Monthly Archives: June 2013

Chaganti Somayajulu

Why would I lose it, Daddy? by Chaganti Somayajulu.

Krishna sat in the kitchen, chatting with mother with his sister in his lap. Father called him and asked him to run to the shop and buy cigarettes.

Krishna remained indoors most of the time, these days. He was reluctant to go into the streets. But now he has no choice since his father asked him to go to the shop. To go to the shop he needs to go past the high school, which he felt was a torture. All his friends, teachers might be there. Apprehensively he took the money and left for the shop.

enduku

At eight a.m. in the morning, the streets seemed to be alive with the kids running to the school. The high-school street resounded with the din made by the kids. Girls and boys were all scattered all over the road, verandas and yard in the school, laughing, chatting, and catching up with each other. Krishna sneaked to an end of the street and broke into a run. It was a useless effort anyway, since he heard some one call from the veranda, “Hey, Krishna!”

Krishna turned to look at the caller. It was Narasimham! He came running and shook Krishna by his shoulders.

“Hey, why are you not coming to school these days?” he enquired.
“I will start from Monday onwards,” Krishna replied.
“Did you buy the text books?”
“No, not yet.”
“Be quick now! Otherwise there won’t be any left for you. Remember; don’t buy notebooks in the shop! They are much cheaper in the school stores.  All the prices have increased incredibly.”

Narasimham was dressed smartly in a long-sleeve shirt, neat trousers and sandals. Krishna’s entire wardrobe consisted of a couple of shorts and shirts. They all existed nominally. The shorts were torn badly. His mother tried to repair his shirt and it ended up looking ridiculous! Krishna never asked for new trousers. He knew that shorts came cheaper than trousers. He only begged for a couple of new shorts. He argued, wept, threw tantrums and did everything he could possibly do. It was of no use. He saw the new textbook under Narasimham’s arm.
“Hey, what textbook is that?” he asked curiously.
“English textbook. I bought all the textbooks except Geography. It is still not available at the stores. Here, have a look,” he handed the book to Krishna.
Krishna leafed through the book. A nice fragrance of rose from the new textbook floated towards Krishna. He buried his face in the book for the fragrance.
“New books have such a nice smell about them, don’t they?” asked Narasimham.
“Yes, indeed! I love it.”
“Krishna, is it true that you did not top the list in the English exam last year?”
“Yes, I lost it by four marks.”
“Who topped it, then?”
“Sakuntala.”
“Really? Incredible! How much did she get?”
“Sixty eight! I got sixty-four.”
“Perhaps the teacher took pity on her since she is a girl.”
“Rubbish! She is really a very intelligent girl.”
“Yes, of course! Girls these days study so well!”

Krishna became a hero when the topic of marks and examinations came up. Everybody liked and respected him because he was such a clever boy, always topping in all the examinations. Otherwise seeing his horrible clothes no one would have ever spoken to him. He was feeling miserable, passing through the school and looking at all the kids going to school. He knew that he cannot study at the school any more and that knowledge caused him unbearable misery. His dad declared he could not afford to send him to school any more.

“How can you do that to him? If at this age we don’t send him to school what will happen to his future? Do something, send him to school,” his mother argued and begged.

“Do you think just by admitting him in school would clear up matters? He will be going to high school. Do you know how high the fees are in high school? Just admission fee and textbooks cost fifty rupees. Then papers, pens, notebooks! Where can I get that kind of money? Do you think I like doing this? It is all his and our misfortune. All my salary is just sufficient to feed all of us,” his father lamented.

Who would win the argument is yet to be known. But Krishna knew confidently that in his home it is his dad who had the last word. Hence he had given up all hopes of ever going to school and stayed indoors.

The touch and feel of the new English textbook again gave rise to swelling anxiety in his heart. Jealousy at the other kids who are going to school, disappointment at his helplessness smothered his brain like twin boa constrictors.

“Krishna, come to the school quickly. Do you know, this year we are divided into different sections? All our friends are in section ‘J’. You also should be in the same section.”
“All the way up to ‘J’? That many kids?”
“Not just ‘J’, but all the way up to ‘K’!” exclaimed Narasimham.
Krishna did a quick mental calculation and said, “That is eleven sections, just in grade 9. My God, so many students have joined this year!”
Krishna could not stand there any longer. He returned the book to Narasimham and turned to go. “Krishna, look at this picture,” Narasimham stopped him to show the book cover.A nice tricoloured picture, with farmers harvesting the crop, birds flying over the fields, very beautiful indeed!

The first bell rang indicating the beginning of the school day.  Sakuntala strolled into the yard, looking like a goddess, her arms laden with books.“Hey Krishna, guess what! I got the highest score in English last year,” she teased him as soon as
they met.
“Don’t be so happy! I got the highest in three subjects, and in Maths I got one hundred percent,”
Krishna gave it back.
“English is the most important subject, for your information” declared Sakuntala, profoundly. “No, ma’am! It is the math that is the most important subject. For that matter, Telugu is even more important, and who got the highest in Telugu, may I ask?”
“I don’t agree! I am sure English is the most important subject,” she insisted.
“No, it is Telugu. Ask anyone! I read in the newspaper that lessons to undergraduates should be taught in Telugu here after.”
“Oh yeah? As if you have read the newspaper.”
“Of course, I did. I read the newspaper daily. Our neighbours buy Andhra Patrika and I borrow it from them daily to read.”
The second bell went off, hurrying the children and the teachers into the classrooms.Narasimham was ashamed to talk to Sakuntala. He was one of the dull students in the class. Leave alone topping in examinations, he found it difficult to even scrape through them with minimum marks. Very self-consciously he remained silent all through the friendly banter. He suffered severe pangs of inferiority complex in spite of his very smart attire and Krishna’s poor clothes. He slowly
sneaked into the schoolyard without making a sound.

“The bell has rung, let us go to the class, Krishna,” said Sakuntala.
“I will come from Monday, next week.”
“I will show you who is going to top in this year’s examinations! I will not leave a single subject for you to top,” she challenged playfully.
“Don’t worry. Hereafter you will be the topper in all subjects and always.”
“Why do you say that?” she was surprised.
“Just kidding! Go on,” he tried to leave.
“Why are you not coming to my home these days? My parents asked many times about you.”
“Nothing special.”
“Ok, now I am off, or I will be late,” she ran towards the school.
“Sakuntala,” he called her.
“What is it now?” she asked impatiently.
Why did he call her? Would he tell her his problems? Of course not!
“Nothing, sorry! You go on.”
She ran into her classroom. They were of the same age, two cleverest kids in the class. Very competitive and friendly, they studied very well. He remembered her handwriting. It was very shabby! His handwriting, in contrast, was very beautiful.

He stood frozen as she ran into the school. Slowly and quietly, returned into the yard. Verandas were empty. Thousands of kids seated near their desks were imbibing knowledge. He could not move out of the yard. He felt all his depression and misery return. He walked into the veranda.

“I am not moving from here,” he was determined and leaned against the pillar.“I will not go home again,” he decided again.
His life from grade 4 flitted in front of his eyes.In grade 5 one of the students took a false complaint to the teacher against Krishna. But the teacher correctly guessed the false allegations and punished the accuser himself. In grade 8 the Telugu
teacher asked the meaning of a difficult Telugu word. He was the only one in the whole class who could answer that correctly.
In grade 7 one of the boys stopped coming to school after the term holidays. The teacher marked him absent daily. Someone told the teacher that he would not come to school any more. The teacher on that day struck the boy’s name off from the register and remarked “discontinued” against it. That was the first time he had heard the word and its meaning. He began to sob when he thought of that word and it’s meaning,

“I am not going home,” he decided even more firmly. His face turned red with all the suppressed anguish and tears. The bell rang again indicating the end of the first period.
Krishna’s father came looking for his son. He spotted the boy in the school veranda.
“Here you are! How long have you been? Where are the cigarettes?”
“Look there.”
“Where? What is there?” he looked around, unable to fathom the boy’s words.
“Now you have gone blind, is it?”
“Come on, tell me what is it?”
“Everybody is studying.”

Father looked at Krishna more carefully. He understood the son’s agony. “Is that worrying you, my boy?” he asked mildly. Krishna clung to his father’s legs and let go off all his restrained frustration. He bawled and wept forgetting his age, the place and the entire world. Sobs shook his little body and he felt his heart would break with grief any moment. Father empathized with the child’s sorrow and experienced all the trauma of the son.

“My poor baby! You are crying for that! Let us go home now, darling!”
“I will not go home,” yelled Krishna in helpless anger.
“What will you do here?”
“I will kill myself.”
Father hugged Krishna.
“Don’t say that! Let us go home now, darling.”
“This is my school.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Take me into the class room, now!”
“I will sell myself to send you to school, son, but let us go home for now.”
“Admit me now,” Krishna insisted.
“I have to arrange for the money.”
“After going home, you will say there is no money.”
“I won’t, child!”
“Then at least buy me textbooks.”
“But that too needs money.”
“OK, buy just one book then.”
“Which one?”
“English textbook.”
“Come on, I will buy it for you, don’t cry so hard, darling. It kills me to see you so unhappy.”
Krishna clutched his dad’s hand, still sobbing, he walked towards the school stores.

Father thought hard. The only solution could he think of was to stop smoking. However much he tried, he failed in that. That will give money to send Krishna to school. There was no other option.
“I gave you some money to buy cigarettes, do have the money or did you lose it somewhere?” he asked his son.
“Of course not. I have it in my pocket. Why would I lose it, daddy?” Krishna said, still sobbing.

[End]

(The Telugu original enduku pareestaanu naannaa? was published in the forties.

Translated by Sharada, Australia, on thulika.net, April, 2007.)

 

Chicken burglars by Poosapati Krishnamraju

The poultry in front of Paidamma’s hut is twittering kuckoroo ko noisily. Paidamma is shooting away a volley of insults without mentioning anyone in particular. The darybreak sets off along with her holler. Bright sunrays are dispersing with sleazy giggles from behind the yellow ganneru bushes by the hedge of the mansion of Sri Raja Vatsavayi.
nookalu
Paidamma’s daughter, Nookaalu, is crying. She sat down by the door with her legs stretched out and crying. The sight is pleasing to the four men on the porch of Peddiraju at the end of the street.

The villagers are getting ready to go to work. Women from cowherd families are ambling way to the lake, like mustard seeds poured on a polished slab.

Paidamma is standing in the middle of the street. No, she stood on the path of dharma, and continued to mouth away insults as though she is possessed.

Passersby watch her but for how long do you think that is? They stop and utter a few comforting words like “Oh, no, what a pity, what could’ve gotten into them? Are they sick or what? … So devious!  … so strange …” and then walk away minding their own business.

They are used to Paidamma’s screams and holler but now her daughter is crying. They’re all surprised to see that. She never cries. She is always laughing and making others laugh too. She dribbles her time away with abandon and excitement.

Nookaalu glistens with the charm of a robust eighteen-year old. She’d jump at anyone who said a bad word to her. Other times, she’d jiggle shyly, and her fleshy cheeks would pull in flashing two gorgeous dimples. No matter how big the other person is, she’d say, “You rogue, go away,” and walk away with a pout, like a turkey in full sail.

Usually she brings ears of corn and carpenter ants and feeds them to the hen. She also picks blades of grass from the lakeshore and feeds the lamb. She enjoys picking banyan tree leaves, rolling them neatly like paan and feeding the baby goat while patting warmly. Occasionally, she opens her voice and sings gairamma songs or children’s songs in loving voice. The cowherds in the neighborhood would gather around her and coax her into singing over and again. She acts like she was shy for a while and then opens her voice, sitting under the moonlight spread all over like a pumpkin flower in full bloom. Her tunes resonate on the wall of Rajah’s mansion across the street.

Vissanna used to say, showing of his wit, “The moon has a spot on his face but not Nookalu. That is how we know one from the other.” We do not know whether he had read Sivasankara Sastry’s Bilhaneeyam or Mahodayam but we can be certain of one thing; Nookaalu’s face is the proof that his metaphor is an apt one.

Sanyasi agrees with Vissanna’s comment. He says, “The Creator bundled up the entire beauty in a gorgeous young woman called Nookaalu and thus left nothing out for us to call ‘loveliness’.” That is true. There is so much beauty in Nookalu. Now that Nookaalu is crying frantically.

Nookaalu is not married, not yet anyways. A few times, probably four or five, young men came and proposed to her. Each time she came up with a different objection and dismissed him, saying, “To hell with him. How can I live under one man’s watch?” Paidamma’s daughter always would have her say in all matters.

Mother can never say no to her daughter. “I’ll get her married when a boy of her choice comes along,” she’d say. Paidamma and Nookaalu are wanting for what, do you think? Nothing really. The bright gold chains–naanu and teege—which Paidamma wears around her neck would receive a new glow when Nookaalu wore them. Paidamma also has gotten Rattayya make a new set of naagujodu for Nookaalu’s ears. She also bought four sarees with heavy borders from Sanapati when he came with his bundle of sarees for sale. She sold the lamb to buy them. Nookaalu always walks around in sarees that looked like freshly cut flowers.

There is not a single day Paidamma missed work as day laborer. Both the mother and daughter would work in the fields in the agricultural season. Other days, they would be busy either pounding rice or spices for pickling, or repairing roofs, or whitewashing the walls, so on—there is no job they are not good at.

The women folks in the neighborhood envy Paidamma but are also scared of her. They will not be able to find work if they ignored Paidamma. She is their supervisor.

The supervisor’s daughter is crying and the supervisor is standing on the street and blasting off a volley of abuses. “Might as well slit my throat, you idiots, might as well set my house afire … you scoundrels, you want to watch me burn down to ashes? I wish you infested with bugs, wish your arms burnt to dust … you give me grief … what d’ ye think you’ll get by giving’ me grief, you scoundrels.” Her pitch is getting bigger and bigger as she went on shouting.

Vissanna, Appanna, Sanyasi and Chittibabu slink down the verandah edge across the street and go towards the lakeshore, stroll down the shoreline and disappear behind the tumma trees. Paidamma’s hut is teaming with baby goats, poultry, and lambs. But she is particularly fond of the one hen that is sitting by the door and yowling. Each day in the morning Paidamma lifts the bamboo screen, and the hen soars, fluttering her wings, to the compound wall of Raja’s mansion and leaps to the ground from there.

On one such day, she wandered around in the yard for a while, got together with the debonair rooster daintily, laid a dozen eggs for him, and hatched them. She was left with only one egg after the crows and the eagles had finished eating them up. That one egg became one lovely chicken with an elegant turf, vibrant feathers and cute little beak and teeth.

Paidamma goes out early in the morning and brings ears of corn. She chafes them on the bamboo screen and separates the kernels. Then she brings out the lamp. The mother fowl then calls the baby chicken, cluck … cluck … cluck. The baby chicken would come screeching knii … knii …knee, and slither under the mother’s legs. Sometimes the little one tries to pick a kernel. Mother hen picks the kernels deftly and eats.

Paidamma tells herself, “See that sneaky fool of a mother. She’s gobbling up all the kernels, instead of feeding the little ones.” She then moves the lamp to the little shelf by the door, and falls asleep while glancing Nookaalu sideways.

The baby chick has grown big and plump. She is not ready to lay eggs yet but is quite big. This little one is borne to a debonair rooster and that shows in her gait and demeanor. Normally, she follows the mother fowl all the time. That night she did not return to her pen.

What’s happened to her? Paidamma searched the entire village up and down, could not find her anywhere. The little chicken disappeared without a trace. That is why the mother hen is crying and Paidamma is shouting. Why wouldn’t she? But then again, what else can she do but shout and scream. She may be the supervisor for all the laborers in the area, yet she is just a woman.

On the previous day, in the twilight, all the four—Vissanna, Appanna, Sanyasi, and Chittibabu—got together, whispered to each other and cooked up with a plot. Appanna owned a fishing pole and hooks. He brought the pole, attached the bait to the hook and let it down over the compound wall. The little chicken took the bait, wiggled and flapped her wings. The other chicks got scared and ran in a flutter.

Vissanna bound jumped over the wall in a split second and seized the chicken. He rushed to the mango grove at a distance and hid it under the branches; made sure that nobody noticed it. Then he returned to his friends and narrated to them his extraordinary feat in great detail; he also told them where he had hidden it. His friends were impressed. Later that night, all the four—Vissanna, Sanyasi, Appanna and Chittibabu—reached the grove after the moonlight got bright. Tiny bits of clouds flew over the moon occasionally; the moonlight was enough for them nevertheless. Foxes were yelping occasionally at a distance but the night was not all that scary.

They sneaked the items they needed for cooking from their homes and brought them to the grove. It was not even ten yet but there was no sign of a soul anywhere in the vicinity.

Vissanna untied the youthful chicken and brought it. She was crushed in the hands of those four, and lost her figure. The chicken that should have laid eggs and hatched them into charming fowl, the chicken that has been growing under her mother’s caring wing, was reduced to a mushy ball.

All the four men whispered into each other’s ears in that dim light. They ripped her apart piece by piece; rolled the pieces in the masala they had brought. They collected three stones and set up a stove and set the brass pot on it. The pot was shining in the moonlight. They started a small fire and blew on it until it started flaring up. They threw in the splinters they had collected earlier and built the fire. The fire rose into long, sharp flames and extended further. In that light from the flames, the faces of all the four were shining.

The food in the pot started simmering. The chicken Paidamma raised so fondly got crunched in their mouths. They mangled her into tiny bits and gobbled up.

“Hot, hot,” Appanna gasped. Even in that soft light, they could see his face warped by smallpox. They rejoiced in their loot, went to the lake and filled their blazing bellies with water.

Paidamma took care of that chicken like her own baby, like her own life. When she called, “come on, come on,” the chicken would flap her wings, come running, and jump on to her shoulder excitedly. That is what Nookaalu is crying about. All along, up until now, she has been laughing but never cried. The four burglars who used to whimper at the sight of Nookaalu gathered behind the tumma trees and snickered now. In their snicker however there is also a trace of fear that their secret may not be safe forever.
Paidamma continues to curse them, nonstop.

Nookaalu continues to weep, nonstop.

[End]

(The Telugu original, kukkutachorulu, is included in the anthology, Sitaalu jadupaddadi [Sitaalu fell ill] by the author and published by Padmapriya prachuranalu, 1964. Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net, July 2007.)

 

Dinner guest on Saturdays by D. Kameswari.

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There was no reason for me to recall a fifty year-old story if it were not for the pellichuupulu[1]. we had scheduled for my granddaughter, Silpa. The groom, his father and mother came to our house on the said day. I did not expect, not even in my wildest dreams, that I would be seeing the vaaraalabbaayi[2], Venkataramana, from the past in the avatar of the father of the groom from America. I was dumbfounded. I opened the door. An elderly gentleman walked in, staring at me closely. Despite my grandma status, I was embarrassed by his stare.

saturday_guest

After exchanging the usual enquiries and introductions, he said, “Forgive me. Aren’t you Manikyamma’s daughter?” He said as if he could not contain himself any longer.

I was surprised. “You know my mother?” I asked him.
“You didn’t recognize me, I guess. I am Venkataramana. I used to come to your house for vaaraalu on Saturdays, in Ramachandrapuram. It was so long ago, a fifty-year old story, you might’ve forgotten,” he said.

***
I was eleven or twelve at the time. He used to come to our house every Saturday for meals. He was fifteen, meek, skinny and of fair complexion. Whenever he saw a girl, he used to drop his head whenever girls were around. Is he the same Venkataramana who used to eat at our home weekly? Who would think this bespectacled gentleman, a high court judge, with a striking personality, slightly balding hairline, would show up in the position of the father of an America bridegroom? I could never have guessed if he had not said so.

“Venkataramana, you … hum … yes, I remember now. What a surprise, us meeting after fifty years …like this! So, this young man is your son?”

His wife was fair-skinned and robust. His son was tall and also of fair skin. His position as a groom from America and his job in America were strikingly obvious in his attire and demeanor.

Venkataramana said, “His name is Prasad, my third son. My eldest son is a doctor, lives in England. Second son is in America, an engineer. My daughter and her husband, an I.A.S. officer, live in Delhi.This boy is my youngest.”

He was lively and proud as he spoke about his children. Of course, who would not be to have all his children faring so well in life? Aren’t we considering them as a highly desirable and favorable match only because of their notable status?

Silpa also finished her engineering course, got her M.S. degree from an American University, and has landed a great job. That is why we are looking for an American groom. My son had seen an ad in the paper and contacted them. After checking the details thoroughly we invited them to visit us, per custom, pellichuupulu.

“Your mother is a great lady, an incarnation of Annapurna herself. I’d eaten in so many homes but there was none like your mother She had fed me to my heart’s content with care and concern. She never acted like it was a chore. She treated me just like she would her own children. Anyway how is she?” Venkataramana asked apprehensively.

“She is fine, getting old, she is ninety you know. Her health just started weakening. She is here not too far, living with my younger brother,” I said.

“I am so glad she’s around. I must visit her and pay my respects. If it is not for her remarkable kindness, I would never have gotten to this position,” and he added, “Can you please take me to her?” His voice. His voice shivered slightly.

“Certainly, I will take you to her later. I’m sure she’ll also be very pleased to see you. Besides, she will also have a chance to meet the groom. We all can go together after this formality is over,” I said.

The bride and the groom went into the next room for a private chat. That gave us an opportunity to revisit the past. Venkataramana gave me a detailed account of how he had worked and managed to finish high school and after that earn his law degree. He started out as an apprentice under a senior lawyer, took a government job first as munsif, after that became a judge and then a high court judge.

“How did you recognize me? I’d no idea who you were at all,” I said, curiously.

“I’ve recognized you right away. I remembered you as the tall and fair-skinned young woman of the old days. You gained a little, with age I suppose, but not to a point that one cannot recognize you,” he said.
***
We used to tease him so much back then in your childhood. My mother used to feed two Brahmin boys on a weekly basis. Vaaraalabbaayi was a common practice in those days. Compassionate housewives would give food once a week to young boys from poor Brahmin families who would not be able to go to school otherwise. The boys would make arrangements with seven families for food, one day per family. On the set day, he would go to their house, wash up by the well in the backyard and eat there, sleep on somebody’s porch, study under the street lamp at night—that would his routine until he was done with schooling.

In those days not all towns had schools. Most of the Brahmin families in villages had no financial resources to send their children to the schools in the big cities. The only way for these children to get education was this vaaraalabbaayi system. And then, the boys would receive donations from others for the tuition fee and daily necessities. I heard that a lot of young men thus obtained their education and became lawyers, doctors and engineers. And also I have read stories such as “that boy ate in that house, landed a successful career, married this young woman without dowry,” … and so on.

This Venkataramana’s father was a yaayavaaram Brahmin, who could barely support his four children by his yaayavaaram practice, performing daily pujas in wealthy households, and or acting as a recipient of charity in the name of ancestors at the time of annual ceremonies. He was in no position to send his sons to school. He told his children, including Venkataramana, to continue their family trade, following in his footsteps. But Venkataramana would not listen of it; he cried his heart out, and in the end, ran away to the city in pursuit of his dream to learning.

In the city, he managed to seek the help of a few families and thus established himself as a “vaaaraalabbaayi.” A generous business man offered to pay for his tuition. Venkataramana borrowed used books from fellow students, and studied at night under street lamps. He was polite and unassuming.

On Saturdays, he would come to your house and sit on the porch in a corner but never came into the house and let us know that he was there for dinner. My mother had to notice him herself and tell us, “Poor boy, he is sitting there on the porch. Ask him to come in.” Only after we had invited him, he would go into the backyard, wash his feet and hands and come into the kitchen. He would sit in front of the banana leaf to eat. He was always such a perfect gentleman; would never raise his eyes and look at us girls.

My mother always served the food to Venkataramana the same way as she would to us. We watch to watch the ritual auposana–he took a little water in his hand, meditated for a few seconds, sipped up, and then would start to eat. He never asked for a second helping. My mother would chide him mildly, “How would I know if you don’t ask,” and scoop more food on his leaf. Even then he would not accept it without protest. He was shy, would cover his leaf with his hands and say, “That’s plenty, madam, that’s plenty.”
My mother would not stop. “You must eat, boy. You’re not going to eat anything again until your next meal in the evening.” And dump even more on his leaf.

On Saturdays, we had school in the mornings only. She fed all of us at the same time, setting a leaf a little away from us for Venkataramana. Early in the morning, she would keep ready the leftover food from the night before with buttermilk and pickle in a small dish. Venkataramana would bathe early in the morning, eat the leftovers and go to school. His modesty was a great source of fun for us; it was like he was asking us to tease him. We never felt hungry since we had been snacking all day on fruits, peanuts and such. Venkataramana on the other hand, had no such luxury; he had to wait until the food was given to him. But it never occurred to us back then. We were amused as we watched the food on his leaf, which looked like a huge heap, and the way he ate. He would make a big dint in the heap of rice, fill it with soup, mix them well, make big balls and swallow them eagerly. That was a sight for us. We would eye each other and at him and giggle.

Mother would gawk at us and reprimand us afterwards. “You nibble all day, you’ve no idea of what hunger feels like. The way you’re looking at his food, I’m afraid you’ll cast evil eye4 on that poor boy. He gets food only twice a day. He is growing you know, he must eat well. For his age, he should be able to digest even rocks. Maybe I should set his plate a little away from you, to avoid his snickering,” she would say.

I must admit, mother never showed bias towards anybody. She made sure that anybody she served ate well to his heart’s content whether it was a yaayavaaram Brahmin, servant or washer man. During the festivals, she gave them plenty. She never said no to anybody that had come to our door. She would always say, “Giving food once a week is no sin but only a good deed. We all must share from whatever little we have. That is our dharma.”

Poor Venkataramana! He’d be at our mercy for the three days mother had her periods. My sisters and I would conspire and pretend that we had not seen him on the porch, and wait to see if he would come on his own and ask for food. After waiting which seemed like forever, he would get up, go to the well, wash his feet and hands, come into the kitchen, lay down the sitting plank, sit down, and sprinkle a little water on the banana leaf, wipe it with his palm, and wait, with his chin touching his chest. We would pretend not to have seen him until he looked totally desperate and then only we would give him food. Sometimes, mother would yell from the other room, “He is here. Give him food.” Even then, we would not do it right away. We would bicker for a while– “You give him,” “No, you” and finally one of us would get to it. We would want him to ask for pulusu [lentil soup] or chaaru [tamarind water, similar to French onion soup]. Venkataramana would just make a hollow in the pile of rice and wait without a word. We would pretend not to have noticed it until he started eating the plain rice. Then only we took pity on him and served pulusu or chaaru.

Venkataramana had been a perfect gentleman, never lifted his eyes and looked at us, and never uttered a word. He’d done very well in school. Mother always said, “Watch him and learn.” She gave him my brother’s used pants and shirts. Once year, she would have a pair of new clothes made for him. She also gave him a mat, an old quilt, and a bed sheet.

Suddenly, things changed. My father was transferred to another town while Venkataramana was in the final year of his high school. Poor boy, he was so crushed. “Amma, this is y misfortune I suppose. Just one more year and I would have gotten my diploma. Now you’re moving away. I always thought you as the goddess Annapurna, showed up here only to save me. I’ve been a guest in so many houses but nobody like you. Nobody gave me food with such a kindness and concern as you did. You’ve been so kind to me, like your own child, never differently. Now I have to find another home,” he broke into sobs.

Mother was moved by his words. She talked to one of our distant relatives and arranged for his food on Saturdays in lieu of ours. She also gave him a few more used clothes, a tin box, a bucket, a mug, a dinner plate, and a steel glass and such. Venkataramana bowed to my mother’s feet and wept.
***

As I recalled all these incidents after fifty some years, I felt shame. I said, “We had made fun of you so much. You sat there like the Lord Buddha and ate without lifting your head. It was amusing to us back then. You sat down to eat but never once asked for a second helping. That used to tick off. I don’t know what you thought of all that. Now as I remember all that …” I said, feeling remorse truly.

“Oh, no. You are sweet. You were young then. Everybody acts like that in childhood,” and he added, “As for me, I was too scared to look at young girls like you, scared of being isunderstood. Besides, I was shy too. I knew you all were teasing me. But then, you are from a high class family.
How can I compete with you?” he laughed light-heartedly.

“Anyway, just to think that you have risen to this position, overcoming all the hurdles and hardships …”

“That’s all because of the blessings of the good lord. I was thinking of settling down as clerk in some office after finishing high school. But I ranked first in school and our headmaster was impressed. He encouraged me to apply for admission in the college in Kakinada. He also got me a scholarship, talked to one of his friends in Kakinada and arranged for my stay and books too. In addition, I worked at odd jobs like bookkeeping s and completed my education. In the process I understood the value of education and money. Therefore I made sure that my children stayed focused on education even from childhood. I told them how hard it had been for me and made them understand the need for education.”

“Well, you know the old adage, who can shape whose life? There are children who don’t do well in school under the best of circumstances, and then there are others who eat whatever they can get and whenever then can get, and still rise to great heights,” I said.

After their visit, I took Venkataramana and his family to my mother’s house. The judge bowed to my mother’s feet as soon as we walked in and said in a husky voice, “Amma, do you remember me? You are the Annapurna herself.”

Mother was embarrassed that a gentleman of his stature should touch her feet. She pulled back quickly and said, “No, no, babu, what’s this? Get up. I’m getting old; my memory is not that good. Who are you babu?”

“I am Venkataramana, Ammaa. I used to eat at your home in Ramachandrapuram on Saturdays. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yes, now I remember. So you are that Venkataramana? A judge now?”

“Not just judge, amma, a high court judge. All his children are engineers, doctors; they’re living in foreign countries. The groom, who is come to see our Silpa, is his son only,” I said. Mother’s hearing was failing, I had to speak louder.

“I am happy, babu, that you’ve got a good life. I knew even then that you would have a successful life someday. I used to tell my children to follow your example.”

Venkataramana folded his hands reverently and said, “Amma, I owe it to you. Kindly allow me the opportunity to clear your debt a tiny bit at least. Give me your kind permission to perform the wedding of your granddaughter with my son.”

They chatted for a while and got up to leave. After they all left, we started our discussion. We all liked the groom but there was also a touch of disappointment. His lineage was on our minds. Grandfather was just a yaayavaaram Brahmin, father lived on vaaraalu. In contrast, the bride’s family could be traced back to prestigious lawyers, doctors and I.C.S. officers under the British rule. The difference was strikingly obvious.

“What does it matter what the ancestors had done for living? The bridegroom has good education and  position,” my son said.

 

“That is one way of looking at it. As the saying goes, you must lineup up with equals in wars and weddings6. Also they said that we must take a bride from the lower cadre and a groom from the higher cadre. The important thing is to avoid conflicts and ego problems that might arise of wrong choices,” my husband said.

“Regardless the lifestyle of his predecessors, the father is a high court judge, which is on par with ours. The groom is good-looking and well-mannered. How can we expect them to be perfect in all respects?” I said.

“Let’s leave the decision to Silpa. If she liked the young man and his family, there is no need for us toobject,” my daughter said.

“Silpa, tell us what do you think? Any objections?” my son-in-law turned to Silpa and asked her.

“Do you like the groom?” her mother echoed.

Silpa nodded.

“But what about the family?” her father asked.

Silpa looked at us all for a second and said, “I believe that those who understand the ups and downs in life, and who build their life through hard work will have a much better perspective on life than those who ride on the high horse of the superiority of their ancestors. You know the saying, my grandfathers gobbled up tons of ghee, smell it on my lips; so saying they squander their riches on cheap pleasures recklessly. I don’t care for such people. In any case, at present, the groom and his family have a life comparable to ours, why should we have any objection? The young man seemed to be well-mannered, courteous and sophisticated. I also noticed his sense of humor and intelligence in the little time I had with him. Rest of it will depend on our understanding each other and willingness to adjust, like in any successful marriage. As far as I am concerned, both husband and wife must be willing to adjust.”

Oh, boy! I was thinking of Silpa all along only as a little girl but she came out so strong. She was thinking so clearly and so far ahead! She spoke
powerfully and shut us up.

Today’s youth are not worried about the past. They live in the present without worrying about future. All they’re focused on is the present. Yes, today’s young men and women are so clever.
***
[End]

Notes:

1 Traditional visit by the groom and his parents to the bride and her family for a formal meeting and discussions.
2 Customarily, generous families offer to feed poor Brahmin boys once a week for the duration of their schooling.
3 A custom. Poor Brahmins used to go door to door, tell the housewife of the name of the day, time and auspicious period in the day according to
lunar calendar. In return the housewife would give him rice and vegetables.
4 A common belief, meaning casting an evil eye.
5 In Telugu the saying goes as: evari karmaki evaru karthalu.
6 The Telugu adage is kayyaanikainaa viyyaanikainaa samaanulu kaavaali
7 The saying goes as maa taatalu nethulu taagaaru, maa muutulu vaasana chuudandi.

(The Telugu original, “weekly boy”, was published in Swarnandhraprabha, 15 June 2002, translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net in April 2002).

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.

Nori Narasimha Sastry’s views on History and Historical Novel

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In a couple of essays, Narasimha Sastry discussed history and historical fiction at length. He put forth enormous amount of information in support of his theory that our way of studying our history if faulty. In the process he also defines the correlation between history and historical novel.

In the essay, swatantra bharatamulo charitra rachana (Writing History in independent India), he shows how our mode of thinking had been molded by the methods established by famous western historians such as Gibbon, Carlyle, the lord Prudhoe and Wells. Their works on history are valued as literature; they have shown us that historians are poets in essence.

However, we also need to remember that the British rulers introduced Macaulay Report in schools only to serve their purpose, which is to turn our people into tools for prolonging their rule in our country.

That led to us relying on English books to study our history to a point that we would not read our Telugu and Sanskrit texts unless they are given in English. This craze for English is extended to all the other fields as well—religion, society, politics, literature, science and even into geography.

Currently, the history of India is broken into three periods—the Hindu period, the Mohammedan period and the British period.

Narasihma Sastry goes to elaborate on the problems with this division as follows:

Originally, the Aryans came from outside, assailed the Dravidians and the Dasyulu and promulgated their religion in our country vigorously. Their cultural power however waned due to the hot climate in our country. Internal struggles eroded and some of them turned traitors. After the Aryans, the Mohammedan rulers came in multitudes and took over. They attacked the feeble Hindus. Later, they succumbed to mundane pleasures and lost their power.  When the British came, the country was in shambles. They could easily drive away the Mohammedans and the other white rulers and take over the country. This is the gist of the division of the historical periods.

There is a perception that heat weakens individuals. This is not a proven fact though. Possibly others who are accustomed to cold climate may suffer from the heat in our country and vice versa. However this should not be an argument to let ourselves be slaves to the foreigners. Heat is a geographical issue and irrelevant to one’s strength or weakness. This is a pious land and the place for such sacred activities as bathing three times a day and offering prayers to the Sun god (sandyavandanam).

Narasimha Sastry continues to observe that since creation of the universe, 195 crore 85 lakhs and 550 years have passed. In this long span of the history of mankind, the British ruled our country for 190 years, the Moghuls for 181 years, the Lodis for 75 years, Sayyads for 37 years, Tughlaks for 94 years, and Khiljis 30 years.

Among the Indians, the Gupta period runs for 500 years and that is considered golden age. We read that the Satavahanas ruled for 464 years and no other reign had sway for a period that long. And the Kushans seemed to have ruled for 230 years, the Mauryans for 160 years, and the Nandas for 74 years. Also the Bimbisara and others ruled for over 200 years.

Thus, it is evident that the current history as we study in our books gives more importance to the time we had been under foreign rule. We should rewrite our history books expanding the times we had been free and proud, and delimit the period we had been subjected to slavery.

No doubt the British have ruled our country for about 200 years. There were some local rulers called Zamindaris but they existed only with the blessings from the British. Mohammedans stayed mostly in the north. Attempts of Tuglak and Aurangazeb to take over the southern part of India failed. At the time, the Kakateeya kings in the south were powerful. After that Vijayanagara kings prevailed in the south for one hundred years more. Thus, the label for these periods should be Kakatiya period, Vijayanagara period and so on. In the 18th century, the Maharashtra rulers were strong all the way from the southern end, the Sethu, to Himachal. Indian culture has flourished in the north for sometime and later the south enjoyed superiority. There were times when the Chola, Chalukya and Pallava kingdoms and Kancheepuram were at the peak. There is no reason to accept the labels given foreign rulers who ruled only the northern part of the country.

Other facts to note are: During 550-330 B.C., Persian kings ruled Punjab and Gandharam (current Nepal?). Later Greeks ruled over the same land for 150 years (200-20 B.C.). Kushans prevailed for sometime. There is also a misconception that all Mohammedans are the same. In reality, some of them were Shiites and others Sunnis. In the north, Persian culture was prominent while the Absenian culture prevailed in the south. The difference between these two is no less than the difference between the Greeks, Patheons, Sakuns, and Kushans. That being the case, it is unfair to lump them all together as one race.

Against this background, Narasimha Sastry suggests labels such as the Turkish threat, the Moghal menace, the Sunny hazzard, Shiaite turmoil, and the British tempest for periods our history. Also there are only two races—Aryans and non-Aryans, and one is productive and the other destructive, like any other living organism in the world.

It is important to note that the Aryans regard the land as their motherland and fatherland. For them, the land gives them birth, entertains them, and comforts them. It is karmabhumi [place of action], tapobhumi [place of contemplation], and punyabhumi [pious land]. For them, the entire India is one country and the Vedas and the Vedangas are the paradigms to live by. Sanskrit is the language of the polite society. The non-Aryans on the other hand are engrossed in self-promotion, their physical image, and abandonment.

The detailed discussions of dates for a given king are not important. The Puranas have recorded the history of the kings who reinstated the Aryan dharma following political and social turmoil. They should be the paradigms for us but not the texts written by foreigners such as the Greek travelers in Alexander’s time, Megasthanese during Chandragupta’s rule, the Chinese traveler Huen Tsang, and so on. We should read our history based on the data available in our texts produced by our poets. The texts by foreigners may be used as secondary texts. Historians should sift the falsehood propagated by foreign historians.

Let’s not forget that regardless of their affinity to the kings of their times, Valmiki and Vyasa maintained their stance as poets in their own status quo.

By the time Vyasa wrote Maha Bharata, 193 crores, 83 lakhs of years passed. He was fair in depicting the histories of the two dynasties, including the violations of Dharma by the Pandavas. The pundits who question Maha Bharata’s integrity need to separate the later interpolations and study the original carefully.

The historians should help us to revive the spirit of unity, nationalism. Valmiki and Veda Vyasa should be viewed as the archetypes, the protectors of dharma; they are historians and poets in true spirit.

Historical novel

The term “historical” implies narration of truth without fluff. On the other hand, novel requires invention specifically.

A novel may not contain even one page of authentic history in a 304 page book. Yet it may provide details about the political atmosphere, social customs, manners, travel amenities, and other facilities of its time without contradicting historical facts.

A novelist takes bits of history, “dry as dust” in Carlyle’s words, brings them together, adds other parts and grows into a big tree, sprays heavenly nectar on it and brings it to fruition.

Westerners store dead bodies in graveyards. They save important and unimportant incidents alike. The historians cull through these bits of data and elaborate on the past history. Because of this custom to save all the items, the historians are able to tell the stories of their people—poets, sculptors, lyricists, kings, ministers, their kept women, businessmen, priests, actors and actresses, soldiers, and beautiful women. The books, diaries, magazines, letters, inscriptions, and memorials carved on the graves—all these are available to their writers. However, despite the availability of all this information, the established theories are getting thrown out by new revelations. While interpretation of history keeps changing, great novels are being produced in the west.

We do not have the amenities to write historical fiction or biographical fiction the same way the westerners do. Nevertheless, we have produced great novels such as Bhagavan Parasuramudu by K. M. Munshi and Simha Senapathi by Rahul Sankrutyayan. The first one attempted to recreate the Vedic and the Pauranic works from the perspective of national spirit. The second one took the Vedic literature with Buddhist tradition as supreme ideal, and attempted to promote the current communist ideology. Both the works as great examples of our historical fiction.

In a country’s or even world’s history, what has happened is important. The dates and the names of individuals are like the body. The incidents are the life force behind these works. Beyond these two elements, there is also the Atman which is the dominant force in our lives. A historian must not forget the soul. From this perspective, we need to examine whether our historians have understood the supreme truth about our nation as much as the authors of our puranas.

Numerous plots and subplots embedded in the Ramayana and Maha Bharata appear to have happened actually. They might not have happened in that particular time and in that particular place but they seemed to carry certain authenticity about them. And they contain lessons for us. To collect such stories and record them is the primary responsibility of our historians.

The authors of our puranas had a great sense of the timelessness of history and what must be recorded. We fail to appreciate their philosophy only because of our self-indulgence and our ignorance.

Greek historian Herodotus had written several fantasy stories in the name of history and we regard him as the king among historians. The Chinese travelers wrote history, depicting their own importance and we have accepted them as standard the same way as the histories written by Christians. The stories in their books are fabricated much the same way as the stories in our puranas. It is the same with personal letters, diaries and other writings.

The genre of novel may have been born in Italy or France but there is no clear-cut definition yet. It has been taking various forms in different times and different places, which is its distinctive nature.

A novel could be rendered in the form a play, story, biography, letters, diaries or a combination of several forms. It can be short like a little pond or like a great sea, a combination of several features.

We may create suitable platform and call works like Dasakumara charitra, Simhasana dwatrimsati, Bhoja charitra, pancatantra, Hitopadesa, neeti chadrika novels. Our critics called kalaa purnodayam a novel, although it is written in the form of poetry.

That being the case, it is a mistake to consider only the form set by westerners as the only standard form for a novel. We may even stay as far away as possible from the western mode of thinking and create much better novels.

Narasimha Sastry also points out that writing novel is a profession for westerners. And marketing it requires novelty constantly. In his opinion, they are short-lived for that reason. On the other hand, we consider novel as a literary genre, and thus maintain its quality.

Novelist has a wide range of opportunities. A novel is not a short story and in that, there is no holding back. It is not a miniature painting; it does not have to flow in a monotonous manner as in a big story. Unlike a play, the novel does not rely on theaters, the vagaries of actors and actresses, and insensitive audience.

However, as in a drama, the writer may take the uniqueness of dialogues and incidents—the intrinsic qualities of a play, and incorporate poetic merit and musical quality in his novel. He may include his entire knowledge in it. A novel has the ability to reflect numerous varieties of literary genre in numerous ways. Novel is the supreme genre among the entire literary genre so far we have gotten. The proverb, naatakantam sahityam may be rewritten as navaalanatham sahityam.

The novel that contains history with the traits noted above may be called historical novel. When we study novel from that perspective, we find no contradiction between the noun “novel” and the adjective “historical”. On the other hand, the elite may even find a close affinity between the two terms.

It is common knowledge among intellectuals that it is hard to evaluate contemporary works, regardless how capable we are and how unbiased we are.

Unless we examine them from a distance, we cannot recognize their authentic value; the incidents do not rise to the level appropriate for plots of kavyas. This is the reason many poets in all countries at all times choose the stories related to their heroes and events from the past. That does not mean writers should not write about contemporary occurrences.

Critics sometimes comment that authors of historical fiction, being unable to face the modern day society and issues, choose incidents or people from the past and write about them. Their ignorance regarding the characteristics of kavya is evident in this kind of comments.

A novel may achieve the status of kavya even when it does not depict contemporary life? And that is so even when it does not aim to solve the current society’s problems. For instance, Tolstoy wrote War and Peace based on Napoleon’s invasion of Russia. Even as our rishis would, Tolstoy did not rely only on the history written by historians but conducted intense search for historical facts and thus was able to produce a unique work. Same thing can be said of Faust by Goethe, Paradise Lost by Milton, and so on.

Thus it is evident that poet, even when writing about the current events, can produce a high quality work only when he has the ability to look back in to the past. In support of this argument, He quotes an example from his own experience after China attacked India:

He says, “I was furious. I wanted to take over the entire nation of China in retaliation. I was irate that our government pledged to fight for the land up to McMohan line only. What about our ‌Manasa sarovaram, Kailasam that is the abode of Lord Siva, and the land that conjoined the sites where the two rivers Brahmaputra and Sindhu originated? I was so irate yet not a single poem came out of my mouth. So many people have written kavyas and sang songs. None of them appealed to me, when I try to read them as kavyas.

Secondly, dragon China’s national symbol. I searched hard for an quivalent term for dragon in Sanskrit. “Sarabham” or “Sarabhasaluvu” could be but did not sound right. In Rg veda, “ahi” had been mentioned. Some scholars used dragon for Ahi in their translation of Vedas into English. I remembered the verse in the vedas which described Indra at the time he killed Vritrasura. To my knowledge, nobody else thought of it yet even I could not view it in the form of a kavya. My heart has been sullied with my hatred for the Chinese. It will not reach the kavya level unless and until the hatred in my heart has been washed up.

If we think on these lines, the scholars who study the philosophy of kavyas may note that among all the genres of kavyas, the novel and among all varieties of novels the historical fiction is the highest.

Basically the Maha Bharata has been identified as history (ithihasa) and Ramayana as a purana (mythology). From the standpoint of tradition, both the works had been written by the writers who had lived in those times. Yet they became great works for the following reasons. Valmiki was a tapasvi (introspect). He was capable of distancing himself from contemporary life and observing it with uncontaminated eyes. Similarly, Vyasa was a rishi who could stay detached despite his kinship with all the characters in the story. He could stay in his hermitage quietly, contemplate and reflect on the story in his heart.

Some scholars accept that these two authors simply collected several stories told by several individuals and had them recorded by a few or several other individuals. There is no doubt that the incidents in these stories had been based on actual occurrences.

As is evident, the social, political, and dharma-related systems, the war strategies, philosophic reflections are narrated in these works focusing identifying the ultimate truth. No other work has that much influence on Indian culture. Despite the fact that these two works are based on Vedas, they have exerted more influence on our culture than the Vedas themselves. Without these two classic works, it is hard to imagine how far our culture could have deteriorated. This is deductible from the history of other countries where there is no such impact.

However, the Ramayana text and most of the Maha Bharata text are rendered in the form of poetry. It is not filled with difficult Sanskrit phraseology but written in a form that is close to modern prose. We can call them historical kavyas or historical novels written in the form of poetry. The difference is only in terminology but not in essence.

One of them is a great river flowing with zest like the River Ganges. The second one is the milky ocean encompassing several great rivers. Today’s historical novelist is a follower of those great authors, Valmiki and Vyasa.

They are not performers of death rituals who collect pieces of history. They are the visionaries who have attempted to identify the historical truths.

Modern day historians should search their souls and find to what extent they have understood these tenets and adapted them.

End.

(Translations of excerpts from two articles by Nori Narasimha Sastry. I am grateful to the writer and publishers of the volume Nori Narasimha Sastry. V. 5  Sahitya vyasaalu.

 Originally published on thulika.net, June, 2011.)

 

Nori Narasimha Sastry by Nidadavolu Malathi

Nori Narasimha Sastry (1900-1978) started writing poetry even as a child and produced voluminous amount of literature in almost all genres—poetry, plays, short stories, novels, and literary criticism for over six decades. He received the title kavi samrat [emporer of poets] in 1947. He was an active participant in several literary organizations.

Narasimha Sastry was born to Hanumacchastri and Mahalakshmi on June 2, 1900. He obtained his bachelor’s degree in 1919 and B.L. degree in 1925. He was well-versed in Sanskrit, Telugu, English and Kannada languages. He received the deeksha (a vow of commitment) from Sri Kalyanananda Bharatiswamy.

“He was a top-ranking literary persona and his work in all the genres of literature is exemplary,” says his son, Hanumacchastri (Preface to Nori Narasimha Sastri Gari Sahitya Vyasalu [Literary Essays by Nori Narasimha Sastry])

Sastry was nineteen by the time he had published his first anthology of poems. Although he had written excellent poetry, his novels, especially historical novels such as Narayana Bhattu, Rudramadevi, Malla Reddy, earned him fame and fortune. His first novel was Vagheera. He wrote three novels depicting the lives of poets, Srinatha  in Sarvabhaumudu, Srinatha and Pothana in kavidwayamu  and Dhurjati in Dhurjati ]. Additionally, he included our famous poets as important characters in other novels such as Rudramadevi, thereby demonstrating his respect for distinguished poets from the past.

Among other works, Devi Bhagavatham (3 vols), plays, poetic plays, literary essays, reviews and prefaces stand out as evidence of his remarkable scholarship. One of his achievements was to coin a new phrase Bhava Natikalu [perception-based plays] and add a new angle to the plays, wherein perceptions or ideas take precedence over action. These plays contain heavy Sanskrit phraseology. He also wrote a short play in poetry and prose, Karpoora Dweepa Yatra, a children’s novel, and Sabdavedhi.  

The fifth volume of his complete literary works is devoted to his literary essays and is available on the Internet. This one volume contains over 940 pages and reflects his vast knowledge in several genres of not only literature but also in other subjects such as music, sculpture, art and religion. For instance, in his article on highly regarded lyricist “Subrahmanya kavi“, he discusses the qualities of a great lyricist in general, standards set by lyricists in the past centuries (Sarjnadeva, Kshetrayya,) and modern lyricists such as Balantrapu Rajanikantha Rao, Rallapalli Ananthakrishna Sarma, and then states his opinions on the superior talent of Subrahmanya kavi.

Similarly, sculpting does not mean carving a stone but envisioning the form latent in a stone, and removing the parts of stone that envelope the figure inside called [parasthalaalu]. The process is very close to envisioning the Brahman, comments Sastri.

While discussing the novel Himabindu by Bapiraju, Sastri explains the depth with which Bapiraju enhanced the novel with his knowledge of music and sculpture. So also, when he writes about the beat in modern poetry, Sastry states how Veena Dhanamma, a famous musician, introduced new trends in raaga prastaaram [elaborating on a note].

In short, in each article, he points out a new angle regarding a particular writer, poet or the times in which the work has been written.

The range of topics he has discussed in these articles is impressive. They include renowned classics in Sanskrit, Indian history, history of Andhra Pradesh, the Telugu intellectuals, literary criticism, prefaces, reviews, literary movements, modern literature, fiction, humor, and devotional literature.

In these articles, we see the special regard he has for our country and our culture. His comments particularly regarding our history are notable.

Narasimha Sastry states that we have come to accept the divisions of our history enunciated by Europeans and from their perspective, which distorted our perception of ourselves. He suggests strongly that we should study seriously our Maha Bharata and Ramayana from a historical perspective, and study the two perspectives—the Westerners’ and ours—in juxtaposition. Only then we will have a comprehensive well-balanced perspective of our history. He also explains at length the changes our country has undergone as a result of the onset of the Buddhists, the Jains, the Turkish, the Hun and the English (mana desa charitra [History of our country]). In another article, Andhra desa charitra [History of Andhra Pradesh], he points out how our history has been distorted because we have accepted English as model and rejected our own language, Telugu.

In Charitraka Navala, he elaborates on how literature flourished in the historical context. He contends that classics like Maha Bharata and Ramayana have been written to incite people into thinking and action, and reexamine their views of their dharma at a time when the morale of the country took a turn for the worse. He highlights the close, inexplicable rapport between history and historical novel. Authors may take real life incidents but it is not necessary to record them precisely the way it had happened. A poet has the right to make necessary changes to the story in order to produce a kavya. As an example, Sastry says he has compressed six years of Rudramadevi’s rule into six months in his novel by the same name. However, the author also has the responsibility to examine the history under reference carefully, understand it thoroughly and then only he can write a successful novel. He says he has researched his materials always before writing his novels.

The two articles swatantra bharatamulo charitra rachana [Writing history in the independent India] and Andhra bhashalo charitraka navala [Historical novel in Telugu] provide us with excellent background information. They would be particularly helpful for those interested in writing historical novels in my opinion.

The three articles are listed under “humor writing“—failing exam, celebrating the 60th birthday called shashtipurti utsavam, and mushti kavitvam [poetry besought]. The first one, “failing exams” [pareeksha tappadam] is somewhat flat. In the second article, the 60th birthday celebration, Sastry explains how the celebration originated. Actually, it is not a celebration, Sastry comments. According to the legend, death appears in the form a human, Ugraratha and destroys the person his family on that specific day. And the person in order to avoid such calamity performs a ritual pacifying Ugraratha. In mushti kavitvam¸is a satire poking fun at the poets, who, motivated by politicians, party bosses and by their own greed for fame and fortune, are writing second rate poetry.

Narasimha Sastry strongly believes that poets should have the same qualities as rishis—being focused on dharma, inquiry of truth, commitment, and temperance. Even when they take lust, anger and spite as their subjects, they still should write with self-control, in the footsteps of the rishis in the past. The poets of the past, even when they depended on the kings for their livelihood, they still wrote freely unfettered by their obligations to the royalty. In modern times, the critics should take the responsibility of preventing writers from falling prey to these politically motivated “-isms”   

The second book I have read by Narasimha Sastry is the historical novel, Rudramadevi, depicting the political turmoil of the times under Rudramadevi and her successful victory over rebellious yadava, chola and chalukya kings in the south and Maharashtra kings in mid thirteenth century. Her husband Veerabhadrudu, a Chalukya king, becomes her enemy because Rudramadevi’s father refused to annoint his son by another queen as emporer and instead annoints Rudramadevi as empress. Veerabhadrudu provokes other minor kings to attack Kakateeya kingdom. Rudramadevi found herself in a conflict between her duty to the empire and personal interests, which was to save her marriage. She decided to put her duty to the kingdom ahead of her personal choices. Her husband prods naïve Jains to rebel. Rudramadevi pardons the Jains and punishes Veerabhadrudu for his transgressions, regardless his status as her husband.

Into this political story, the lifestyles of all strata of society are woven skillfully, I might add. Tikkana Somayaji’s character as a detached poet with a flair for politics has been depicted beautifully. Similarly, Koppera jingadu (also known as Rajasimhudu), a Kadava (Kerala) king, crosses the Godavari river and while his ships were attacking Andhra warriors, sets up his tent on the shores and arranges for a performance of uurubhangam [Breaking Duryodhana’s thighs in the Maha Bharata war] attesting to his superior taste in literature.

The author succeeded in giving us a piece of literature with a right mix of history and fiction. The characters in this story come alive and it includes enormous amount of the lifestyle of the queen’s times. Rudramadevi is one of our best novels of all times in modern Telugu literature.

Narasimha Sastry’s views on history and historical novel are recounted in the next article. Click here.

End

This article has been published originally on thulika.net, June 2011.

A historical perspective of Women’s writing in Andhra Pradesh

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by Nidadavolu Malathi.
Dog wonderedWhy are there so many poems

About dogs

Pink chalk wondered

Why there are none

About him

Here, pink chalk,

a poem about a dog.

–Anonymous.

I saw this poem on the sidewalk during my evening walk one day. I stood there memorizing the lines. Next morning I went back to read again. Last night’s rain washed away the poem. For me the pink chalk became a metaphor for women writing.

Here follows my perception of women writing in Andhra Pradesh.

         –Malathi

 

ORAL TRADITION:

In cultures like India where oral tradition is predominantly a mode of tutelage and dissemination of knowledge, the short story continues to be another important medium.  Colossal works like Katha Sarit Sagaram (The Ocean of Stories) and Panca tantram (The Five Strategies of Polity) are series of never-ending stories with several layers of embedded stories. In books like these, the narrator starts a story, branches off into another story within the story and leaves only to pick it up the following night. The listeners have time to ruminate on the story and make mental notes. Dakshinamurti, a prominent fiction writer stated that, “not only Indians but even foreigners agree that India is the first to explore short fiction. … Our Vedic literature possesses stories in their rudimentary form.” (3).

For centuries, Telugu mothers have been telling stories to children, in the time-honored spirit of oral tradition, while doing chores–stories about handsome princes, wicked witches, and mean step-mothers as well as stories of national heroes. The story of Dudala Salamma of Quila Shapur in Women Writing in India (Tharu and Lalitha 216-224) is an excellent example of stories in oral tradition. The narrative highlights some of the important features of oral tradition: [1] a woman, with no formal education narrated the story. For centuries, while formal education for women was substandard, their lore, cognition and aptitude to tell a story remained unquestionable; [2] It reflects the narrator’s strength of character as an active participant in a people’s movement (Telangana Movement 1946-1951); and, [3] Humility, not showmanship, has been one of the telling virtues of Hindu philosophy, and by extension, that of Indian women. Possibly for the same reason we have no biographical details of the narrator, Salamma. Telugu women had no problem in telling a story. The question of recognition and reward was a moot point even in 1960s.

WOMEN’S EDUCATION IN UPPER CLASSES:

Oral tradition imparts knowledge. Over the centuries, women have acquired knowledge while staying within the confines of their homes. There is evidence of scholarship among women from upper classes, Brahmin [scholars], Kshatriya [royalty] castes, and other economically advantaged classes.

Utukuri Lakshmikantamma (1917-1997), a highly respected female scholar in Sanskrit and Telugu, poet, and literary historian, listed more than 200 female poets extending over ten centuries in her monumental work, Andhra kavayitrulu [Andhra female authors] (1953)[1]. Some of the acclaimed female authors were Leelavati, 11th century, Tallapaka Timmakka, 12th century, Gangadevi, 13th century, Mohanangi, 15th century, and Muddupalani, 18th century, to name but few.

The females in the upper classes have received support and encouragement from male family members in acquiring knowledge as well as in their literary pursuits. Bhaskaracharyulu, a famous mathematician, 11th century, taught his daughter Leelavati mathematics. Leelavati authored a textbook, Leelavati ganitamu which is considered a valuable contribution (Lakshmikantamma 42-43).

Mohanangi, 16th century, daughter of emperor Krishnadevarayalu, received unequivocal support from her father in her literary venture. Following passage affirms the father-daughter relationship in the medieval period. The original text is in poetic form.

One day Krishnadevarayalu noticed that his daughter was perplexed and asks what was troubling her. Mohanangi replied that she was considering writing not “a few silly lines” but “a kavya [epic] much to the chagrin of those who ridicule female writing.” Krishnadevarayalu expressed immense pleasure at her decision and said, “I have been telling you, and you didn’t listen to me. Please do let me have the pleasure of your poetry.” He also assured her that her scholastic excellence was superior even to male writers (Lakshmikantamma 30-31).

It is evident that female scholarship in royal families existed and male family members were supportive of female scholarship. This tradition of receiving support from family members continued in modern period. The story of Bhandaru Acchamamba’s (1874-  ?) is a classic example of such support. In fact, her story provides arguments on both sides of the question—whether and how the family members responded to females acquiring knowledge. Acchamamba’s brother Komarraju Lakshmana Rao, a famous activist and respected journalist, encouraged her to learn to read. Some members of her family were opposed to the idea. Acchamamba was indifferent at first, and later decided to go along with her brother’s advice. Then she took upon herself to convince the other family members. Eventually she became a scholar not only in Telugu, but also in Sanskrit and English, and authored a book, Abala Saccharitra ratnamala in 3 volumes [1. histories of women in classics, 2. women in history and 3. biographies of foreign women] (Lakshmikantamma. Andhra kavayitrulu, 105).

Lakshmikantamma cited several instances in her book where the family members have actively supported women’s education and encouraged women writing. It would also appear that by this time the female scholarship extended beyond brahmin and kshatriya castes, to other economically higher classes. Acchamamba belonged to Vaisya caste (business community).

WOMEN IN LOWER CLASSES:

Speaking of the females from lower classes in the previous centuries, Atukuri Molla belonged to potters’ caste/class and is commonly referred to as kummari [potters] Molla. Unlike the female writers from upper classes. One critic raised the question how could Molla, a woman of lower caste, acquire the writing skills (Radhika Gajjala. Personal correspondence). I could only take a wild guess based my limited knowledge of the heirarchy in India. Within each community there is an internal structure. For instance, within the kummari caste, Molla’s father could be the head/chief [kulapedda] in which case she was entitled to the privileges of the higher status women. I remember seeing in my younger days this kind of imitation of the upper class customs in the lower class communities. Yet the question remains how a person from lower classes, male or female, could acquire the reading and writing skills?

Coming back to the known facts, Molla did not hesitate to appear in public or approach the royalty (Further discussion in the later part of this article). Molla was acclaimed for her Ramayanam, written in pure Telugu, brimming with cultural nuance and native idiom, unadulterated with long winding and heavily Sanskritized phraseology. She was the second[2] female poet to write in pure Telugu. Arudra’s comment is pertinent here, “Molla’s Ramayanam enjoys popularity to this day while several other Ramayanams written by highly regarded male scholars of her times were lost in history” (Samagra Andhra Sahityam 8: 110).

Molla belonged to the 14th or 16th century. Lakshmikantamma established authoritatively the dates as 1320-1400 or 1405 (Andhra Kavayitrulu 25) while Arudra determined it to be the 16th century (Samagra Andhra sahityam 8: 114). Let’ note that this kind of discrepancy however is not peculiar to female authors only.

Women started receiving formal education in public schools in the late 19th century.  Kandukuri Veeresalingam (1848-1919), a prominent social reformer and activist, pioneered the women’s movement in Andhra Pradesh, and for that reason earned the title “the father of modern epoch” [yugapurushudu or yugakarta] in Andhra Pradesh.

VEERESALINGAM (1948-1919) AND WOMEN’S MOVEMENT:

Kandukuri Veeresalingam took up women’s cause in the late 19th century. Among his major accomplishments, the most notable were women’s education, widow remarriage and eradication of prostitution. Veeresalingam believed strongly that “the country can not prosper unless women are educated.” (Venkatarangayya 37). He started with educating his wife, Rajyalakshmamma who later became an active participant in his reform movements.

An important issue of this period was the controversy among the male elitists regarding female education. While some were supportive of female education, there were other activists who opposed it vehemently. Kokkonda Venkataratnam pantulu (1842-1915) was one of the staunch opponents of education for women. In his magazine Andhra bhasha sanjivani, Venkataratnam pantulu was publishing articles on the negative effects of women’s education at the same time Veeresalingam was striving to advocate the positive factors.

Narla Venkateswararao, better known as V. R. Narla (1908-  ), an eminent journalist and western-educated scholar, reported the debate as follows [original in English] as “The biggest and the most long-drawn-out of his [Veeresalingam’s] battles were for the right of a woman to education and of a widow to remarriage” (36) …  and “In its [his magazine, satihita bodhini] columns, he serialised his stories of Satyavati and Chandramati, his biographical sketches of famous women, Indian and foreign, his popular guide to health, his moral maxims in verse, and his many other writings meant exclusively for women.”(37).

The above passage highlights two points: The controversy surrounding women’s education in Andhra Pradesh was not so much gender-specific as society-specific—meaning the issue was not one of males versus females but between two groups of males, supporters and opponents of education for women. This trend continued well into the modern period.

Secondly, Veeresalingam’s course content for females—what subjects women should be taught—was not as progressive as his views on the need for education. He started the magazine exclusively for women, satihitabodhini, the first of its kind in 1883. His views were made clear in one of his articles entitled “Uneducated women are the enemies of their children,” Veeresalingam wrote, “If women were educated, they will stay away from using foul language, will not get into brawls, and behave sensibly and quietly. We have the proverb, ‘children take after their mother.’[3] If women behave, the children will learn good behavior. … If the mothers were stupid and petulant, the children fail in their studies, become irascible, take to evil ways and hurt others and hurt themselves.” (Quoted in Potturi Venkateswararao. 86). Veeresalingam’s views on female virtue raised some controversy in his later years. This is discussed further on page 8 of this article.

SOCIAL CONDITIONS DURING VEERESALINGAM PERIOD:

The prevailing social conditions of women during Veeresalingam’s period are discernable from the story of his wife, Rajyalakshmamma. Kanuparti Varalakshmamma (1896-  )[4], an acclaimed poet, lyricist, and fiction writer, wrote about Rajyalakshmamma as follows:

After her husband [Veeresalingam] started the widow remarriage movement, her relationship with her natal home became a struggle. There was no way she could keep her relationship with the two families—her natal home and the in-laws. … After much thought, she decided to stay with her husband, as was appropriate for an Indian woman. …

Due to their excommunication[5] by the local community, Rajyalakshmamma suffered several hardships. Household help was not available anymore. She had to cook, clean, fetch water from the river Godavari … the list was endless.

For the same reason [excommunication], she was not invited to festivities at her natal home, or by the neighbors … She had to put up with ridicule from the other females silently and with tears welling up in her eyes… In addition, her husband was terribly short-tempered, would not give her the time of the day. If she tried to talk to him, he would say, ‘If you can’t take it, just go back to your home.’ Therefore, she had no other recourse but to keep quiet. God only knows how she had endured such hardships. … (42).

Narla also had expressed similar view in regard to Rajyalakshmamma’s position at home.

In a way, she [Rajyalakshmamma] bore greater burden than he [Veeresalingam]. It was easy for him to offer protection to every child widow that had come to him seeking help. But it was Rajyalakshmamma who had to feed them, clothe them, and take care of them like a mother. …women from different areas, with different backgrounds and personalities. … And she had to deal with several child widows with several heartrending stories. … (Yugapurushudu 17).

For centuries, Hindu philosophy has been preaching one’s duty to family and society, and selfless service. In familial context, compromise is a cultural value. The title of the article, dharmapatni Rajyalakshmamma, reinforces those convictions. Literally, dharmapatni is the woman who carries out her duties, consistent with her husband’s role in society. Rajyalakshmamma lived according to these principles. One example of her fortitude was in regard to the will Veeresalingam had created. While contemplating to donate his entire estate to Hitakarinisamajam [his organization for women’s welfare] he was unsure of the amount he should set aside for his wife. Rajyalakshmamma heard about his dilemma and told him that between the two of them, she would die earlier and so there was no reason for him to worry about her share of the property[6] (Varalakshmamma 44).

The two comments (of Varalakshmamma and Narla) point to the anomaly between Veeresalingam’s preachings and practice. The freedom Veeresalingam was advocating for women had its limitations. However, even in his times, towards the end of his era, women began showing signs of independent thinking.

Two female writers who were children during the last two decades of Veeresalingam throw light on the social change that was taking place almost imperceptibly in the early 20th century. Battula Kamakshamma (1886-   ), a teen child widow at this time gives us a touching account in her autobiographical essay, a short 4-page paper, smruthulu, anubhavamulu [memories and personal experiences] of how women lived with grace under trying social conditions[7]. The gist of it is as follows:

She was a child widow, about 15 years old in 1901-1902, and was living in her relatives’ home. During those days the well-to-do families were observing rigid traditions and customs. Women couldn’t show their faces in public. Kamakshamma was always dedicated to reading books and public service. She was interested in Veeresalingam’s writings and evidently was inspired by his writings. When her family members and other disciples of Veeresalingam tried to encourage her to remarry she resisted. She devoted her life to public service.  ..

Her family members did not object to her reading since she was also reading epics and gathering other women in her neighborhood for religious discourses [emphasis mine]. Evidently she had to circumvent possible opposition to her reading the controversial books (69-72).

To me, the article was interesting since it showed how she had noticed the unfavorable conditions, and circumvented the objections in subtle ways. Her account gives us some of the notable details as to how, during and after Veeresalingam period, women managed to process the information they had received and put it to their best use while keeping good relationship with their families. Wisdom lies in working things out. Kamakshamma was a good example. She decided not to remarry but had no problem in helping other widows who wished to remarry. The hurdles from her family did not prevent her from following her heart—that was reading Veeresalingam’s writings and taking only whatever suited her mental disposition.

Another female writer, Nalam Suseelamma, wife of Nalam Krishna Rao[8], also expressed similar sentiment:

She was not interested in her husband’s activities at first. She was hesitant even to talk to Rajyalakshmamma [Veeresalingam’s wife]. But she was following her husband … only to please her husband but not because she believed in his them. Suseelamma added that she was not ashamed of her lifestyle during those days. ‘I am saying this to point out the hold the traditional values had on us during that period.’ In retrospect she felt there was nothing to be ashamed of, she was only sorry but not ashamed. …

“I could not step outside past the front door in those days. Now I am running this Andhra Mahila gaana sabha [Andhra women music society]. I owe it to the incessant teachings of Veeresalingam garu. ….” (95-96).

Evidently the males allowed women to read books but within the norms set by the society. And individual women found ways to circumvent the hurdles. That was and has been the spirit and character of Telugu women. This spirit of compromise or conformation rather than of confrontation has been evident even in the female writers in 1960s. Kamakshamma and Suseelamma reaffirm the evolutionary nature of social values. Change does not happen in one quick move but takes place imperceptibly.

NEWSPAPERS AND MAGAZINES

By 1930s, the women’s education movement gained momentum. The nationalist movement needed an educated woman. National leaders found women to be of valuable asset not only for their strength but also in terms of numbers. A little later, Ayyanki Venkataramanayya started the library movement, once again with educating women as one of its primary goals.  As a result of the combined efforts of all these three movements, several women’s magazines came into existence.

Several magazine exclusively for women started appearing soon. Telugu janana was started in 1894 and published from Rajahmundry, the central part of the state with rich literary history. Hindusundari was another magazine for women, started by S. Sitaramayya in 1902. Potturi Venkateswararao quoted the mission statement of the editor:

“Considering that [Telugujanana] is the only magazine currently available for women, and there is no other to compete with, I decided to start this [hindusundari]… hoping to educate women, encouraging to express themselves freely, and without fear. I contacted our sisters who were sending their contributions to my other magazine, desopakari [guardian of our country]. They all expressed great enthusiasm at the prospect, promised to help me to make it a useful magazine for all women. Some of them offered to write and publish themselves, while a few expressed concern. For fear of ridicule by their female neighbors, some of them preferred to use pseudonyms … For all these reasons, we tried to make the women take up writing and running the magazine themselves, but the country has not reached that level yet, I suppose.” (87)

And Venkateswararao commented that,

This rather long editorial is indicative of the educated women’s interest in writing, of their fear of ridicule by female friends, and also, the determination of the publishers and magazine editors to promote the women’s education, to encourage women to act as magazine editors. At the request of Sitaramayya, two women, Mosalikanti Rambayamma and Vempati Santabayamma became editors. In all possibility, these two women were the first female journalists and magazine editors. After a few years, some 7 or 8 years, Madabhushi Chudamma and Kallepalli Venkataramanamma took up the editorial responsibilities of the magazine. It was about this time that the term “sampadakulu” [Telugu term for male editors] came into vogue, and the two women announced themselves “sampaadakuraandru” [female editors]. The magazine was moved to Kakinada in 1917 and later was dissolved.

The first issue of Hindusundari included articles on traditional duties of wives [pativratadharmam], the tenets for married women, skills required in the performance of their daily chores, women’s songs, cosmetics, hygiene, biographies of foreign women, and also fiction for diversion. The stories that were supportive of women’s education and literary interest were given priority (87-88).

Notably women were invited to participate in running the magazine and they responded zealously. Interestingly they had expressed their concern that they might face ridicule from their female cohorts [emphasis mine]! Another noteworthy point was that Hindusundari did not differ in its views from Veeresalingam’s on female education.

Tirumala Ramacandra, (1913- ) mentioned two female writers in his book, Telugu patrikala sahitya seva (1989) –Racamalla Satyavatidevi as the first female editor of a magazine, not for-women-only, Telugu talli, 1938-1944 (61), and Jnanamba as an essayist. Ramacandra quoted almost one page from one of Jnanamba’s article [non-fiction] on the delicious nature of sitaphalam [winter apple] and its benefits for one’s health (44). Potham Janakamma who wrote an article, “videsi yatra” (traveling abroad) in 1874, published in Andhrabhasha sanjivani, could be the first Telugu female essayist (Lakshmana Reddi. Telugulo patrika racana 58).

Significantly, the magazine Andhrabhasha sanjivani was run by Kokkonda Venkataratnam pantulu, who was a staunch opponent of education for women. The magazine was a “platform for the traditionalists of the old school to revive the long-established social norms, and also to oppose all social and cultural reform movements. The magazine was publishing articles opposing widow remarriage and women’s education” (Lakshmana Reddi. Telugulo patrika racana 57-58).

K. N. Kesari, a nationalist leader, noted philanthropist and journalist started Gruhalakshmi in 1928 providing a viable platform for women to express themselves. Kesari’s mission was to “improve the health and welfare of women.” Venkateswararao commented that, “although this is intended for women only, the magazine was publishing highly informative articles useful for everybody. There are several articles of lasting value.” Probably this was one of the significant moments when the ‘exclusively for women’ idea started fading. Venkateswararao further elaborated that “Gruhalakshmi provided platform for several female writers… worked for women’s education, women’s voting rights and was keen on encouraging women to work on the spinning wheel at home. Encouraged women to conduct conferences, seminars, etc. and published the news in its pages. In this magazine, the national activist Gummididala Durgabai [later came to be known as Durgabai Deshmukh] published her serial novel, ‘Lakshmi’. The story was about an orphan named Lakshmi who suffers several hardships and later becomes a teacher. At the end of the novel, Durgabai addressed the readers and said, ‘if even one woman learns from this story and improves her life, I will feel blessed.’ … Gruhalakshmi has a special place not only among women’s magazines but all the magazines of that epoch” (P. Venkateswararao 90-91).

In the same context, Lakshmana Reddi observed that, “Several women who had no knowledge of even alphabet, worked hard to improve their reading skills and rose to the level of becoming eminent scholars.” (Telugu journalism 306). … Kanuparti Varalakshmamma ran a column entitled ‘Sarada lekhalu’ [letters from Sarada] in which she discussed important women’s issues like Sharda Act [Government Act prohibiting child marriages] (307).

Kesari also set up an annual award, “Swarna kankanam” (golden bracelet) to honor female writers of eminence, and this award continues to present times.

Pulugurta Lakshmi Narasamamba was also an active contributor to Gruhalakshmi  who later started her own magazine, Savitri in 1904, “challenging Veeresalingam’s position on widow remarriage and declaring war on several other movements of Veeresalingam. Although she opposed widow remarriage, she was a great advocate of women’s education” (Lakshmana Reddi. Telugulo patrika racana. 121). Venkateswararao noted that, “Although it is not clear how long this magazine existed but evidently has published valuable articles. The articles were published later in anthologies” (P. Venkateswararao 90).

I would like to relate an anecdote that adds another dimension to Lakshmi Narasamamba’s character. One of her granddaughters was my friend and classmate in Andhra University, 1956-1959. My friend had mentioned that her grandmother Lakshmi Narasamamba garu was progressive in numerous ways; and, when my friend wanted to marry a man of her choice the family opposed. Her grandmother however supported and encouraged her to follow her heart. Like Kamakshamma (see page 6 of this article), women in those days made choices on a case-by-case basis. Their choices might look like a contradiction on the surface but are indicative of the strength of their characters.

While the movements were focused on “educating women”, women with hardly any schooling were writing and publishing in the 1930s and 1940s. One classic example of their success was a scholarly work by Burra Kamaladevi (1908-  ), Chhandohamsi (A study of meter). The book was prescribed as a textbook for post-graduate students in Telugu Literature and bhashapraveena diploma (attestation of scholarship in Telugu language studies) in schools. The notable factor was that Kamaladevi received no formal education, and that the academy did not consider it an obstacle to consider it a scholarly work.

These magazines for women published poetry and fiction by female writers. Men openly encouraged women to write. There was no stigma in writing. There was no stigma in publishing their writings in their own names. Women writers in Andhra Pradesh did not hide behind pseudonyms to conceal their identity

THE SHIFTS IN MALE SUPPORT AND FEMALE EDUCATION

Veeresalingam had stated his goals of female education in no uncertain terms. After the declaration of independence, there was a shift in the attitudes of males at least on the surface. The ‘magazines exclusively for women’ were replaced by special sections for women in magazines for general public. For instance, Pramadaavanam  in Andhra Prabha, vanitaalokam in Andhra Patrika, and later vanitaajyoti in Andhra Jyoti with female columnists were and have been such replacements. The topics dealt with in these special sections however remained the same—cooking, sewing, female hygiene and beauty tips. Unlike Veeresalingam the social activists in later period did not spell it out though. The attitudes have become much more subtle. There was no movement like that of Kokkonda Venkataratnam opposing female education in public.Yet, the reality women faced in day to day life on the home-front was a different story. The double standard some of the male activists evinced, the contrariety between their preachings and practice also went unrecorded.

The women took it upon themselves to make that shift to social issues that seriously affected women. The dissent started to surface in other ways like movies and in real life situations. This is evident in the 1960s female writing.

Statistically, the names of female writers appeared only sporadically in critical works. Potturi Venkateswararao devoted one chapter, “acchamgaa aadavaallakosam” [exclusively for women] in his book, naati patrikala meti viluvalu (the high standards of the magazines in the past] (86-91) in which he briefly commented on the magazines for women and female writing in the early 20th century. Poranki Dakshinamurti listed over 200 short story writers, as prominent fiction writers between 1910 and 1975 in his book katha vanjmayam [history of short story] and 30 of them were females. Most of these 30 writers were from the 1950s and 1960s decades.

RECOGNITION AND REWARD

It would appear from modern day criticism that the two important questions regarding women writing are recognition and reward. Attempting to put these two questions in a social context in India is a complex task. The complexities arise from the caste-oriented social hierarchy as well as multi-layered familial relationships. My intent is to show, not how women were ridiculed and spurned, but how they handled themselves in literature and in society. Human nature being what it is, there is always room for conflicts and confrontation. Wisdom lies in dealing with the conflicts, and, I think, Telugu female writers handled themselves beautifully.

Let’s first examine the aspect of recognition. Historically, women writers were not appearing in public. Several biographies in Lakshmikantamma’s Andhra Kavayitrulu included comments on the extraordinary talent of female authors, but did not refer to their reception by the public. This custom of not seeking recognition was evident even in the 1960s, to a much lesser degree though.

Women in upper classes have written but did not seem to have sought royal patronage like male writers. During Veeresalingam’s period females began showing interest in publishing articles in the women’s magazines as well as books. This could be considered the first departure from tradition. Lakshmikantamma has stated that she owed her interest in the female writing of the past to Veeresalingam’s works (98). The content and the views expressed in these writings however remained the same as in the past. The works by these female writers carried Veeresalingam’s philosophy—Ahalayabai [story of Ahalya, a chaste woman in mythology], bhaktimargam [the rules of devotion], satidharmamulu [the duties of wife], and such.

Among those who deviated from this norm, Molla was prominently featured in the history of Telugu literature. Molla did not hesitate to go to the court despite her caste status. The following passage from Pratapacaritra by Ekamranatha, an early historian throws light on Molla’s stature in society [translation mine]:

Molla offered to dedicate her work Ramayanam to king Prataparudra. The scholars present in the court objected, calling it sudrakavitvam [poetry of a lower class person] and so was inappropriate. The king, in deference to their objection, invited the male brahmin scholars to write Ramayanam. Molla came to the court and read verses from her Ramayanam. The king, being knowledgeable, and appreciative of her [Molla’s] talent, yet afraid he might offend the brahmin scholars, rewarded her appropriately and sent her to the queen’s palace… (quoted in Samagra Andhra Sahityam 8: 113-114).

This account raises questions like how could Molla, a woman from lower class, gain access to the royal court in the first place? How could she read her poetry if her writing were considered objectionable? Why did the poets in the court waited until Molla recited her poetry, and then raised their objections? What prevented the King from overruling the objections of the poets in his court? To me, it appears the issue here is more than male versus female.

On the same lines, I would like to discuss another story about Molla, prevalent in Andhra Pradesh. A word of caution is needed here. Both Lakshmikantamma (Andhra kavayitrulu 19) and Arudra (Samagra Andhra Sahityam 8: 113) made brief references to the story but would not go into details. Lakshmikantamma dismissed it as irrelevant. I am, however, inclined to give here one story, for a couple of reasons. I will get to my reasons after giving the story.

One day Molla was returning from the market carrying a chicken and a puppy in her arms, and ran in toTenali Ramakrishna, a contemporary poet and prankster. Ramakrishna saw Molla, and as was his custom, saw an opportunity for a good laugh. He asked Molla if she would let him have the chicken or the puppy for a rupee. The question was a double entendre. At one level, it was a simple, straightforward question—whether she would sell the chicken or puppy to him for a rupee; and, at the other level, it was an obscenity.

Molla saw where he was going with his question, and replied that she would not sell him anything at any cost. Her response was also a double entendre matching his wits—at one level, her response was a straightforward answer—that she simply would not sell anything to him, and at the other level, her response meant, ‘Whatever your intentions are, you know I am like a mother to you’. The story continues to state that, then on Ramakrishna treated her with respect, like a mother.

The story raises several questions in regard to the status of women in society, in general, and of women poets, in particular. Was this a story of humiliation or success? How could a lower caste woman claim to be a mother-like figure of a brahmin? Wouldn’t that be preposterous? Does this story mean that women poets were subjected to ridicule? Or did it intend to show that women equaled men in a battle of wits? Ramakrishna was known to pull pranks on his male contemporariesll as we, and at times, ended up at the receiving end himself. In that sense, could we say that he treated Molla like he would any other poet, irrespective of gender? In my teen years, I read this story as an example of battle of wits.

My reasons for quoting the story are: In Telugu literature, there is a genre called tittu kavitvam [poetry of slander]. For centuries, it has been common practice for Telugu folks to ridicule each other. Personal attacks and defamation of character have been national characteristics. What would be considered an offense in the west would be a trivial matter for Telugu folks. Comments like “scribbling women” (Lawrence), or comparing women writing to “a dog walking on his hind legs” (Johnson) are easily forgiven or brushed off in our culture. Regarding the outrageous attacks and insults Venkataratnam Pantulu and Veeresalingam poured on each other in the late 19th centuries, Krishnakumari, a respected scholar and critic commented that only persons of their stature [Veeresalingam and Venkataratnam pantulu] could entertain such ferocious personal attacks (Yugapurushudu 173). This trend of personal attacks is widespread in Andhra Pradesh and continued in to 1960s and 1970s. Such sarcasm did not stand in the way for women to write and publish.

The second female writer to make history in the past was Muddupalani (1730-1790). Muddupalani was the first female writer, I think, to cause the scholars raise gender related questions. While Molla’s story was often quoted as an example of battle of wits, Muddupalani’s work was associated with her caste, courtesans.

Muddupalani was a granddaughter of Tanjanayaki, a courtesan in Tanjore court during Pratapasimha rule (1730-1763) (Arudra Samagra Andhra Sahityam 12: 172). Muddu Palani  wrote Radhikasantvanam, a poetic narrative of how Krishna set out to pacify incensed Radhika. She included several intimate details and erotic notes on woman’s modus operandi of satisfying a man in the process.

From the recorded history it would appear that questions regarding the authorship of radhikasantvanam were raised and dismissed (Samagra Andhra Sahityam. 12: 171-176), but the details are not relevant for the purpose of this book. What is relevant was the controversy surrounding its publication a century later. In 1910, when Bangalore Nagaratnamma, a scholar and poet in her own right, attempted to publish the book, met with strong opposition. The opposition and banning of the book came from the British government.

Among the Indians, Veeresalingam, a champion of women’s movement was one of her harshest critics. He condemned Muddupalani’s descriptions of love-making. Here is the account of Veeresalingam’s objections and Nagaratnamma’s rebuttal:

Veeresalingam commented on Radhikasantvanam as follows: “Several references in the book are disgraceful and inappropriate for women to hear or write about.”

Bangalore Nagaratnamma questioned Veeresalingam’s integrity: “Does the question of propriety and embarrassment arise only in the case of women, and not of men? Is he [Veeresalingam] implying that it is acceptable for this author [Muddupalani] to write about conjugal pleasures in minute detail and without reservation because she was a courtesan, but it would not be so for respectable men? Then my question is: Are the obscenities in this book [radhikasantvanam] worse than the obscenities in vaijayantivilasam, a book which pantulu garu [Veeresalingam] personally reviewed and approved for publication? And what about the obscenities in his own work, rasikajanamanobhiranjanam?” (Quoted in Arudra. preface. xx).

Apparently, women did not hesitate to rise to the occasion and register their protest when the occasion called for it. Radhikasantvanam was eventually published, as a result of an appeal to the government by some male scholars. They claimed that, “It is unfair to ban the entire book simply because it contains a few, some two dozen, objectionable verses.” The ban was not lifted until after the British rule ended though.

Some of the Andhra elite considered the book deserved to be published and got it published. Yet the stigma continues to this day, as is evident in some of the comments in the 20th and 21st centuries. Lakshmikantamma paid a remarkable tribute to Muddupalani’s poetic excellence and her command of language, and then said in her final note, “With her explicit descriptions of sexual acts, however, she [Muddupalani] made it impossible for scholarly discussion of her work in respectable company. … However, we should not put the blame entirely on Muddupalani for her explicit descriptions [pacci srungaram]. … The country was under military rule. It was a chaotic period.” (Andhra Kavayitrulu 67). Another comment posted on the Internet, as recently as July 2001 is equally subjective: “She [Muddupalani] wrote “Radhika Santvanamu” to prove that women can write lust and sex as well as or even better than men! Being a Vesya (concubine or prostitute) it was not difficult for her to write about lust and sex.”[9] (Vepachedu Srinivasarao Homepage)[Original in English] . There is however a noticeable difference in these two comments. Lakshmikantamma stayed with her subject while Srinivasarao took a jab at the author’s profession and personal life!

SUMMARY:

In summary, historically education was available to women in upper and middle class families. Questions like how and why this happened, and whether it was selective are open for debate. After declaration of independence, and the abolition of zamindaries and princely states, the middle class came into prominence with renewed vigor. Women from royal/ruling class became part of the middle class. Almost all the female writers in post-independent Andhra Pradesh belonged to middle class in terms of social strata. Their values represented the values of the new emerging middle class. The women started writing about the values of the middle class families, which were changing dramatically because of the social and political changes in the country.

Secondly, the controversies surrounding women’s education was not gender-specific. The dissent was between two groups, each group consisting of males and females, rather than separate groups of males and females. And strangely, the division continues to prevail even in modern times.

A third distinction was between the academy and the public–a modern concept. With the popularization of adult and women’s education, the non-scholar readership has increased exponentially, and it was responding to fiction with enthusiasm, irrespective of academic assessment of women writing.

Final note:  I am examining Telugu female writers of 1960s era against this background. I am looking forward to readers’ comments, suggestions, and stories. I am inviting readers to share their comments and stories that have a direct bearing on this topic. You may email your comments to me or mail to my contact in India. I am planning to visit India briefly and will be happy to meet with readers and writers.

(End)

(Originally published on thulika.net, September 2002. The suggestions and comments from Radhika Yelkur, India, and Radhika Gajjala, US, are gratefully acknowledged. – Nidadavolu Malathi.)

The complete book for personal use may be downloaded. Click on Telugu Women Writers, 1950-1975: Analytical study of women’s writing in Andhra Pradesh.

WORKS CITED:

Arudra [pseud]. See Sankarasastry, Bhagavatula.

Dakshinamurti, Poranki. Kathanika vanjmayam. Hyderabad: Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Academy, 1975.

Kamakshamma, Battula. “Smruthulu, anubhavamu [Memories and experiences].” Kandukuri Veeresalingam Smarakostavamula Sangham:  yugapurushudu Veeresalingam. Hyderabad: Author, n.d. 69-72.

Kandukuri Veeresalingam Smarakostavamula Sangham. Yugapurushudu Veeresalingam. Hyderabad: Author, n.d.

Lakshmana Reddi, V. telugulo patrika rachana. Vijayawada: Lakshmi Publications, 1988.

—   telugu journalism. Vijayawada: Gopichand Publications, 1985.

Lakshmikantamma, Utukuri. Andhra kavayitrulu. Hyderabad: Author, 1953.

—    “Naati Vidusheemanulu.” Kandukuri Veeresalingam Smarakostavamula Sangham:  yugapurushudu Veeresalingam. Hyderabad: Author, n.d. 97-102.

Narla, V. R. See Venkateswararao, Narla.

Ramachandra, Tirumala. telugu patrikala sahitya seva. Hyderabad: Visalandhra Publishing House, 1989.

Ramalashmi, K. Comp. Andhra racayitrula samacara sucika Hyderabad: Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Akademi, 1968.

Sankarasastry, Bhagavatula. [Arudra, pseud.] Samagra Andhra Sahityam.V.8. Madras: Seshachalam &Co., 1965. 110-118.

—        Samagra Andhra Sahityam, V. 12, Madras: Seshachalam &Co., 1968 168-176.

—      “pravesika [preface]” Muddupalani. Radhikasantvanam.  Madras: EMESCO Books, 1972, xi-xxiv

Salamma, Dudala. “Dudala Salamma of Quila Shapur.” Tharu, Susie and Lalitha, K. ed.: Women Writing in India, V.2.  New York: East-West Books, 1998. 216-224

Suseelamma, Nalam. “Pavitra smruthulu [Ennobling memories].” Kandukuri Veeresalingam Smarakostavamula Sangham:  yugapurushudu Veeresalingam. Hyderabad: Author, n.d. 93-96.

Varalakshmamma, Kanuparti. “Dharmapatni Rajyalakshmamma.” Kandukuri Veeresalingam Smarakostavamula Sangham:  yugapurushudu Veeresalingam. Hyderabad: Author, n.d. 41-44.

Venkateswararao, Narla. Veeresalingam [English]. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 1968.

—      “Yugapurushudu.” Kandukuri Veeresalingam Smarakostavamula Sangham:  yugapurushudu Veeresalingam. Hyderabad: Author, n.d. 11-18

Venkateswararao, Potturi. nati patrikala meti viluvalu. Hyderabad: Rachana Journalism Kalasala, 2000.

Venkatarangayya, Mamidipudi. “sarvotomukha sanghasamskarta.” Kandukuri Veeresalingam Smarakostavamula Sangham:  yugapurushudu Veeresalingam. Hyderabad: Author, n.d. 33-40.

Vijayalakshmi, Arepudi. navala racayitrulu-navalaa udyamaalu. Hyderabad: author, 1996.

[Internet sources]

Vepachedu, Srinivasa Rao  Home page. 7 July 2001 <http://members.iquest.net/-vepachedu/Women.html>.


[1] The book received Madras Government Literary Award in 1953, and went into several reprints. To this day it remains a valuable research tool.

[2] Tallapaka Timmakka was the first female poet to write in pure Telugu.

[3] Telugu original: talli chaalu pillalaku vacchunu.

[4] Swarnakankanam recipient in 1934, the best female writer award of Sahitya Akademi in 1966 (Ramalakshmi n.pag.)

[5] Due to Veeresalingam’s movement for widow remarriage, they were treated as outcastes..

[6] Rajyalakshmamma died nine years earlier than Veeresalingam She died in her sleep, painlessly (Varalakshmamma 44).

[7] Translation of complete article is available on my web site, Thulika (https://thulika.net/), September 2002.

[8] Kamakshamma’s uncle’s son, she had mentioned earlier.

[9] http://members.iquest.net/-vepachedu/Women.html.