity Press

——-

(Reprinted, with author’s permission, from ICFAI Journal, Hyderabad, and published on thulika.net, December 2009)


* S S Prabhakar Rao is a Faculty Member, Academic Wing, Icfai University, Hyderabad -500 082; Email: prabhakar.sivudu@gmail.com

P. Saraladevi (Review) by P. Satyavathi

A prominent bi-weekly magazine Telugu Swatantra magazine, run by Khasa Subba Rao in the nineteen fifties and sixties and later by Gora Sastry and Sridevi until its closure, used to welcome new writers amicably. Magazines in those days used to encourage young writers regardless of their repute.

Saraladevi who has won readers’ hearts even with her early stories, published many of her stories in Telugu Swatantra. She also wrote an essay, “oka prasasti” [one tribute] on the novel Kalaateeta vyaktulu by Dr. P. Sridevi. Saraladevi’s first story, “baava chuupina bratukubaata” has been published in Prajatantra in December 1955. Her first anthology, Kumkuma rekhalu, has been published in 1956. About seven or eight stories she had published previously in Telugu Swatantra are not included in the anthology Kumkuma rekhalu.

The stories included in Kumkuma rekhalu were originally broadcast on All India Radio in series. Her narrative technique and language are soft befitting her name (Sarala literally means soft). At the time Syamasundari, who had a sweet voice and an imitable modulation, lent her voice to the narration, making them even more fascinating. The stories were received very well.

The cover page of the second edition of Kumkuma rekhalu holds mirror to the ripeness the writer had achieved both as a writer and as a person.

Saraladevi started writing fiction in 1955 and wrote mostly in the sixties and seventies. In 1977, her second anthology of short stories was published. In 1979, her short novel Komma, bomma [A Woman, A Doll] was published in the monthly Yuva. Later, she published two novels—komma, bomma and an unpublished short novel Chiguru [Tender shoot] written in 2004 as one book. She also published Telugu samethalu, saanghika chitrana [Telugu proverbs, a portrayal of society] a critical study in 1986. Her poetry has been published in Telugu Swatantra and other magazines. She also collaborated with six female writers on two serial novels, Shanmukhapriya and Saptapadi.

The anthology Kumkuma rekhalu, includes eight stories and a preface by Gora Sastry, editor of Telugu swatantra. The second anthology Saraladevi kathalu contains ten stories.

In the story “Kumkuma rekhalu”, the life of a young woman named Hemalatha is illustrated as it develops from innocence and straightforwardness to acquiring worldly wisdom, understanding ways of the world and living without hurting herself or others in the process. The narration is realistic and facetious.

Hemalatha, who had grown up watching the financial circumstances in her natal home and the way they handled the funds, came to believe that after she had her own home and family she would be prudent with their money and would save. She believes that, if they save, they would not have to take out loans; she has been waiting for that day.  She is happy when her husband keeps a little pocket money and gives the rest of his salary to her and tells her to manage the household. Soon enough she realizes that saving in low-income families meant only managing without taking out a loan and stays focused on that. With her straightforward attitude she gets into troubles, and later learns that worldly wisdom is necessary to mingle with others, and to adopt the philosophy of avoiding hurting others or getting herself hurt. Finally, she gets her husband say, “you’re okay”.

Hemalatha was interested in taking the B.A. exam by private study. She had the habit of reading books. She was also used to keeping her books safe. Parthasarathi is the kind of husband who understands her mode of thinking. Therefore, she has no gender-related issues.

Almost all of the eighteen stories in the two anthologies by Saraladevi are woven around women’s lives, especially the middle and lower class women. Saraladevi began with the themes of thriftiness and living streetwise in her early stories. In her later stories, she puts to discussion some serious issues such as women’s sexuality, marital relationships, and some pleasures in life both men and women are losing because of the special qualifications and duties imposed by society.

Saraladevi started writing at a time when higher education for women just started. It was the time when the middle class families still believed that seeking jobs by women was dishonorable for the families; the time when girls barely eighteen were married because marriage was the only goal for women. This situation was not prevalent in all classes though. Among the wealthy families and the families inspired by various reform movements, interest in women’s education was shaping up. We can see this interest in the story Saraswatulanu cheyyabote” [While trying to make them goddesses of learning] by Saraladevi.

A young man with progressive views attempts to make his younger sister a doctor or marry her to a doctor. The younger sister disappoints him and chooses to marry a man with an ordinary job. The brother hopes to send at least her daughter to school but that girl also follows the same route as her mother. The story kuuthullu [Daughters] depicts the financial burdens the middle class families have to bear for daughters’ deliveries and highlights the need for daughters to act responsibly.

In “tirigina malupu” [Turning around], the author emphasizes the importance of space between husband and wife, regardless how close the two persons may be. Her description of the little jealousies amidst the familial affections among the family members is depicted realistically.

We see a clear-cut progress in the stories from the first anthology to the second anthology. In the later stories, we see distinct clarity in the author’s views on life and the relationships between men and women.

We see Saraladevi’s gender-related understanding not only in the ten stories included in the second anthology Saraladevi kathalu (1977) but also in the stories published in Bhumika and in Nurella panta. The stories, “oka inti katha, “vaadi kommulu”, “bhinnatvamlo ekatvam”, “pechi”, “marri needalo”, reflect Saraladevi’s philosophy of life  and perception of the world.

In the story “oka inti katha” the mother, who lives by the traditional shatkarmayukta principles and manages the household, tells her daughter that that is the dharma for a woman. The daughter is surprised; she asks, “Is one person such a burden to another, mother?” meaning her mother may have carried the weight of those shatkarma tenets but she cannot. This story helps us understand the mode of changes and the mentality of questioning which started developing in young women during that period. In “stri”, the parents, because of poverty, arrange Santha’s marriage with Govindu who is deaf and uneducated. Her relatives give her signals suggesting she should satisfy her physical desires and even ask her directly to give herself in to them. Santha understands her situation, tells them that deafness does not come in her way to live with her husband, sets up a tailoring shop by way of supplemental income for her husband’s bicycle shop, bears two children and raises them well. However, when her son marries a girl from a rich family and leaves home, she is hurt as if he has died. Santha is a woman who abides by the decision her adults had made for her future, accepts their decision silently, and makes her place where she ended up livable.

Vaadi kommulu” holds mirror for Saraladevi’s opinions on man-woman relationship. In the past, mothers-in-law used to quote the saying mundocchina chevula kante venakocchina kommulu vaadi, [The horns which grew later are sharper than the ears which came first]. This refers to a touch of jealousy the the mother suffers from when a son shows affection for his wife. The young man in this story explains the logic and says, “Yes, that is true. They are sharper.”  He says, “Probably only in India we have this question—who is more important in a man’s life—mother or wife? Several books and movies raised the question—whether husband is preferable to son in a woman’s life, and proclaimed that choosing husbands as opposed to sons is the philosophy of an ideal woman. We saw that and clapped. Following the same logic, why don’t they clap when man chooses wife to be more important in his life?” He says further, “Uncle, can you imagine a husband-wife relationship filled with friendship? I know you can’t. In it, there is no question of more or less feeling, no question of heads or tails. I wish it is like home is heaven. The horns which grow later are sharp for sure, whether you accept it or not.” He suggests that a man should make his life pleasurable by loving and respecting his life-partner, without ignoring his duty towards his parents and should set aside their overzealous wishes at the same time.

bhinnatvamlo ekatvam” is about two women who refuse to leave their husbands, even when they are being ill-treated by them. One woman is an uneducated rustic woman. The second woman has more opportunities than anybody could ever provide for her. Yet she would not divorce her husband. The ending lines Saraladevi gives for this story are: If women who provoke their wicked husbands, can we say they are wicked too? What do they accomplish by this kind of decision? It feels like a terrible truth is obvious, only vaguely though. If that is true, where are they heading?

In the same story, her uncle tells to the second woman, “Maybe the world would not appreciate when a woman divorces and remarries but history appreciates it. Is it not better to burn up as a splinter in a healthy fight rather than burning vainly?”

In “pechi”, the father is unable to pay dowry. He learns that his daughter and a young man Harikishan are friends. Father, being unable to ask Harikishan to marry his daughter, spreads rumors about them and manages to perform their wedding on the sly. The son-in-law learns about this ploy and prohibits his wife from visiting her natal home ever again. The point is women have no right to make any decisions. The persons who have made decisions and played with the daughter/wife’s life are both men. “marri chettu” depicts the story of the only son/younger brother who feels suffocated by the affection poured on him by his mother and older sisters. He comes to realize that as long as he is stuck in their possessiveness in the name of excessive love, he has no shot at a real happy life with his wife and applies for transfer at his workplace.

Two novelettes or long stories of Saraladevi also depict the turmoil in two women’s lives. Both the women in both the novelettes belong to lower middle class.

In “chiguru”, Vimala, due to their poor circumstances, is married to a much older man, Ramapathi. He has been married twice before and father of five. Even at the time of pelli chupulu [initial meeting for arranging the wedding], he has made clear that he was marrying only for the sake of children. To that end, he leaves the five children to her lot and washes his hands off of them. He does not even look at her. Ramapathi has a peculiar temperament. He never tells directly what he wants to say but creates a huge scene. The others in the home just have to understand his mind and behave accordingly. His eldest son Hari, who is about Vimala’s age, is the only one who understands her. He is Ramapathi’s first wife’s son. The other children were born to his second wife. The second wife had put up with all his trashy occupations and managed the household effectively. Vimala’s mother, Ramanamma, learns that Vimala has turned into a cook and nanny for the children. She also believes that unfulfilled physical desires in a woman are a huge flaw and that Vimala has been deceived; she dies brokenhearted, dwelling on her daughter’s fate. Ramanamma was a child widow. A Young man named Ranga Rao sympathized with her situation. Ramanamma was attracted to him. With the help of friends, they got married in another town. Ramanamma believed (author believed) that the physical needs are not different for women from men and the nature exercises the same kind of sway on both but the tradition has tightened the harness only on women. For that reason, she tormented over the fact that they (she and the other adults in the family) had done injustice to Vimala. Ramapathi’s son Hari guesses his father’s intent correctly. His father needs a woman physically but does not know how to get it. He does not even know how to treat his wife properly. He is incapable of reaching out to her directly, befriending her gently, enticing her sweetly, and capturing her attention happily. Society has killed that skill in men. It has killed that skill in men by according the rights to them on a woman in the name of marriage, providing several venues, and by strapping woman in the name of pativratyam [ritualistic devotion to husband]. The author states in the words of Hari how the rights acquired through patriarchal system distanced men from the feelings natural to human beings.

In the novelette, Komma bomma¸ father arranges Manga’s wedding while she is still in school. The husband runs away on the wedding night. Mother-in-law blames Manga for the incident. Manga, without understanding what “first night” meant or why her husband ran away, takes the accusations quietly. Her mother agonizes over the injustice done to her daughter and dies. Father is ruined financially. Manga, with the help of a friend’s mother Kamalamma, finishes school, becomes a school teacher. She also shoulders the responsibility of raising her sister’s children after sister’s death. Eventually, she decides to marry Ananda Rao, co-teacher in the same school. In that inopportune moment, a stupid young man shows up with his grandmother and claims he is her husband that ran away previously. The neighbors band together and pass judgments on her. They preach women’s dharma to her and suggest she should take him back. They stress the need of man’s support for a woman. Nobody really knows whether that man is real or fake. Earlier, her sister’s husband tried to assault her and when she refused, threatened her, “Watch what I can do to you.” Manga is tormented with the thoughts, “Who gave these people the right to come on to my porch and pass judgments on my life? My life is slipping away through my fingers constantly and ending up in someone else’s hands. I have to live on the goodwill of how many people?” At the end, Manga breathes freely after the two persons (the stranger and his grandmother) absconded secretively.

Saraladevi tells how much turmoil the institution of marriage is creating in women’s lives, and how even the educated women with earning power also are entangled in this system. The male characters—Hari in chiguru, Ananda Rao, Gopi, and Ranga Rao in komma, bomma are men with conscience. Ramanamma, Kamalamma, and Rama are astute women.                    

Saraladevi, who understood women’s internal struggles, slowed her writing activity in the seventies. Had she continued, the gender awareness in women which developed in the eighties might have helped her to write more good stories. As Mrunalini states in her preface to the novelettes of Saraladevi, “Saraladevi is a writer who should be writing even more.”

Saraladevi is older sister of Seela Subhadradevi (poet) and a friend of Dr. Sridevi (fiction writer).

Saraladevi was born in 1937 and died in 2007.

(End)

(The original article in Telugu has been published in Bhumika.org, October 2010.)

(Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net, March 2011.)

G. V. Krishna Rao (Review) by Nidadavolu Malathi.

He is considered to have set the standard for Telugu literature. A Literary meet, Sri Aravinda Sahityaseva samiti, Tenali, honored Dr. G. V. Krishna Rao on March 3, 1979. At the ceremony, several writers and critics praised him for his superior quality work in Telugu literature and commented that his work sets standard for Telugu literature.

Krishna Rao was born in 1914 in Kuchipudi village, Tenali taluq, Andhra Pradesh, India. In an autobiographical essay, Dr. Krishna Rao stated that originally he was not very keen on attending school. His parents had no education but wanted him to obtain education. Not much came out of it though. Either he absconded school or when went to class, his mind was elsewhere. Later, his aunt took him to her village and put him through school there.

He was not much of a learner in traditional methods. He says that when he tried to write chepa [fish], it would look like chaapa [mat]. Nevertheless, he wrote a parody and showed it to his friend. That friend showed it to their teacher. The teacher chided him kindly though, “You can’t recite even ten verses and you’re writing poetry?” At the same time, the teacher also gave him a piece of advice, which he says was worth a million. The teacher told him, “It is wrong to write poetry without studying literature on poetics thoroughly. It will let the hell break loose.” At the time, Krishna Rao was in eighth grade. Thenceforth, he started studying classics and ancient grammatical works on his own. He says that study had its negative consequences. For instance, he came to believe that writing meant only writing poetry and that scholarship meant writing complex phrases. In his later years, he understood that prose was more important and put it on a higher pedestal.

In his final year of high school, his teacher, Sastry, corrected his essay and told him, “Writing long, meandering phrases is not good. Beatific meaning is important. Unless there is efficacy, one should not use a word that is not comprehensible instantaneously. A document must always be lucid as like a peeled banana. That is the greatest writing.”

Krishna Rao was well-versed in grammatical texts ever since he was a child. He started creative writing in high school. At the age of 17, he wrote his first novel, and wrote a satakam (a book of 100 verses) at the age of 20. He also wrote a storybook for children and tried to have it prescribed as textbook in schools, but did not succeed though. During the same period, he was upset with one of his teachers and wrote a poem on the blackboard. That resulted in him being transferred to another school. There he met with Tummala Venkatramayya with whom he had forged good friendship. Venkatramayya recounted a couple of interesting incidents from this period. First, Krishna Rao’s name in school records was Gavini Venkatakrishnayya. He researched the origins of his surname, and found out that there was a word Gavaka meaning the entrance to Durgamapuram. In course of time, that the word underwent several variations such as gavanu and gavani. He preferred the name Gavanu. Currently, however his surname is appearing in books as Gavini.

During the same period, he filled the answer papers with his comments on the grammatical errors in the questions given to him, instead of answering the questions. In his school days, parents used to request him to write poems of blessing for their sons and daughters at their weddings.

Krishna Rao performed ashtavadhaanam and sataavadhaanam – a peculiar kind of poetic application where a poet crafts poems, extempore and one line at a time in response to eight or one hundred individuals, called prucchaka [interrogators] in one sitting. This skill is prevalent only in Telugu and Sanskrit to the best of my knowledge. Krishna Rao took it as a challenge and practiced these skills in woods, pretending the trees to be the interrogators, and playing himself both the interrogators and respondent. He would not much give much weight to these early writings. He commented, “It took a long time for me to get rid of the habit which I had gotten used to from this trellis-like poetry.”

While he was studying for his bachelor’s degree, he met Gopichand, a prominent leftist writer of his times, from whom he had acquired a taste in Western literature and literary styles. Krishna Rao studied M.N. Roy’s works and Marxism, which changed his entire perspective. He understood that the use of colloquial language was important for his work. In those days, he also used to meet with traditional writers as well as modern writers like Chakrapani and Kutumba Rao. They all met regularly in some medical store and discussed the characteristics of criticism and short stories.

After obtaining his bachelor’s degree, he tried to get a job but without success. During this period, it became hard for him even to get food to eat which reminded him of an episode describing the anger and frustration of the sage Vyasa in kasikhandam. Inspired by the episode, Krishna Rao wrote a play called bhiksha paatra [Begging bowl]. He says, “It is my first writing that emanated from the bowl filled with experience.” He sent it to several magazines but none of them accepted it for publication. However, the play has received critical acclaim later and been performed in several places numerous times. In this context, the comment made by Kurma Venugopalaswamy, registrar of Andhra University in the fifties and an avid supporter of Telugu stage is worth mentioning. He commented that he had read the play several times and had it performed in the experimental theater of Andhra University, Waltair, Andhra Pradesh. It has been translated into several Indian languages also.

After failing to obtain a job, Krishna Rao went to Benares to study for his master’s degree in English literature. He took a tutoring job to pay his tuition fee. At this time he also pursued his other interests. He studied eminent literary works in Telugu, Sanskrit and English. That part of his studies resulted in a classic work, kavya jagatthu. About this book, Krishna Rao says, “I explained the metamorphoses of theme in a kavya from the perspective of Marxism, quoting various from notable Indian and Western works, from Bharata to Pandita rayalu, and from Plato to Marx.” Further, he added, “I reviewed modern literary movements and their characteristics, and wherefrom they originated, namely, the social conditions and the leaders of those movements.”

Another milestone in Krishna Rao’s life was attending the political conference organized by Radical Democratic Party following the end of Second World War. At the conference, M. N. Roy vehemently criticized the existing political parties and proposed a new humanistic idea that is non-divisive and democratic in principle. That speech stunned Krishna Rao and paved the path for his future literary pursuits. That was the start of his studies in philosophy. Eventually, Krishna Rao worked on Kalapoornodayam for his Ph.D. and received his doctorate.

From his writings, Krishna Rao’s life appears to be one long stretch of endless inquiry, insatiable thirst for knowledge—from meaning of a given word to meaning of life. He has stated that the theme in his novel, keelu bommalu [Puppets] reflects this enquiring mind: “What does freedom mean? How humans are losing it? What is the way to regain it? To what extent, the economic and political matters are influencing human lives? What is the duty of individuals?—inciting this pursuit of knowledge is the goal of keelu bommalu,” he has stated in the preface to the book. Once a reader wrote to Krishna Rao suggesting the novel should have a happy ending. Krishna Rao replied, “Had I given it a happy ending, I wouldn’t have gotten even this note from you.” Apparently, the author was happy his novel provoked the reader to think.

While he was working in a degree college, he studied keenly the grammatical works of Acharya Nagarjuna, vigrahavarthini, Ratanavali and several others and translated them into Telugu poetical works. Unfortunately, his translations were stolen. He said he was able to translate again only one book vigrahavarthini and published it with extensive preface. He also translated Plato’s Republic.

In 1962, he lost his job. Then he started writing another novel, papi kondalu but left it unfinished as he got a job in a radio station. While working at the radio station, he wrote some poetry, translated pratima natakam by Bhasa, and published an anthology of his short stories, udabinduvulu. The author called it an anthology of short stories. However, the copy I had come across includes poetry, plays, and two essays. His last novel papi kondalu was never completed. Krishna Rao died in 1978.

Krishna Rao is one of those rare scholars who had examined the Indian traditional values and ancient works as well as Western philosophies thoroughly, developed his perspective on life and the world and presented his own philosophy. His works such as jegantalu and kavya jagatthu vouch for his standing as a literary persona. He had been persistent in his jignasa [pursuit of knowledge] even from his childhood days.

His opinion regarding the western influence on our (Telugu people’s) mode of thinking speaks of his keen sense of awareness what is wrong with our society at present. He says, “We have acquired modern, scientific and technical knowledge. Rationalism has taken place in our lives. Industries have been set up and wealth has prospered. The appetite to go for it [wealth] one way or another also has increased. We’ve gotten used to materialistic culture and started pursuing physical pleasures. In the process, we are becoming increasingly slaves of material possessions and thought. Ethical values are waning; generosity and appreciation of fine arts are disappearing. We must not ignore economic values, which we have learned from western civilization. But are the economic values the same as all values? Unfortunately, we see them only racing our lives today. What is happening to this society? Are we forgetting gradually the culture that has put dharma on high pedestal and made us visualize Truth, Beatitude and beauty; are we forgetting ourselves?” he questions.

Until recently, I have not heard of any of his works but for the novel keelu bommalu. After receiving the novel from his daughter, Dr. Umadevi, I searched Internet and found several other works. Here are some his works I have found:

Sahiti chaitraratham. This is a commemorative volume, put together in honor of Krishna Rao, his service to Telugu literature and his distinctive personality. The volume includes articles by several prominent writers, critics, and admirers of Telugu literature. It also contains three essays by Dr. Krishna Rao.

In his article on the duty of writer, he comments, “Our writers, being unable to see the world perceptible by the five senses, are commemorating the world of the past. Even those who could see the modern world are unable to comprehend it. Even if comprehended it, they are only playing a game like ring-around circus but unable to resonate with it. A writer may become a poet only when he watches the present day world, comprehend it, ache for it and then proffer his views to the world. If he fails to do so, he becomes simply a seeker of renown.

Jegantalu is a Telugu rendering of Plato’s philosophy. He called it a translation. From what I understood, which, I must admit is very little, the book is a result of his study several books by Plato. At the end, a list of 18 books by Plato and critical works by other writers is given as his sources.

In his essay Kavya jagatthu, the author discusses the essence of kavya from the perspective of Marxism. The book includes extensive discussion of various poetic works in Sanskrit, Telugu and English and the author’s perspective on the themes under discussion. There is a glossary at the end.

Udabinduvulu is an anthology of his poems, stories and plays, including the play, bhiksha patra mentioned earlier.

I have been searching for the novel, keelu bommalu for a long time. Several novels published in the forties and fifties were focused on the struggles of Independence movement and the social conditions following the declaration of independence. Among the very few novels that dealt with human condition and psychological analysis, chivaraku migiledi [that which remains at the end] by Buchibabu, is well-known. I believe, Krishna Rao’s novel keelu bommalu [Puppets] belongs in that category.

I liked keelu bommalu better than chivaraku migiledi despite its high acclaim in literary circles. In terms of thems, in the latter novel, the story revolves around one man and his thoughts about himself and the women around him. The entire story is presented only from the protagonist’s perspective. The other characters have no identity except what the protagonist tells us. On the other hand, in Keelu bommalu the author presents a balanced view of all characters. Each character speaks its mind thereby giving the reader a chance to discern his own opinion of those characters. Secondly, in chivaraku migiledi, the story revolves round man-woman relationship. In keelu bommalu the story is anchored in the dharma of individuals. Thus, the topic is broader.

Regarding the title of the book, puppets, the perception usually is that we are puppets in the hands of some unknown force; there is a player who pulls the strings and make us act. Krishna Rao states unequivocally that was not the message in his book. His aim was to illustrate, “A human being must think for himself from the perspective of humanism, and choose his own path of dharma.” In this novel we see how a man thinks when he is faced with a conflict and how he resolves. Apparently, most of the time, he forgets his dharma and resorts to temporary comfort zone.

The protagonist, Pullayya, cosigns a loan for Chandhrasekharam without telling his wife. When the time for repayment is up, Chandrasekharam has no money to settle the debt. Legally and morally, it is Pullayya’s obligation to pay up but he cannot do it. His problem is, if he pays his wife would come to know of cosigning, and he is not prepared for such revelation. That is the crux of the issue in the novel. People in the village start talking about it, expressing opinions on either side. Pullayya’s daughter wants to know the truth. She asks father and he by keeping his mouth shut, leads her to believe that he did not cosign the loan and that Chandrasekharam was spreading rumors. Not only he misleads his daughter and wife but in course of time he convinces himself that he had done nothing wrong. Pullayya did not lie out of ignorance but with the full knowledge of the actual event. He consciously chose to ignore the truth and let the villagers divide into factions and emotions flare up resulting in clashes on the streets, arson and murders. Even when the village is being destroyed systematically, Pullayya remains convinced that he did nothing wrong. He even accepts honors for his generosity. The message is individuals need to reflect and decide what dharma is for them by themselves. It is not something that somebody would provide for them. In that sense, there is no puppeteer. Each person is his own puppeteer. The author has shown extraordinary skill in depicting this angle in the story.

There is another angle to the story, particularly in relation to modern mode of thinking—that the value Pullayya puts on his wife’s status in the family. Back in the fifties, making money is husband’s duty and running the household is wife’s duty. That being the case, he should have told her about the possible expenditure yet he did it without her knowledge. At the time probably, he hoped it would never come to this—his obligation to pay up. Then, modern day question is: Why couldn’t tell her later when it was time for him to pay off the debt? That is the peculiarity in our culture. The incident highlights the way husband and wife respect each other in our culture. Author never vocalizes this aspect; perhaps at the time it was not even a question.

A prominent critic, R.S. Sudarsanam commented, “Krishna Rao gives high importance to an individual and his conscience regarding performing one’s duty. There is a considerable relevance of Freud’s unconsciousness theory in both the incidents—first, Pullayya forgetting his duty and, secondly, Dr. Vasudeva Sastry’s failing in performing his duty.” He continues to add that Pullayya ignored his duty due to his cowardice and selfishness whereas Vasudeva Sastry took responsibility for the mistake and was prepared to correct it socially. I am not convinced of this argument.

First, let me explain the situation. Vasudeva Sastry invited a local teacher Satyanarayana, his wife Padma and their little child into house after their house had been burnt by one of the factions. While staying in his house, Padma goes to Vasudeva Sastry while he was half asleep and had sex with him. Vasudeva Sastry believes it was only a dream and continues to believe so until Padma tells him that she was pregnant with his child. Vasudeva Sastry suggests they elope. Padma refuses to elope with him. Sastry screams that she was a typical Hindu woman; apparently, he was expressing his “righteous” anger.

To me, the entire incident is a bit dramatic. That Vasudeva Sastry, a doctor by profession and rational thinker, would not know whether he had sex in reality is strange. Secondly, after learning that Padma was carrying his child, he suggests a solution without taking into consideration what effect it would have on Padma’s husband and their child. Is that really a socially responsible, rational suggestion?

Sudarsanam suggests that the author made Vasudeva Sastry his mouthpiece in order to express his own opinions. I think Vasudeva Sastry is just one more character in the story. Author has never made any statements to believe otherwise.

In his preface to this novel, author stated that, “I did not write this novel aiming at any one individual, parties, or upcoming elections. Only artistic appreciation is the main basis for this writing. Only when the reader is willing to forget the passion of party politics, and read it, then only he can achieve the right kind of appreciation.”

Krishna Rao was a seeker of Truth, philosophical commentator. He is one of the very few who have continued pursuit of their literary activities, reflecting on one’s dharma, and total commitment.

                                 ***

A Note: Further discussion of the novel keelu bommalu in audio format, produced by Nidadavolu Malathi and Kalpana Rentala is available on archive.org. Click here.

(Thanks to Dr. Uma Devi, Krishna Rao’s daughter, for kindly sending me a copy of the novel, keelu bommalu.)

(written by Nidadavolu Malathi has been published originally on thulika.net, May 30, 2012)

Sivaraju Subbalakshmi, (review) by Nidadavolu Malathi.

Sivaraju Subbalakshmi

Sivaraju Subbalakshmi (b. 17 September 1925) was married at the age of twelve to another famous Telugu writer, Buchibabu [pseud.] (1916-1967), 21 at the time. She hails from Rajahmundry, a town known for its rich literary heritage. She was the second of three daughters and three brothers to her parents. She adopted her brother’s son, who named after her husband, Venkata Subba Rao.

“I am eighty-four,” She said with a charming smile. I visited her at her home in Bangalore, on August 23, 2009. My friend, V.B. Sowmya, was the photographer for us.

After Bucchibabu obtained his Bachelor’s degree, the couple moved to Madras. They started their life together when Buchibabu moved to Madras to do obtain his Master’s degree. In Madras, the couple made friends with several esteemed writers, which contributed immensely to literary pursuits. Subbalakshmi fondly remembers the good times she had with her husband until his untimely demise in 1967.

In 2006, I talked with her over the phone for the first time. She was in Bangalore and I was in Hyderabad. In September 2009, however I happened to go to Bangalore and so took the opportunity to meet her.

She has a pleasant personality. She welcomed us with a big smile, made tea for us, and showed us her room and her paintings. She says Bapu, a highly acclaimed artist of our times, is her nephew (Bucchibabu’s brother’s son) and has taught him how to draw. 

Subbalakshmi started writing short stories in the mid-fifties. She quoted a famous writer, Jalasutram Rukmininatha Sastry as saying, “I like your stories better than that novel [of her husband].” I asked her what that novel was and she replied with a hearty laugh, “By then, chivaraku migiledi (by Buchibabu) had been already published.” Another famous poet and university professor, Pingali Lakshmikantam paid her a charming tribute in his asirvachanam [Blessings] (Preface to one of Subbalakshmi’s anthologies). He commented that Subbalakshmi’s stories came from the heart and she wrote from a perspective that only women could understand and portray. Regarding her style, Lakshmikantam stated, “Nowadays, the stories, published now, are hard to distinguish between the stories written by male and female writers. The specialty in Subbalakshmi’s stories is that, the feeling we would feel; only women can write like this. A man, however talented he is, can describe the woman’s nature only as he percepted it; he can only see through his masculine eyes. It is no surprise that when a woman describes the nature of another woman, the description will be far from exaggeration and closer to truth. We can say the objective of these stories is to hold mirror to the human nature filled with jealousies, intolerance and narrow selfishness; they make our world a better place.” He finished his “Blessings” hoping she would write better stories than her husband.

Subbalakshmi credits her inspiration and success to her husband. She says in her preface to her anthology, Sivaraju Subbalakshmi Kathalu, addressing her husband, “You wrote a story and I wrote one. You painted and I painted.” It would appear they had an ideal marriage.

Subbalakshmi has published four volumes of short stories and three novels. One of the three novels, neelam getu ayyagaru [The owner of a house with blue gate] has received critical acclaim. It illustrates a wealthy family who live in a big mansion with blue gate; it is narrated from the perspective of a maid in the mansion, Ponni.

The author has done a marvelous job in capturing the perceptions of an illiterate working woman. The character comes alive.

In our conversations, Subbalakshmi has mentioned that she has stopped descriptions in order to avoid the possible criticism that she was imitating her husband. I am not sure at what point she has changed her style.

Nonetheless, her creativity is obvious in her stories. For instance, the novel under reference opens with the following lines:

The white rose in clusters presents themselves through the blue gate and make the passersby stop for a moment at least. Far off, Ponnamma, who lives in a hut in the open arena, has been going around looking for work, along with her daughters. She says on that street one half of the houses belong to her.

In the first line, she has established the specialty of a white rose. Ponnamma also is a woman with unique character. She is a little lamp that stays forever in the heart of the owner of the house with blue gate for ever. She is a servant with courage to claim one half of the houses on the street as hers.

In the next paragraph, the author starts with a line that (Ponni) “would not tell the truth” and continues to narrate briefly the previous incidents which landed Ponni in the present position.

As Ponni was about to open the gate to enter, the owner’s dog jumped on her and tore her sari and pulled apart her skin from the bones. In the same moment a car came in. From a fair-skinned and hefty man in white clothes got out of the car and offered to give her money. Ponni refuses to take his money. The man out of his generous nature tells the driver to take her to the doctor, adding, “If she dies, that will visit up on us.”

Eventually, she is taken in as a maid in that mansion. When the owner decides to spend some time in Nilgiri hills for health reasons, he and his wife invite Ponni to go with them as domestic help. She becomes the confidante for the entire family—the owner, his wife, son and daughter-in-law. She listens to all their stories. They all show concern for her wellbeing. When the owner attempts to make a move on her, she cleverly escapes, saying, “You are a like the Lord Rama [man of integrity]”.

The owner in his final days reflects on his life, he cannot but think of Ponni as his mentor. He is convinced that he had seen several servants but there is none like Ponni.

Subbalakshmi however considers another novel of hers, teerpu [Judgment] as her best work. It was serialized in a monthly magazine, taruna.

Subbalakshmi has firm convictions regarding the woman’s position at home and in society. According to her, kitchen is an important place in the house, and woman has a responsibility to take care of the home; she should never leave home, since there is no place for a woman where she can be safe. 

She said at present she has been writing stories when she finds something interesting in the news but does not send them out for publication. She is also writing her autobiography. “This is not just an account like ‘we lived here or there but about my experiences and memories,” she said. She showed us about 12 handwritten pages.

I asked her if she would fair copy them.

“No, I just write as it comes. Too lazy to rewrite,” she laughed. Suddenly I felt nostalgic. Back in the fifties and sixties, that was the way we all had written stories. At the time, there were no computers, no editing and no cut-and-paste facilities.

Subbalakshmi has an amazing memory. At the age of 84, she remembers all the themes and the incidents that inspired her to write in detail. 

In response to the question why one writes stories, she says, “For those who can be happy with what they have, the desire to have this or that is low. Yet, their hearts pine for something special to be recognized about them … that her husband should recognize her identity …”, reminiscing her past. He recalls the times when she and her husband sat on the shores of the River Godavari, and he asked, “What do you think of this ending for this story or that story”,  and the satisfaction that he had respect for her opinion—that leaves an imprint on her mind forever. ..

The preface to her book reads like that and it gave me a feeling that she has lost herself in her memories and the preface in itself is another piece of creative writing.

Most of the stories are anchored around the lives of middle class women, their struggles, fears, frustrations and their inability to extricate themselves from the tough situations they are stuck, and in the end settle for a compromise.

She has pointed out a few of her stories as her favorite stories to me. However, the one story that captured my attention is aadavaalla pettelo prayaanam [Traveling in a ladies’ compartment]. This story brought to the fore her personality as I found during our conversation in September 2009. As I stated earlier, she is full of zest. That is evident in this story. Therefore, I decided to translate it for you. I hope you’ll enjoy the story as much as I did.

Publications of Sivaraju Subbalakshmi:

Novels:

Adrushta rekha

Neelam getu ayyagaru

Teerpu

Anthologies of short stories:

Kavyasundari katha

Odduku cherina keratam.

Manovyadhiki mandundi

Magatajeevi chivari chuupu

(This article by Nidadavolu Malathi has been published on thulika.net, March 2010.)

Photo of Subbalakshmi garu by V.B. Sowmya.

Balivada Kantha Rao by Nidadavolu Malathi

Balivada Kantha Rao, a conscientious writer, is a reputable writer from Visakhapatnam, Andhra Pradesh, India. He was born in Madapam in Srikakulam district, Andhra Pradesh on July 3, 1927. He was eight when the family moved to Visakhapatnam for his education.

While he was in the eighth grade, Kantha Rao acted as the editor of a hand-written, school magazine entitled vidyarthi. He said that two persons by the same name, Suryanarayana—his father and his teacher—had been his inspiration and contributed to shaping his interests to become a writer.

At 17, he started working as a clerk in the Indian navy and soon became a civilian officer. While working in the Navy, he had the opportunity to travel and get acquainted not only with different parts of the country but also different cultures, especially tribal communities. The knowledge he had acquired through these experiences enriched his fiction greatly.

First, let me apologize for this rather brief article, I am aware there is lot more to write about him but could not for want of resources. I hope this will persuade you to find other sources and read more about Kantha Rao.

Probably, Kantha Rao could have achieved greater recognition had he courted some ideology. In fact, that is where his strength lay. He did not commit himself to any one particular ideology and limit his creativity to promote that one ideology. Instead, he took pains to scrutinize life from a wide variety of perspectives, studied them methodically including tribal communities and presented them in his stories. His canvas is not just Andhra Pradesh but the entire country.

Kantha Rao’s first novel Sarada was published in 1947. Regarding its publication, the author says it was rejected by one magazine and then he submitted it to Chitragupta. When asked whether rejection ever curbed his enthusiasm, Kantha Rao commented that the rejections actually made him even more determined to pursue his literary career (Yohan babu. Interview.).

As it turned out, his determination and self-confidence were well rewarded. In his foreword to his anthology of short stories Kantha Rao tells us how the publishing went in the early days: He sent a story to Bharati, a highly regarded literary magazine and they published it not in Bharati but in Andhra Patrika, a popular weekly magazine, run by the same management. Later, he sent another story to the weekly magazine and the editors published it in the monthly magazine, Bharati!

 In his early novels such as godameeda bomma [Picture on the Wall] (1953), and dagaa padina tammudu [The Betrayed Little Brother], (1957) he dealt with familial themes covering shorter period. For instance, dagaa padina tammudu is a story that happened in one decade. In his later novels however he took several generations to illustrate his views on a wide variety of subjects. He says Vamsadhara [The River Vamsadhara located in the author’s village] is a case in point; it extends over a span of three generations. He believes that in order to illustrate the metamorphoses of social change meaningfully, it is necessary to extend over a period of three generations.

At the time of writing this novel, Kantha Rao was living in Delhi. The platform for this novel is his village and covers events for a period of about fifty years, starting from 1918. Since he left his village in 1936, he decided to go back to his village and gather the necessary information for it. Several individuals—his friends and his father’s friends—gave him valuable information which helped him to develop his characters truthfully, and also obtain some of the colloquialisms and nuances, which he incorporated in his story.

Asked by Dr. Yohan Babu for his reason to change the ending in Vamsadhara in his later edition, Kantha Rao said that his friends pointed out the discrepancies between his rendering and the actual events. “I believe that a writer must not be influenced by his own preferences, must not depict events contrary to the truth; and should never rush to conclusions quickly.” It took nine years for him to get it in the form of a book and he was pleased with the final product, he added. He was hoping that the views expressed in it would provoke the future readers into thinking.

The novel discusses several aspects—political ideologies, religious beliefs, social customs, and the lifestyles of various tribes —in unusual detail. The novel could be labeled “the Story of modern day India”, considering its range and depth, commented Dr. Yohan babu.

Delhi majileelu is another major work of Kantha Rao. He says, “It is a well-researched product. After finishing this big novel, I felt like I have received a doctoral degree. It took six years to finish it. Even the format is different in that it includes stories within stories and contains extensive discussions on all walks of our lives—political, social, economic and cultural—from Dharmaraja’s Indraprasthapuram to today’s New Delhi. I am very pleased with it regardless it has not caught the public attention yet. Sales are still low. Maybe, it gets noticed after it is translated into Hindi some day.”

Here are some of the opinions Kantha Rao has expressed in his interview by Yohan Babu:

On current writers – Good writers could become ordinary writers, if labeled as great writers. If writers focus only on fame and money, quality of good writing goes down. There are several writers today who have overcome these limitations and are writing well. They are the ones who would prolong this thread of literature and carry it forward.”

His reason to continue writing short stories and not novels is writing a novel is harder and after writing there is no guarantee that it gets published.

Writers who influenced his style: There are not many he could quote. Bengali writer, Sarathchandra Chatterjee’s influence is evident in his novel, Annapurna. After that, he developed rather the ill-conceived notion that, “If I read great fiction written in other languages, I would be influenced by them and my stories would reflect that influence. However, now I feel I missed out on something—I don’t know what makes a novel great.”

In response to a question whether his education in psychology helped him to delineate his characters, Kantha Rao said he never made a conscious effort to apply his theories to characters since he never studied them from that perspective. After he created the characters however they might have been recast into those theories.

Three novels janmabhumi [The Motherland], punyabhumi [The Pious land] and karmabhumi [The Land of Action] reflect his political views. He, being a government employee, was not in a position to depict prevalent political conditions in his novels, and for that reason created an imaginary country, he said.

He considers tradition to be a “withered branch and change does not happen if one hangs on to the dried up branches. No society can progress without change,” which explains his creation of some characters to be anti-traditional.

Kantha Rao believed in checking the minutest details and being truthful to his characters. In his foreword to his anthology of short stories, Balivada Kantha Rao kathalu, he states that all his stories were based on his observation of real life events and all characters on the people he had come across in real life. The story manishi, pasuvu [Man and Beast] is one such story. It was based on a person whom he had met while he was working in Mumbai. He created strong female characters in his novels for the same reason. He had seen in his village such exemplary women who believed in upright living and depicted them in his stories.

To give an example of his writing, let me discuss the story manishi, pasuvu [Man and Beast]. It revolves round a class IV employee in the office of the protagonist, Sayeba. The man, Patil, never gets to work on time and is drunk most of the time. He spends not only his money on liquor but also harasses his wife for money. He never bothers to find how she was managing to bring the money. Sayeba tries to change Patil’s behavior by giving him money at first and later by lecturing him. Patil justifies his drinking by ranting about the prevalent injustices in society. Sayeba seems to understand Patil’s logic and continues to give him money.

Eventually, Patil shows some change which does not last long though. One day, he overhears two policemen talking about his wife sleeping with other men. Thinking they were rumors, he attacks the policemen for speaking ill of his wife. The policemen throw him in jail. Patil calls Sayeba to bail him out. Later however he learns the truth—that she was prostituting herself to earn the money, he murders her. He goes to Sayeba’s home and tells him that Sayeba was the only person who had treated him like a man.

For me the story is intriguing. It raises several questions. If the author intended to maintain that Patil became a habitual drunk because of the injustices in the society, his attitude towards his wife makes no sense. And to kill her because she was earning money by prostituting herself further complicates the issue and presents him in a dubious light. After much debate, I have come to believe that the author attempted to illustrate the complexity in human nature. Ever so often, human behavior is inexplicable. It never fits into a theory like a hand in a glove. If we are willing to make that concession, we will find some comfort in the thought that the protagonist was able to see some change in Patil.

I liked the story The Truth about Desires (see translation of this story) for a couple of reasons. It is human nature to wish to improve one’s life and work for it. Call it progress, call it better life—we all want something more. However, if the wishing and working for better life changes into a craving for popularity, it could become disastrous.

naalugu manchaalu [four beds] is one of his short novels. It depicts the lives of four persons lying in four beds in a hospital. Actually, it is a story of three individuals drawn together by a fourth person, Sundaram, who connects them to the outside world and also takes care of their business and his own in the outside world. Sundaram could accomplish it by being in and out of hospital for his health problem. It is an interesting concept—how seemingly unrelated people could become entangled in a web of relationships. It is done well.

Kantha Rao quotes three incidents that helped him to develop his technique.

In his childhood days, Golla Ramaswamy, a bard in his village used to narrate wide variety of stories to the audience under a tree. “I learned from him how to make a story interesting to read.”

In his adult years, one day, he saw some children fight and that grow into a squabble among adults. Among them, one woman’s brother was standing, away from them and watching the squabble. Kantha Rao asked him why he did not interfere and stop the squabble. The brother replied that he needed to obtain an unbiased opinion and that would be possible only when he stood at a distance and watched them. “From that incident I have learned that a writer must be unbiased.”

On another occasion, he saw a brief memo about a junior officer’s work. The note said, “Several senior officers have learned about solving disputes between the administration and the labor force from him (the junior officer).” The junior officer was promoted superseding the other senior officers. “From that, I have learned that we get results only when we tell a story straight and succinctly,” said Kantha Rao.

Kantha Rao passed away on May 6, 2000.

 Sources:

Yohan babu, G. Balivada Kantha Rao gari navalalu—oka pariseelana. Visakhapatnam: Dipteja publications, 1995.

Kantha Rao, Balivada Kantha Rao kathalu. Hyderabad: Visalandhra Publishing House, 1994.

Some of the stories by Balivada Kantha Rao are translated into English by Sijata Patnaik, in the book entitled The Secret of Contentment and Other Telugu Short Stories.  2002. ISBN 8120724604. It is available on Amazon.com.

 I am grateful to Dr. Yohan Babu and Balivada Kantha Rao for his foreword cited above.

(End)

(This article by Nidadavolu Malathi has been originally published on thulika.net, December 2010)

 

Dr. Utukuri Lakshmikantamma by Nidadavolu Malathi.

Kalaprapoorna Dr. Utukuri Lakshmikantamma, (1917-1996) was a rare combination of several talents from reciting poetry extempore in Sanskrit and Telugu to martial arts such as fencing, stick fighting and horse riding.

Lakshmikantamma was born on December 21, 1917, in a sophisticated family of scholars and social activists. Her father Nalam Krishna Rao was a reputable poet, journalist, and active participant in the social reform movements of his time. He was the founder-president of Gautami Granthalayam, one of the oldest and highly acclaimed libraries in the state. Her mother Nalam Suseelamma participated in her husband’s activities and was the founder of Andhra Mahila Gaana sabha [Andhra Music society]. One of her distant aunts, Battula Kamakshamma, was founder of Arya Seva Sadanam, which was converted to Andhra Yuvati Sanskruta Kalasala [Sanskrit College for Women] later. Against this background, it is no surprise that Lakshmikantamma became actively involved in political and social movements at an early age.

In her childhood, she used to play boys’ sports along with her brothers and their friends. At the age of seven, she started learning vocal and veena. By twelve, Lakshmikantamma was already an exhilarating speaker. She used to deliver electrifying speeches and sing patriotic songs. Crowds would hold their breath and listen to her speech or singing.

She was married at thirteen to Utukuri Hayagriva Gupta, a lawyer and six years senior. They had their first child in 1935 but the baby lived only for six months. Of the eleven children the couple had, five children—three boys and two girls—grew up to be well educated and well settled in life.

At eighteen, she graduated from the Sanskrit College run by her aunt Kamakshamma and received the degree, ubhaya bhashaa praveena, an attestation of scholarship in two languages, Sanskrit and Telugu. The same year, she was bestowed with two titles, Telugu molaka [Telugu sprout] and vidwat kavayitri [Poet of excellence]. Lakshmikantamma, who had been named “Sahiti Rudrama” [Queen Rudramadevi in literature] by Devulapalli Ramanuja Rao, President of Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Akademi, was the proud recipient of ten more titles including kalaprapoorna (awarded by Andhra University, 1976), Andhra saraswati, dharma prachaara bharati, and sangeeta sahitya kalanidhi, in addition to honorary doctorate. Mention must be made of two felicitations, kanakabhishekam [being showered with gold] and gajaarohanam [Elephant ride], which are normally associated with royalty of the past and rather unusual in modern times. To my knowledge, Lakshmikantamma was the only author to be honored with these two felicitations.

She was actively involved in several literary and social organizations such as Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Academi, Telugu Bhasha Samiti, Andhra University Senate, Viswa Hindu Parishat, Andhra Pradesh Arya Vysya Sabha, Gautami Granthalayam library in Rajahmundry, Stri Hitaishini Mandali [Women’s Welfare organization in Bapatla], Andhra Yuvati Sanskrit College, Guild of Service, Central Sahitya Academi, and and many more. This list is sufficient to emphasize the wide array of her interests and accomplishments.

Lakshmikantamma possessed a versatile and exhilarating personality. In her autobiography, she stated that she would keep laughing always. Pilaka Ganapati Sastry, who became a famous novelist later, was her teacher for a brief period. At the time, he was still young and shy. Lakshmikantamma was amused while he was teaching Sakuntala, a play, and kept laughing. It was disconcerting to Ganapati Sastry. Later, he told her father, Krishna Rao, that, “I used to pick from her laughter, the in depth meaning and beauty of poetry in Kalidasa’s poetry and bless her in my own mind.” (Sahiti Rudrama, p. 43).

Lakshmikantamma’s father was a follower of Brahma samajam, which rejects polytheism and promotes one god theory. Her mother Suseelamma believed in Hindu tradition. However she changed some of her religious practices to please her husband, she wrote in her article pavitra smruthulu [Pious memories] published in Yugapurushudu Veeresalingam published in Veeresalingam Satajayanti sanchika, Hyderabad.

Ever since she was a teen, Lakshmikantamma had been living active public life. She was attending public forums, literary meets and conferences and delivering stimulating and scholarly speeches. Writing and publishing came much later, early 1950’s to be specific.

The circumstances surrounding her first book, Andhra kavayitrulu are interesting. In 1953, Telugu Bhasha Samiti [Telugu Literary Guild], Madras, announced a competition and invited writers to write a book on Telugu women poets. Lakshmikantamma’s husband, Mr. Gupta, and several friends suggested she should write the book. Lakshmikantamma however was not interested. She said, “Reputable scholar Veeresalingam compiled the book Telugu kavulu [Telugu poets] in which he had included about six hundred writers. In it, he mentioned only five or six women poets. If you look carefully, you may find only one hundred poets worth mentioning and possibly one of them would be a woman. I do not want to take that one poet and hold up to the world, and thereby expose that we have no women poets worth mentioning.” (sahiti rudrama, p.81.) Then, one of her close friends, Boddupalli Purushottam suggested that she could at least make an effort to see if there were more women poets. Convinced by his argument, she set out to search for women poets. She traveled to famous libraries in other places like Vetapalem, Madras, and Tanjore, and went through thousands of magazines such as gruhalakshmi, Hindusundari and literally unearthed 264 women poets who had produced excellent works. Lakshmikantamma’s very first book was a first prize winner in a competition held by a reputable literary guild, Telugu Bhasha Samiti.

In the history of Telugu literature, this book Andhra Kavayitrulu is the only comprehensive work on women poets to date. This is being used as a valuable reference tool by research scholars. Arudra, an established writer and researcher, used it as a source for writing about women poets Molla and Mohanangi in his samagra Andhra sahityam.

The second edition of Andhra kavayitrulu, published in 1980, included only 86 poets. In her preface to the second edition, some of the comments made by the author are worth quoting. Lakshmikantamma stated that she herself was not sure if she could revive the enthusiasm and the style she had evinced while working on the first edition. She was somewhat disappointed by the prevalent perceptions regarding education, language and scholarship in the country. In the past, scholarship was respected. Now (at the time producing the second edition) the shrinking respect for classical poetry in the face of growing interest in fiction is discouraging. Lakshmikantamma also mentioned the cost of paper and printing. Personally, I am sad that money should play such crucial role in publishing the second edition. The second edition included only 86 poets as opposed to more than 200 poets (I have only the second edition on hand for reference). In any case, I sincerely hope that Andhra Pradesh Akademi or some other literary organization would undertake publication of the full version before it is lost totally. At this writing, the book is out of print. And it is too valuable to neglect.

Having said that, I need to address a couple of other comments on some entries in this work, Andhra kavayitrulu. One of them is the authenticity of the claim that Krishnadeva rayalu had a daughter named Mohanangi and she authored a book, marichi parinayam. Lakshmikantamma devoted six pages to Mohanangi and marichi parinayam in her book.  Arudra took this information and incorporated in his book, samagra Andhra sahityam [Complete History of Andhra Literature]. However, while writing about Mohanangi, Arudra wrote, “They say Mohanangi was daughter of Krishnadeva rayalu.” By shifting the speaker to an unverifiable “they”, it would appear, he was not sure if that was authenticated. He did not clearly contradict Lakshmikantamma’s statement though. In 2002, I met with two reputable scholars, Dr. Nayani Krishnakumari and Dr. Kolavennu Malayavasini. They both stated that there was no verifiable evidence to show that Krishnadeva rayalu had a daughter, and that the authorship of marichi parinayam had not been established unequivocally.

A second comment on Lakshmikantamma’s work was by Sangidasu Srinivas who commented that Lakshmikantamma had not given full credit to a poet named Kuppambika (Andhra Jyothy September 22, 2008 Vividha page).

My position is scholars usually set parameters for themselves and work within those parameters. Lakshmikantamma went to great lengths, researched all the sources available to her at the time and recorded the data. Other researchers may find more information or different perceptions in course of time. That does not mean that the work done by earlier researcher, whether it is Lakshmikantamma or another scholar, is less significant. It is quite normal for latter researchers to find more evidence or lack thereof and add further to the existing data.

Lakshmikantamma’s works fall broadly into four categories. 1. Classical poetry in Telugu and Sanskrit; 2. Modern poetry; 3. Essays and biography, and, 4. Plays.

In Sanskrit, she authored kanyaka parameswari sthavam, extempore, in praise of the goddess Kanyaka. It is being recited as invocation prayer in the morning in several temples of Kanyaka across the state. (Vijnan Kumar. Personal correspondence, dated September 22, 2008). Another work of her in Sanskrit is Devi sthava taraavali in praise of goddess Devi.

In the book, naa Telugu Manchalaa, [My Telugu Manchala], 98 pages, Lakshmikantamma portrays Manchala as a 16-year old, intelligent woman endowed with remarkable beauty and sense of patriotism. The story is popularly known in Andhra Pradesh as that of Balachandrudu, Manchala’s husband.  His mother, Prolama would want her son to go to war and earn her the title hero-mother (veeramaata) on one hand and, on the other, her maternal instinct would want him to stay home. In a strategic move, she sent him to his wife, Manchala, hoping her beauty would prevail and keep him at home. Manchala on the contrary provoked him in a cleverly manipulative language, and sent him to the battlefield. The verses are written in simple Telugu yet powerful in conveying the various rasas as appropriate in different stages. Lakshmikantamma had mentioned in the preface that there might be some stylistic lapses in terms of meter.

Kanthi sikharaalu is a collection of devotional lyrics, imbibing the tenets of Brahma samajam, which she had followed fervently in her teen years. The author stated in her preface that her inspiration for writing these lyrics was the singing by well-known romantic poet, Devulapalli Krishna Sastry. The language is simple and lucid, which appeal to all, scholars and non-scholars alike.

Okka chinna divve [A Small Lamp] is a collection of seventeen long poems, presented as a tribute to Gandhi. In her preface, she stated that she had the opportunity to participate in Gandhi’s non-violence movementi in her teen years (about 13 to 19 years of age), which contributed immensely in defining her values of patriotism and service. Additionally, she chose the title A Small Lamp to accentuate her respect for Gandhi, although not all the lyrics were about Gandhi. It included other topics such as a Telugu New Year day, Diwali, soldiers, and an invitation to youth. Some of them were written in semi-classical style with complex, descriptive phrases, and others in near colloquial style.

To me, this variation in style seems to point to the shift from classical to free verse that has been taking place at the time not only in her writings but in the country in general.

On a slightly different note, I would like to mention Lakshmikantamma’s comments on language as stated in her autobiography. She stated that while she was teaching maha bharata in Bapatla College, prominent linguistics professor, Bhadriraju Krishnamurthy, attended her classes. Impressed by her scholastic excellence, Krishnamurthy invited her to speak at a literary meet in Ongole. There she went out of the way from lecturing on Maha Bharata and introduced a new argument that Telugu language originated from Dravidian languages. Later Professor Krishnamurthy met with her and obtained detailed information about her argument and incorporated in his course content for second year M.A. (Sahiti Rudrama, p. 92-93).

The title of the book, kanyakamma nivaali, literally means a tribute to the goddess Kanyaka. Inside however, it is a collection of short verses, 3 lines and the caption Oh Kanyakamma. Most of the poems are humorous and/or sarcastic comments on contemporary lifestyle and society. A few of them are serious observations. The author writes in her preface that she was inspired by Koonalamma padaalu written by Arudra.

Saraswati samraayja vaibhavam, [23 pages], is a one-act play, which incorporated some well-known poems from the published works. It presents on one platform nine women poets, who lived at different times from 13 to 20th centuries. Additionally, the author introduces two secondary characters partly as comic relief in step with the practice in stage plays. The poets recite poems from their best works both in Telugu and Sanskrit.

Lakshmikantamma’s works of history and literary criticism include Andhra kavayitrulu [Andhra female poets], Akhila Bharata Kavayitrulu [All India female poets], Andhrula keertana kalaa seva [Service of the Andhra people to music], naa videsa paryatana anubhavaalu [My Experiences during my tours to other countries], contributions to Vijnana Sarvasvam [articles in Telugu Encyclopedia], and numerous articles published in reputable journals. Unpublished works as of 1993: Story of Chandramati [Children’s book], Sahitya vyasa manjari [Literary essays], and Rutambari [prose ballad].

She also translated Humayun Kabir’s essays in English (Our country’s history and the lessons learned), and Hindi dohas by Kabir, Tulasi Binda and Rahim. She edited classical works, Molla Ramayanam and Vishnu parijata yakshagaanam. She wrote more than one thousand prefaces to books by other writers.

In her autobiography, Lakshmikantamma mentioned that at the beginning of her literary career, she published her poems under the pseudonym ‘Krishnakumari’. Soon after, her husband suggested that she should publish her poetry in her own name since they were so good. She did so, although she used yet another pseudonym ‘sukanchana’ for her story, Korala madhya koti swargaalu [Ten million heavens stuck between fangs], included in kathamandaram, an anthology of short stories published in 1968.

I think a brief note on her multifarious involvement in women’s organizations, social movements and public events, is appropriate here. She was a great speaker, fundraiser, organizer of literary meets and associations, active participant in charitable events, and herself a kind and generous individual. She was a driving force in women writers’ conferences at state and national level, had attended international women writers’ conferences, and was a sitting member at legislative council in two universities and various literary organs at the state and national level. She was honored at international women writers meets also. (I had the honor of being on stage with Lakshmikantamma at Andhra Women Writers Conferences in 1968 and 1969 and receive mementoes from her.). Sri Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University, Hyderabad, produced a documentary on her life. University of Toronto, Canada, collected complete works of Lakshmikantamma. Her work had been research topic for doctoral dessertation.

I would like to go on a limb here and comment on her activities in her community. In an age when “caste” is considered a bad word, it is pleasing to note Lakshmikantamma’s involvement and contribution to Arya Vysya mahasabha [Business community in the scheme of societal breakdown based on Hindu beliefs]. She made no apology for being part of her community, and showed how the community spirit could be instrumental in bringing people together. This is particularly relevant in the context of her growing up with her father, who was a staunch Brahmo samaj follower.

In her autobiography, Lakshmikantamma listed some of her writings as “works unable to succeed”. I went through the list of books Lakshmikantamma had listed as “not successful”.

I am not sure what made her come to that conclusion. For instance, in the same list, she stated that Naa Telugu Manchala had received the Telugu University award and had been prescribed as textbook in St. Teresa’s college, Eluru. Her Sanskrit poem, kanyakaa parameswari suprabhatam is being recited in several temples of Kanyaka as daily morning prayers. That being the case, I must assume she was referring to the success as understood in modern times, which would bring me to comment on the definition of success.

In today’s world, success is correlated to sales. A parallel example would be a critically acclaimed movie failing at box office. Probably it is the same with books. Additionally, in Andhra Pradesh, book sales do not always reflect the actual readership. For one thing, buying books is not common in Andhra Pradesh, possibly because of our belief in free dissemination of knowledge, an idea sustained by oral tradition. Secondly, one book bought by one person is read not just by that one person but by other family members and friends also. Thus the number of books sold does not always reflect the number of readers for that one book.

At the risk of repetition, I would like to add a note on Lakshmikantamma’s major works. The books, Andhra kavayitrulu, first edition featuring pen portraits of more than 200 female poets from 13th to 20th centuries, Andhra sahitya vijnana sarvasam, originally compiled by her father, Krishna Rao, and which she later edited with annotations by her, Akhila Bharata kavayitrulu [All India Women Poets], and sahiti rudruma (Autobiography) remain landmarks in the history of Telugu literature.

This article is not comprehensive but a modest attempt to provide a brief introduction to the accomplishments of a versatile poet of our times. To present a comprehensive analysis of her accomplishments is beyond the scope of this article. My hope is to motivate readers to go to the original sources and learn more about this remarkable woman and poet. Those who are interested in further study of Lakshmikantamma’s multifarious personality and work may find the list attached as an addendum to her autobiography, Sahiti Rudrama useful.

Additionally, I believe that publication of Lakshmikantamma’s complete works with annotations and preserving it for posterity would be a welcome undertaking and service to Telugu literary and cultural service. This is particularly vital in the light of dwindling abilities of the current generation to appreciate classical, semi-classical and modern literature produced by our immediate predecessors.

She had been awarded twelve honorary titles, marking her literary achievements.

Once again, I am thankful to Vijnan Kumar, third son of Lakshmikantamma, for kindly lending me the books, which were immensely helpful in writing this article.

(End)

Source List (Works by Dr. Utukuri Lakshmikantamma, published by author)

Andhra kavayitrulu. 2d ed. 1980.

Kaanti sikharaalu. 1978.

Kanyakamma nivaali. 1978.

Oka chinna divve. 1980

Naa Telugu Manchala. 1981.

Sahiti Rudrama. 1993.

Saraswati saamrayja vaibhavam. 1988.

Other works:

Samsmruti (In her memory). Bapatla: Smaraka samiti, 1997.

Suseelamma, Nalam. Pavitra smruthulu. Yugapurushudu Veeresalingam. Hyderabad: Kandukuri Veeresalingam smarakotsvamula sangham. n.d. pp. 93-96.

 

Complete list of her works:

Works by Utukuri Lakshmikanthamma.

 

Andhra Kavayitrulu. 1953

Akhila Bharata racayitrulu. Sahitya Akademi, 1963

Andhrula Keertana Kala Seva [Andhra People’s contribution to the art of music]

Sri Kanyaka parameswari Suprabhatam [Sanskrit verses extoling the virtues of the goddess, Kanyaka]

Devi stava taravali [Verses praising Devi]

Jathi pitha [Father of the nation]

Sadukti manjari [Book of good words spoken by Hindi poets, Kabir, Tulsi das, and Vinda Rahim]

Bharatadesa charitra, konni guna paathamulu. [History of India, some lessons learned]

Kanti sikharalu. [Devotional songs]

Mahila ikrama suktam

Mana sahiti madhu bharati [Ballad]

Kanyakamma nivali [Poetry, satiric comments on modern day society]

Okka chinna divve [A Small lamp, poems]

Naa Telugu Manchala [Manchala, My Telugu hero]

Lajja kireety dharini [The Woman, who wore shame as her crown]

Naa videsa paryatana anubhavalu [[My experiences of foreign tours]

 

Articles contributed to Sangraha Andhra Vignana Sarwaswam [Complete Telugu Encyclopedia]

 

Saraswati samrajya vaidbhavam. [One act play]

Sahiti Rudrama [Autobiography]

 

Fiction.

Korala madhyana koti swaragalu

Chikati rajyam.

 

Unpublished books

Story of Chandramati [Children’s book]

Sahitya vyasa manjari [Anthology of literary essays]

Rutambari [Prose ballad]

Edited

Molla Ramayanam

Vishnu parijata yakshaganam

 

Prefaces for over 1000 books

Delivered over 3000 speeches on a wide variety of topics in literature, and Hindu religion.

(This article has been written by Nidadavolu Malathi and published originally on thulika.net, September, 2008.)

Dynamics of Transcultural transference: Translating from Telugu to English by Malathi Nidadavolu

After arriving in the U.S. in 1973, I became intensely aware of the incongruities on the surface in the two cultures—American and Indian—and the commonalities beneath. Hit by culture shock, and encouraged by my American friends, I launched the website, www.thulika.net, in an attempt to demystify the stereotypical perceptions, identify the underlying commonalities in our beliefs and customs. Reasons developed in course of time include the interests of the current generation Telugu youth: those who cannot read Telugu script and those who have gotten used to English so well that they are comfortable reading the stories in English. Additionally, the site has been recognized as a valuable source for scholars in multicultural education and Telugu literature by the academy globally.

Selection criteria have been based on: The stories that reflect our intrinsic values as opposed to the values newly developed in recent times; those that explain the age-old customs specific to Telugu culture; and the stories that lend themselves to translation reasonably well.

Problematic areas in translation experienced relate to: Native flavor, dialectal variations, phrases peculiar to Telugu, proverbs, (those that are easily translatable and those that are not), humor, and structure and the Linguistic areas: Pronouns, forms of address, and grammar, especially tense. I have gained valuable experience from my interaction with the authors of source texts and critics. In the summer of 1978, I started teaching Telugu as Second Language at the university of Wisconsin-Madison. While working with the students and talking to my friends at the university, I noticed the stereotypical perceptions prevalent in America. The repeated questions I was asked reminded me of typecasting we, the Telugu people, did. It made me think of ways to dispel some of the misconceptions at least. Being a writer, I wanted to pass on our stories, which would reflect the fundamental values we cherish in our culture and the broader spectrum of our writers in the process to the non-Telugu readers.

Before launching my website, I researched what was available in translations. My findings confirmed my belief that Telugu fiction is conspicuous by absence on the international literary scene. Very little Telugu fiction was available in the media and on the Internet, although there was considerable amount of fiction from other Indian languages. 2. There was no systematic attempt to illustrate the broad range of our writers in a coherent and comprehensive manner. 3. The translations were always of the stories by a few reputed authors, which meant ignoring other excellent stories by less known writers. 4. In the published translations, there seemed to be an assumption that the readers were familiar with our language and culture. To put it in another way, the academic journals and the web magazines had been catering either to the pan-Indian readers or to the foreign readers, who have some knowledge of Indian culture. However, there was no well-organized, concerted effort to translate modern Telugu fiction in a cohesive manner, catering to the readers who were not familiar with our culture. To my knowledge, the published works in translation had not reached the readers outside India, particularly outside the academy. Further, the academy appeared to be focused on ancient poetry, especially the romantic poetry in translations to the detriment of fiction.

I was convinced that there was a dire need to present Telugu fiction in English to the global audience, especially those who had not been familiar with our language and culture. With that in mind, I launched the website, thulika.net in June 2001, creating a platform exclusively devoted to modern Telugu fiction, and introducing the broader spectrum of the intellectual richness and the talent of several writers from Andhra Pradesh to the global audience.

My next step was to examine the readers’ preferences. I understood that people read stories from another culture not only to appreciate the intellectual perceptions prevalent in that country but also to draw parallels from everyday lives and comprehend how the problems in question were dealt with in other cultures. Suffering is universal; happiness is universal; so also a host of other issues in human life. One good example is marriage. Americans are curious about arranged marriages and our media plays up to their curiosity. Sad but true is the fact that most of these stories make no attempt to explain the underlying principle of the arranged marriages or why the custom was put in place to begin with, how it plays out in times of adversity and the recent metamorphosis of the custom in modern times.  After watching the wedding process in America, I have concluded that, in a marriage, the most important aspect is not how you arrive there but what you would do to make it work. In both the cultures, keeping a marriage together is hard work. Thus, my primary goal has not been to criticize one culture or the other but to draw the analogues and highlight the commonalities in human psyche.

Translations are hard. Crosscultural translations are harder. There is no translation, certainly no word for word translation, which permits us to switch back and forth with mechanical precision. In my interaction with some of the readers, I have noticed that the native speakers and writers often tend to retranslate, unconsciously I might add, when they read a translation. Usually it shows in their comments on the translation in question. In order to appreciate a translation, the reader must be willing to accept certain prerequisites. For a foreign reader, it is the need to leave his/her preconceived notions about the other culture and start afresh. For a native reader, in this case Telugu reader or writer, it is the willingness to beware that the translation has been done for a reader, who cannot read the original in Telugu and is unfamiliar with Telugu language and culture. Personally, I think crosscultural translation is transcreation and the translator is invariably a creative writer.

There are several elements to consider in translating for crosscultural audience. I will briefly discuss each of these aspects, namely, dialectal variations, native flavor, structure, phrases peculiar to Telugu, proverbs, and grammar comprising tense, pronouns, and proper nouns. Humor is one more element that requires close attention with reference to the target audience.

The first step would be to identify the peculiarities of the source language and the target language.Clearly, the language I have learned at Andhra University, Waltair, India, is not sufficient for translating for American readers. If I want the Americans to read my translations, I need to give the stories to them in American English. At the beginning, I started out with seeking advice from my American friends on my translations. One of them was Dr. Abbie Ziffren, who had been a great help in fine-tuning my language. In 1982, my first translation, man, woman, [Rachakonda Viswanatha Sastry, mogavaadu, aadamanishi] was published in the Journal of South Asia Literatures.

Soon enough, I realized that there was no consensus regarding the “correct” usage. Each time, I corrected the text according to one person’s suggestions, and showed it to another friend, there were more corrections. Sometimes, I would have to “do and undo” the same words back and forth. Finally, I realized that, while the American English had its distinctive features, there were always variations in the preferences of each person regarding how a word was used or how a sentence was constructed.

Selection Criteria

Initially, my selections were based on the premise stated above, namely, introducing the fundamental philosophy underlying our mode of thinking, lifestyles and customs. Therefore, I turned my attention invariably to the stories written in the nineteen forties, fifties and sixties – during which period Telugu fiction flourished. As my work progressed, I continued to redefine and fine-tune my criteria for selection. My second criterion has been the ease of diction, which is controversial in itself and which is explained by the translation process illustrated below. Third is the literary value and/or the author’s unique style. As stated earlier, I strongly believe that it is important to introduce not only the most prominent writers but also other good writers, in order to illustrate the breadth of our artistic accomplishment and for a better understanding of our cultural values.
I might as well mention that, from the start I did not care for the stories focused on specific ideologies. I feel that such stories have received extensive exposure in other journals and websites and there is no need for me to rehash the same. However, on occasion, I would make exception as in the case of the story “yajnam” [The Rite of sacrifice] (Rama Rao). Further discussion follows under the subheading Structure.

Dialectal and regional variations

In Andhra Pradesh, the dialectal variations are based on several aspects. They vary not only from region to region, but also, within a given region, there may be variations based on caste, calling, education and economic status. Some families may even develop their own language from a mix of a few dialects. The differences in regional dialects such as Chittoor, Telangana and Coastal Andhra are accepted as dialects. Then there may also be variations, which come into play, defying regional and caste practices.

There is no consensus concerning how to handle the dialectal variations in translation. A well-known dramatist and actor, Ravi Kondala Rao argued that the native flavor in the source language cannot be imparted effectively into another language and therefore translations are pointless (Kondala Rao. Aa sogasu vastundaa? [Can that beauty be achieved? (in a translation)]? Apparently, Kondala Rao missed the one point, which is, translations are meant for those who cannot read the Telugu originals. For instance, in the sixties, the translations of Hunchback of Notre Dam [ghantaaraavam] by Surampudi Sitaram, and A Tale of Two Cities [rendu mahanagaraalu] by Tenneti Suri were received by Telugu readers with remarkable enthusiasm because of the beauty in the Telugu versions regardless of the native flavor in the original versions. I am sure that a vast majority of the readers did not read the originals in French and English and did not care for what they might be missing.

In addition to the foreign readers, in recent times, there are two more groups of readers, who are enjoying the translations in English. First group consists of the educated Telugu people who have gotten used to using English almost as their first language, and thus enjoy reading Telugu stories in English. The second group is the current day Telugu youth who have attended English medium schools and cannot read the Telugu script. They, being knowledgeable in Telugu culture, are different from the foreign readers though. Nonetheless, they all enjoy the translations in English with the same fervor.

For the purpose of this article, the target audience is assumed to be unfamiliar both with the Telugu language and culture.

Language: Pedantic versus Colloquial

In modern Telugu fiction and literature, the language started out as the language used by the polite society, known as sishtajana vyaavahaarikam, which is translatable fairly well. Basically, it is the language standardized and adopted by magazines and other media. The underlying philosophy is stories written in sishtajana vyaavahaarikam would reach a wide range of readers across the state. In English, this is comparable to the British English I had learned at Andhra University. Of course, still there are variations such as spelling between British and American English.

On the other hand, the colloquial style consists of several dialects. They vary based on region, social groups, and even sophistication of the readers. To be honest, some of the dialects are beyond my comprehension despite my stay in those regions for considerable amount of time. In that sense, stories written in regional dialects and the dialects of rural communities pose bigger problems for me. In America, the colloquial forms include words spelled as spoken, contractions and ellipses. For example “I ain’t cummin’” for “I am not coming”, “Whaddyado” for “What do you do”, “bro” for brother, “ADD” for “attention deficit disorder” and so on. However, this implies understanding a completely new language, which is beyond my comprehension. For that reason, I have decided to stay with the language of the polite society and paraphrase it, where occasion calls for it. However, I have attempted to bring about some distinction between the pedantic and the colloquial styles in my translations. For instance, the difference is evident in the translations of two stories The Soul wills it (Satyanarayana. jeevudi ishtam) and Middle class complex (Mullapudi Venkataramana. janataa express). I used the pedantic style in the former and the colloquial style in the latter. Pavani Sastry, son of Viswanatha Satyanarayana’s son, and Mullapudi Venkataramana expressed their satisfaction with my translations. Venkataramana wrote to me, “People say my stories are hard to translate but you have done good job.” (Personal correspondence with the author.). I was able to do justice to Venkataramana’s story because there was a story to tell, and the humor in the story emanated from the incidents universal in nature. On the other hand, another story by the same author, Mullapudi Venkataramana, Radha’s debt [Raadhamma baaki] (Review by Malathi) was hard to translate since it contained humor and phraseology that would go beyond the pale of my language skills. That being the case, I chose, instead of translating, to write an analytical article, explaining the humor in the story. I believe I have succeeded in conveying to the non-native readers a taste of the humor prevalent in our society.

Native flavor

As mentioned earlier, the native flavor is a big problem in translations, possibly even within the context of Indian languages. For instance a phrase like katha Kancikee, manam intikee, [Literally, the story (moves on) to the town of Kanjeepuram and we to our homes] may have similar phrases in other languages possibly with the name of a town in their area. In such instances, the translator would have to decide whether he would keep the proper noun, Kanjeepuram, or choose an equivalent phrase in the target language. Personally, I would prefer the Telugu phrase and provide an explanation.
Second aspect of the native flavor is the sonorous quality of Telugu. The vowel-ending feature and alliterations contribute to the musical nature of our language. One has to be a poet to bring about that effect. Although I am not a poet, I will try my best to achieve that effect. I will remind myself that I was translating a story, not poetry. Stories by Rachakonda Viswanatha Sastry fall under this category. In his stories, there is a story to tell and poetry to experience the beauty of the language.

On rare occasions, I feel a story untranslatable because of its musical quality. Had I chosen such a story for a different reason, I would elaborate on the native flavor in the editorial. If the entire story is poetic in nature, and I am trying to translate it, I will alert the readers at the beginning itself of what they might be missing in the translation along with the high watermarks in the story. Malladi Ramakrishna Sastry’s stories are known for his command of diction. The traditional values, especially the manner in which he deals with the institution of prostitution, is not exactly my cup of tea yet his presentation is captivating.

Structure

Occasionally, I would select a story specifically for its historical significance and the details regarding the lives of the rural communities. One such story is “yajnam” (Rama Rao). This critically acclaimed and highly controversial story has been translated by more than one translator, I believe. I have not seen the other translations but I am positive that there are significant differences between my translation and their translations. In this story, apart from the author’s use of Srikakulam dialect and the farming community, there is a passage where the protagonist, Appalramudu, delivers a speech, which runs to about four pages. Additionally, the speech is interspersed with episodes from the past. That requires the reader to move back and forth in time, and grasp the speech at two levels—the past and the present. That puts a huge burden on the mind of a reader unfamiliar with our culture; it would be frustrating. Therefore, I have made some structural changes in my translation with, of course, the author’s express permission.

One more factor to remember is we have not outgrown the use of some of the elements of narrative technique in oral tradition. Telling a story to a live audience has its advantages and is hard to resist. Besides, Telugu readers have no problem with the elements of oral tradition such as switching between past and present and digression in a narrative. Nevertheless, it is a problem for readers from other cultures.

In a heartrending story of a working-class woman, aarthanadam (Ranganayakamma), the author, includes an episode containing a long humorous dialogue between a grandmother and her grandchildren. The episode has no relevance to the original story and the language she used is not easy to translate because of several forms of address and trivial phraseology. It is a structural flaw in the story. Further discussion of this episode is offered under Humor.

Dhvani [suggestion] and vakrokti [indirect communication] in translations

Dhvani [suggestion] and vakrokti [indirect communication] are common in literatures but problematic in crosscultural translation. While the concept is known in all literatures, it is not easy to comprehend the full meaning in the stories from other cultures. It makes the reader constantly worry that he might be missing something, being unaware of the nuance. That would be an additional burden on the reader, and subsequently discouraging to continue to read the story. In such instances also, I would add a brief note. For the same reason, long conversations involving too many phrases like “you know what I mean” are best avoided.

Grammar: Tense

In Telugu, we switch tenses freely. In English the tense needs to agree with the actual sequence of events within a given time-frame. If the story is told in the past tense, any references to the previous incidents should be told in the past perfect.

In some of our stories, we find long narrations of previous incidents, which require past perfect forms. The use of “had” in each sentence in a long passage is grammatically correct yet disruptive in the flow, especially if the previous incident runs to two or three pages. Added to the confusion is when the previous incident has references to another incident further back in time. Some of my friends suggested indenting or changing the font size in order to mark the change in tense, which means making it visible in long passages. Another suggestion is to add opening and closing lines at the beginning and end of the long narration of the past. The additional lines help the reader to move back and forth in time along with the storyline. In shorter sentences, I would avoid the use of past perfect tense sometimes. For instance, a sentence like “He had four children” seems to mean he “had children in the past but not now”. After consulting my American friends, I have learned one way to circumvent the problem is to rearrange the sentences. I could say, “his sons were helping him in chores” or something similar to that effect, based on the context. Implicitly, the readers would know that he had children at the time of narration

Non-finite verb forms

Another linguistic peculiarity in Telugu is the use of nonfinite verbs [asamaapaka kriya]. In English, it would be a series of short complete sentences or used in conjunction with a gerund, the -ing ending.  A phrase like cheppi vacchaanu translates as either “I said and came” or “After telling, I came”. In either case, the actual verb for cheppu [to say] fails to convey the ease of diction, which the Telugu phrase carries. This example is the simplest in this type of construction. There are other instances where a series of nonfinite verbs may be used to build tempo. Native speakers appreciate the escalating tension as they read the sentence. In translation, we can hardly accomplish that pace with the use of gerunds or several short sentences.

The longest sentence I have come across is the first paragraph in “anavasara dampatyam” [Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma. Meaningless Union]. The very first sentence runs to 14 lines and contains 23 nonfinite verbs, not to mention verbal adjectives! In my translation, I broke them into shorter sentences. Also, of necessity, I moved the last part of the 14-line sentence to the fore. This is necessitated by the differences in the sentence structures in the two languages – Telugu and English

Pronouns

The abundance of pronouns in Telugu language vouches for the richness of our language. We have six forms for the third person singular, male, vaadu, atanu, aayana, veedu, ithanu, eeyana – all translate into one word “he” in English. In addition, we have a gender-free pronoun, tanu, which acts like a third person singular, which will be discussed later.

Consider the following sentence for translation and note the resulting confusion in translation.Aayana vaadini kaafee tecci ataniki immannaaru. Vaadu kaafee tecci ataniki iccaadu. The translation could be, “He told him to bring coffee for him. He brought it and gave it to him.” In this case, once again, it would be immensely helpful to the reader if the translator makes clear who is who, and who is doing what.

The use of the pronoun “those” for “they” may be grammatically correct yet looks odd at the end of a sentence. Translation for annaaru vaallu as “said those” does not look right for me at least. Probably, my translation would be “they said” or “said those farmers”, or, whoever the people were in the story.

The second person, singular and plural pronouns, meeru and nuvvu translate into English as the same word, “you”. There is no distinction between formal and informal, or singular and plural. In this case, the translation loses the cultural nuance.

One good example is a conversation between a husband and wife. In Andhra Pradesh, the husband-wife relationship is complex. The use of second person singular pronouns, nuvvu and meeru used by husband and wife calls for attention. I am aware that the usage varies depending on the region, caste, economic status and, in modern times, sophistication. Despite these variations, customarily, it is considered normal for husband to address wife as nuvvu and wife to address husband as meeru. This usage presupposes a shade of hierarchy in a familial context. Additionally, the verb endings change, which again are missed in the translation. In some stories, the author may be making this distinction to drive home a point. In the story, kavi gaari bharya (Nayani Krishnakumari), the narrator comments that the poet’s wife referred to her husband as meeru or nuvvu depending on what she thought of him as husband or uncle’s son at any given moment. In such cases, a brief note is needed.

Two vocative forms require special attention. In an informal setting, people of the same age group use the vocative forms, orei and osei, males and females respectively among themselves. The closest form in English would be “hey”. Probably, the use of “hey” is acceptable in a casual conversation but not when the author makes a point of it specifically. In the story, yajnam, the narrator comments that the village head, Sriramulu Naidu addresses the poor farmer, Appalramudu, as emoi but never as orei (Rama Rao, “Yajnam”). Native speakers would know that emoi is informal and respectful and orei is demeaning in this particular context. By “in this context”, I mean there are other instances when orei will not be considered offensive as stated earlier.

I have also noticed that long Indian names such as Sitaramudu and Sriramulu Naidu (Rama Rao.“yajnam”) will be confusing to the non-native speakers. Several forms of the same name like Erri, Errakka, and Erramma are also prone to be mistaken for the names of three people.
Proper nouns based on physical attributes:

In empu [Choices] (Somayajulu), the author used physical attributes as personal names—Kunti for a crippled man and Guddi for a blind man. Technically, these terms are not different from names like Visalakshi, meaning a woman with large eyes or Syamasundar for a man with dark-colored skin. These terms however are not considered offensive. On the other hand, the terms referring to physical limitations are derogatory and often accepted only by the people who are not in a position to protest. Perhaps, that is one of the messages the author intended to convey. However, the literal translations of these terms as “crippled” and “blind” would not do justice in my opinion.  A non-heritage speaker would interpret them as insensitive. I am not saying they are not insensitive. That is not the cultural trait I would want to convey. I would rather keep the original terminology as is and explain them in a footnote.

Professional terminology as Proper Nouns:

Another habit in our culture is to use professional terminology as personal names. For example, Beena Devi used daactaru garu and jadjee garu in her story, ribbanu mukka [A Piece of ribbon]. My dilemma was whether to treat them as English words and follow the practice of the English language or treat them as given names, and follow the spellings the way they were written in Telugu. If I were to consider the words as professional titles, I should spell them as doctor garu and judge garu. Also, I would have to use the articles ‘a’ or ‘the’ appropriately. Then I would be failing to convey to the reader an important cultural trait in our culture, which is, forging close friendship with the professionals we come across in our lives and using the terms as personal names without reference to their professional status. As a translator, I think it is important for me to create an environment in the translation so the foreign reader would understand all these implications.

In this regard, I have consulted several Americans, both friends and strangers. Once again, there is no consensus since the concept is foreign to them. I have decided to treat them as personal names and explained in a footnote or in the editorial.

Relational terminology as Proper Nouns:

Relevant to our discussion are the forms of address prevalent in our society. We have different terms for the children of brothers or sisters (baava, maridi, vadina, maradalu) as opposed to the children of two sisters or two brothers. Terms like attagaru, tammudu, and akkayya tell immensely about our culture. I also would like to see these terms find their way into English across the world the same way karma and masala are incorporated into English. Maybe I am being naïve; maybe I am being ambitious, but certainly, I would like to work to that end!

In America, all these relational terms, including persons from different generations, are rolled up into a single term, “cousin”. If I translate chinnakka and peddakka, as “little big sister” and “big big sister”, it does not make sense and certainly hurts the flow. Further, in a dialogue, it is hard to use them as vocative forms; it would be jarring. It is also hard to let the reader understand that sometimes, the same term such as peddakka may be used by others even when the relationship between the two is not the same. Another contradiction is the standard MLA requirement that all foreign words should be italicized.For instance, in the story, hundaa [Tulasi. “My sister: A Classy Lady”], akkayya is known only as akkayya. In all, I have been treating the relational terminology as personal names, unless the story calls for a different interpretation. Additionally, I would suggest referring to the glossary for further explanation. Incidentally, I might add that the glossary on my site is the most frequently accessed file yet! A unique pronoun in Telugu language is tanu, which is technically third person singular pronoun. When the author uses tanu as narrator, the entire story is told from the point of view of that character as if tanu is a first person singular pronoun. Unlike the third person pronouns, tanu is not gender-specific. Sometimes, but not always, it is possible to deduce the gender by the verb-endings in a given sentence in Telugu. It is a long ride for the reader before he can figure it out on his own.

Writers may occasionally use this term loosely, giving rise to some confusion. In the story, soham [Ramakrishna Sastry. “He is I”], the narrator switches between the first person, “I” and “tanu”. This form of narrative, distinctive in oral tradition, is easily understood by native speakers but confusing to the readers from other cultures. Therefore I take it upon myself to be consistent even when it meant a departure from the original text.

Phrases and Idioms

We may classify Telugu phrases into three categories: 1. Phrases that allow straight translation; 2.Phrases and idioms, which may be translated with some effort; and 3. Phrases and idioms, which require considerable effort to make them comprehensible to the foreign audience. In the latter two instances, the question is to what degree we can make the necessary changes in the original. How do we find a meaningful phrase or sentence, which will capture the reader’s imagination and, at the same time, convey the cultural nuance? Second question is whether we should use the English equivalents wherever available or translate the Telugu phrases to highlight the Telugu nuance and provide the English equivalent in a footnote.

Phrases, which allow straight translation

There are not many but a few like pustakappurugu, which translates as bookworm easily. The phrase chevini vesukonakapovu is comparable to “turning a deaf ear”. On the other hand, a phrase like mannu tinna paamu has no equivalent in English to my knowledge. However, it is not hard to coin a new phrase like “a snake snacked on dirt”, working on the alliteration to give it a proverbial sense. There is no ambiguity in these translations.

One more note on this subject. When I first started my website, thulika.net, I did not provide the Telugu equivalents for these translations. Then, a young Telugu reader, who attended English medium school, suggested that I give the Telugu proverbs in a footnote so readers like her would be able to improve their Telugu language skills as well. That substantiates my claim that providing additional information does not hurt.

Phrases, which require some effort to make them comprehensible in translation

I am not enunciating a new theory but giving what has been my practice and I will explain why. Some phrases may not be translatable while others leave some room for us to be creative. For instance, the phrase, Kondaveeti chentaadu in trikonam [Seela Veerraju. “A Triangle,”] is one such phrase. I translated it as Kondaveeti rope. The phrase refers to the topographical significance of the village Kondaveedu in Guntur district, where water is scarce and the wells are dreadfully deep. For the villagers of Kondaveedu, drawing water from those wells is a long and laborious task. Implicitly, a task compared to kondaveeti rope is long and laborious. I thought, by translating the translatable part, chentaadu as jute rope, a foreign reader would have a better motivation to learn more about the implicit meaning. Additionally, the name of the village Kondaveedu, slightly id different from the oblique form, Kondaveeti, and that is another problematic area for a foreign reader. If I were to leave the entire phrase as Kondaveeti chaantaadu, the reader is sure to miss the entire connotation.

Untranslatable Phrases

We have phrases and idioms that are almost untranslatable. Just translating them alone would not suffice to communicate the spirit of the original to the readers. Two languages of two diametrically opposite cultures do not lend themselves to accurate translation one hundred percent. Culture-specific phrases and idioms belong in this category. Let us take a culture-specific phrase like lempalesukonu (Bhanumati. Attaakodaleeyam [A Story of a mother-in-law and a daughter-in-law]). No matter how we translate it, it would be impossible for a foreign reader to visualize the actual scenario. I translated it as “She tapped on her cheeks lightly and reverently.” One young writer asked me why not translate it as “she slapped her cheeks”. My explanation is the phrase lempakaaya iccu in Telugu means slapping another person and in anger. On the other hand, lempalesukonu is an act to express his/her remorse. or respect like in temples, and there is no force. The person touches lightly her/his cheeks. It refers to a socio-religious, cultural practice and apologetic in spirit.For a reader who is not familiar with this practice, “slapping” invokes a completely different imagery in his mind. This is not one of the instances, a foreign reader can understand from the context, without some explanation.

Proverbs, which have corresponding proverbs in the target language

Proverbs or adages are time-honored, time-tested facts. They are the props that come in handy for a writer when the language fails or is inadequate. Proverbs often contain a rhyme or an alliteration either to capture one’s attention or as a mnemonic device. This is one aspect the translator must remember while translating the proverbs. When I translate, I try to bring about similar effect in English. That explains some of the digression from the original in my translations of Telugu proverbs. The following examples illustrate my point.

My translation for the proverb mundu nuyyi, venaka goyyi is “a well in front and a trench behind”. In English, the corresponding proverb is, “between a rock and a hard place”. Nevertheless, I would prefer to give a translation of the original Telugu phrase instead of using the English proverb. My aim is to highlight the commonalities in different cultures and perhaps the topography.

Culture-specific Proverbs, which have no equivalents in the target language.

Some proverbs, which are culture-specific in terms of beliefs and lifestyles, are equally open to more than one interpretation.

I translated kadupu cincukunte kaallameeda padutundi as “You tear your guts and they fall on your feet” in yajnam [Rama Rao]. In the Telugu sentence, the subject is not stated explicitly but the verb cinchukonu is a reflexive, meaning one is doing something to oneself. I supplied ‘you’ in the conditional clause and ‘they’ [the guts] in the principal clause. The translation is fairly literal and thus imparts the implied meaning—“when you hurt your children, in turn, it hurts you”.

Another angle in these proverbs is lack of a subject or subject without a given name. In such cases, it is necessary to improvise a subject for the purpose of clarification. English language will not permit sentences without subject as illustrated above. The translator needs to pick the correct subject based on the context.

Another proverb I translated is gati leni manushulu taguvukedite matileni peddalu teerchevaaraa ani as “like hapless men seeking justice from brainless men” (Rama Rao. yajnam). Here again, I tried to coin a new adage based on the original text loosely.

Let us examine the proverbs or phrases, which are not translatable. For example, a phrase like adugulaku madugulottadam carries deeper cultural nuance. I think the word madugulu refers to madatalu (folded clothes). I understand the phrase refers to spreading a sheet for the guest of honor to walk on. In everyday usage, it has come to mean something similar to the red carpet treatment. However, I would prefer coining a new phrase as opposed to using the English phrase “red carpet treatment”, in order to emphasize the slight differences in the two cultures.

Distinctive and Culture-specific Phraseology

Culture-specific phraseology requires more than the use of a dictionary to translate. For instance, mancimaata chesuku vaccu is an archaic phrase referring to an old custom. In the old days, poor brahmin women used to run what is known as poota kuulla illu, where the woman serves food for money in an informal setting. The phrase, mancimaata chesuku vaccu has come to mean discussing food arrangements with a homeowner. Another example is vaaraalu chesukonu, also refers to an erstwhile custom. It is also food arrangements young Brahmin boys would make with seven families for seven days of the week while they pursued their education. Whenever I come across phrases like this, I would like to keep them in the story and explain in a footnote. From my perspective, that is important for the story to keep its cultural nuance.

Other concepts peculiar to our culture are engili, antu, madi, and dishti.The corresponding English words, which have gained some currency, are saliva pollution [engili], touch pollution [antu], quarantine-like condition [madi], and evil eye [dishti]. I hope one day these Telugu words will be incorporated into the English language. The word karma has gained currency in America to mean divine ordinance. In Telugu, it has several shades of meaning. Based on the context, I may use the term karma or translate it into English. That helps the reader to move forward without wasting too much time guessing what the meaning might be.

I am aware that some writers and some readers feel that these distinctions overburden the reader or undercut his/her imagination. I would rather prefer to think that these concepts are important in setting one culture apart from the others. It helps the readers to understand how these concepts play out in the source culture.

I translated sodi manishi as village psychic (Prabhavati.) with some hesitation. I am aware that telling sodi is not the same as predicting future by a psychic. My point is the sodi practice is culture-specific. There are other terms like fortuneteller, occultist, medium, and spiritualist. None of them exactly means the same as sodi manishi. When two cultures do not have the same practice, vocation, or lifestyle, we need to choose just one term in the target language based on comparable practices. A psychic invokes spirits to predict future events; the sodi woman invokes goddesses for the same purpose. The spirits and the goddesses are not the same but both are unverifiable sources. In that sense, I thought sodi woman would be comparable to a psychic or fortuneteller. Frankly, this is one of the instances no matter what word I had chosen there would always be a question. I chose psychic since it rolled easier on my tongue. Nevertheless, I was aware that the term did not import the complete cultural nuance and therefore I provided further explanation of the sodi tradition in the glossary at the end of the book.

Culture-specific Humor.

Unquestionably, humor is hard to translate, since it is deep-rooted in a given culture. Bhanumati narrates an incident in attaa kodaleeyam, in which she describes her mother-in-law’s madi, a temporary, quarantine-like condition, one creates for oneself. And her husband makes fun of the smelly pickles his mother was eating. In both the cases, the son and the daughter-in-law were not being polite to the older woman from a westerner’s standpoint. Thus translating the paragraph as is without paraphrasing is not sufficient to convey the humor in the story.

In the same passage, the daughter-in-law also comments about her mother-in-law sitting on the floor facing the wall to eat. The narrator’s reference to the Lord Narasimha in this context once again is hilarious for those who are familiar with the mythological character. For those who are not familiar with the story of Narasimha, an explanation is necessary.

In aartanaadam (Ranganayakamma), there is an episode in which the grandchildren visit their grandmother, after they were informed that she was dying. As it turned out, she was not ready to die and the grandchildren seized the occasion to tease her. The episode has no relevance to the story, except the storyline calls for the female protagonist’s absence from home for an extended period of time.

In a personal letter addressed to me, the author agreed that the episode was irrelevant and gave me permission to delete it at my discretion (Ranganayakamma. Personal Correspondence). I however chose to keep it in order to drive home a point—the free exchange of almost irreverent words between adults and children in a family. Grandchildren asking grandmother whether she would really want to die at all, or where she kept all her money, what she was going to do with it, and the tone in the conversation—all would be considered rude at one level and entertaining at another level. This is in direct contradiction of the custom of showing respect to the elders by the young people. Nevertheless, it is normal in some families and the story highlights that point. I discussed this topic in detail in my book, Telugu Women Writers, 1950-1975 (Malathi).

English words in Telugu stories:

Various writers use English words in Telugu stories to serve different purposes. If the English words are used simply as a reproduction of current colloquial style, probably, the translator may take them as they are and incorporate them without thinking twice. However, if it is part of the author’s narrative technique as in the case of Rachakonda Viswanatha Sastry, they need to be interpreted appropriately. It is necessary to examine if the author is using the English terminology to shift gears in the flow of the narrative or to invoke ridicule of an existing practice. Viswanatha Sastry uses this technique superbly. Also, if the author is simply reproducing the English words from the original, the translator needs to see if the actual words used in India are comprehensible to the global audience. For instance, “far relative” for “distant relative”, “long hand shirt” for “long sleeve shirt” and “time pass” for “passing time” are some examples, which do not go very well in a translation for global audience. In fact, only recently, I have learned that the phrase “giving a hand” in Andhra Pradesh, does not mean giving help but “not keeping one’s word.

Working with the Authors

In general, my practice is to translate first line by line, then go over the translation, and make the necessary changes for smooth reading. In the process, I may change the order of the sentences, add a word or two in some places, and even move around sentences to make it readable. Then I send it to the author, with a note about the changes I have made. The authors suggest one or two changes. I would accept their suggestions, if appropriate. Or explain my translation. That has been my practice for the past seven and a half years. On rare occasions, if the author is not with my translation, and keeps suggesting alternative forms, I may decide not to proceed with that project.  In short, working with writers has not been a problem for me. The only problem is locating the writers or copyright holders for permissions.

CONCLUSION

To sum up, the translator needs to remember who the target audiences are. Even as we tell children’s stories in a language intelligible to the children, and women’s stories in the diction with which women are comfortable, we, translators, have a moral obligation to honor the language behavior of the target audience. Leaving it to the readers to deduce the meaning from the context may work fine when the readers are from within the culture. As stated at the outset, an important goal of the translations is to serve as an educational experience for the readers from other cultures. In that sense, we are obligated to focus on the cultural nuance. The reader may still choose to skip the explanations. In my experience, a translator is a writer also. He works at three levels: 1. the source work; 2. target audience, and 3. the vocabulary he has at hand. Often, readers, writers and critics tend to miss this angle. He will draw on the diction at his command and produce a translation, while striving to make it appealing to the target audience. In that attempt he may lose some of the native flavor of the original yet he will succeed only if he has the freedom to be creative and present story in a language he is comfortable with. If the author disagrees, there is no meeting of the minds and there is no translation. He just moves on to the next translation.

[End]

Originally published on ICFAI Journal, Hyderabad, and reprinted on thulika.net, 2009.]

Sources
Books
Malathi, Nidadavolu. Telugu Women Writers. 1950-1975. A Unique Phenomenon in the History of
Telugu Fiction. Madison, Wisconsin: Author, 2008. 123-136.
Tulasi, Chaganti. “My Sister: A Classy Lady” [hundaa]. Trans. Nidadavolu Malathi. A Spectrum of My People: A Collection of Short Stories from Andhra Pradesh. Mumbai: Jaico Publishing House. 2006. 139-154.
Prabhavati, Vasa. “The Village Psychic.” Trans. Nidadavolu Malathi. A Spectrum of My People. Mumbai: Jaico, 2006. 283-297.
Ventaramana. Mullapudi. Middle Class Complex [Janataa express]. Trans. Nidadavolu Malathi. A Spectrum of My People. Mumbai: Jaico, 2006. 69-102

Journals
Kondala Rao, Ravi. a sogasu vastundaa? [Can the translation get that beauty?]. Andhra Jyothy. Vividha. 15 October 2003.
Viswanatha Sastry, Rachakonda. Man, Woman [mogavaadu, aada manishi]. Trans. Nidadavolu
Malathi. The Toronto South Asian Review. Summer 1987. V.7. No. 1. 1-12. Reprint. Rachakonda
Viswanatha Sastry. Values & Other Stories. Srinivasavanam, Kuppam: Dravidian University, 2007. 88-103.

Internet sources:
Krishnakumari, Nayani. The Poet’s Wife. [Kavi gaari bharya]. Trans. Nidadavolu Malathi.

Malathi, Nidadavolu. Radha’s Debt [Raadhamma baaki] by Mullapudi Venkataramana”.
Rama Rao, Kalipatnam. The Rite of Sacrifice [yajnam]. Trans. Nidadavolu Malathi. 3 March 2009.
Ramakrishna Sastry, Malladi. He is I. [soham]. Trans. Nidadavolu Malathi. 3 March 2009.
Satyanarayana, Viswanatha. The Soul Wills It [jeevudi ishtam].  Trans. Nidadavolu Malathi. 3 March
Subrahmanya Sarma, Puranam. Meaningless Union [Anavasara dampatyam]. Trans. Nidadavolu
Malathi. 3 March 2009.

Other sources.
Ranganayakamma. Personal correspondence with the author. 17 January 1983.
Venkataramana, Mullapudi. Personal correspondence with the author. 15 February 2003.