Monthly Archives: February 2023

Munipalle Raju. The Royal Fighter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no reply, no Oh or Ah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen, Veeranna!”

Son was quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jetty did not hear what the driver had said.

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

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

Stupid cripple?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, silence.

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

“Cheetah.”

“Wait a little.”

Silence.

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

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

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

Jetty nudged him again.

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

There was no more silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The senior fighter set to be hanged.

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

[End]

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

Photo of the author courtesy of www.museindia.com

References

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

Magical Realism in the Stories of Munipalle Raju

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by Nidadavolu Malathi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recapturing traditions in fiction by Nidadavolu Malathi

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

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

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

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

The gist of it is as follows:

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

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

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

“A different house each day.”

“What if they don’t give you food?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[End]

April 1, 2007

Editing My Translation: My Struggle for a Perfect Translation