A WARBLER by Addepally Vivekananda Devi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“According to her horoscope, her marital bliss …”

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

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

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

“Bring me the boy’s horoscope also.”

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

“No problem with her kumkuma.”

“You mean, it’s about her life?”

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

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

 

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thatha, is that true?”

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

They heard a warbler chirping at a distance.

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

(End)

 

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

(End)

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

————————-

[1] Intoxicant like marijuana.

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

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

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

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

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

[7] Literally, mother, and also goddess.

 

 

[8] Female saint.

HER PERSONALITY By Tripuraneni Gopichand

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

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

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

I felt like knowing more and more about her.

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

“Perhaps she has great love for her husband.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There! She is getting off,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stayed in Sastri’s house!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One should listen to the whispers from the other tables.

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

“How many children do you have?”

“…”

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

“…”

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn’t you come without him?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Then, come.”

“I’d have a carriage called.”

“Let’s go on foot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

Again we sat watching the film.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“Yes, I did.”

“How was that scene?”

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

“Fine.”

“How was it shot?”

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

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

She didn’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sastri!” I shouted.

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

Everyone broke into a loud laughter.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

This was the letter:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours truly,

“…”

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

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

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

(Part 1 Historical Perspective).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WOMEN WRITING, SECOND STAGE:

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

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

WEEKLY AND MONTHLY MAGAZINES:

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAGAZINE EDITORS AND CIRCULATION:

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

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

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

TWO FACTORS CONTRIBUTING TO THEIR SUCCESS: THEMES AND LANGUAGE:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PUBLISHERS:

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

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

ACADEMY:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FEMALE CRITICISM IN THE ACADEMY:

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

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

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

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

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

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

SERIOUS READERS OUTSIDE THE ACADEMY

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

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

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

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

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

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

GENERAL READERS:

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

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

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

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

SAHITYA ACADEMY:

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

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

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

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

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

WOMEN WRITERS AS A TARGET OF RIDICULE:

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

kunDale bhaanDamulu
kukkale sunakamulu
aaDuvaare streelu O koonalammaa!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

USE OF PSEUDONYMS:

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

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

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

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

FEMALE WRITERS AT HOME:

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

EDUCATION:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MARITAL STATUS:

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

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

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

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

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

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

INCOME FROM WRITINGS: DID IT MATTER?

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

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

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

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

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

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

WOMEN WRITERS IN THEIR OWN WORDS:

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

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

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

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

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

Published on thulika.net, March 2003.

THREE POEMS by Seela Subhadra Devi

Word Flow.

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

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

————————————————————-

My Small, Little Poem

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

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

———————————————————————

Dream Snippets

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

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

———

Translated by Popuri Jayalakshmi.

Published on thulika.net, March 2003.

THE FRIEND AFTER MY HEART! by Sai Padma Murthy

You never know until you try

What you really meant to me

What I am to you

What we can b e when we are together

When you can break the silence

Just say “I believe you”

Which is more precious to me than love?

I am lost without you

In this world of calculations

Quaint amidst chaos…

Searching for you like a shadow

Like a child in a carnival

Preserved like an antique

Which no body wants to take home

I always look for you..

Are you there for me or not?

I know you, yet Checking

Over my shoulder of responsibilities

My untold inhibitions and fears

Hidden deeply in my heart’s closet

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

I am waiting for you forever

In the light and darkness of life

In my automatic routine things

I See you whenever and wherever

Similar to a ray of hope

I always hope to come true

Why I’m never tired of waiting?

Are you tired of trying? ..

Well you never know until you try..

Introspection

Walking thru shadows

Numb mind and thoughts freezed

Wry smile at the corner of lips,

Remember the day when you left me forever..

Trees are listening

Nodding their heads with devotion

As if they are feeling my pain,

Gives me solace which humans can’t give

Creek of the porch gate

Hum of the curtain saying it’s all over

Hurried breeze to take my tear away,

Saying I am not alone….

Surprised why I feel?

When I have you in and with my soul,

But… believe me

You will never go if you look back once…

———————

Published on thulika.net, March 2003.

MY MUSE! by Dr. Nayani Krishna Kumari

Like the nectar

Permeating the

sprouting bud

My poetry

oozes love

for my fellow humans

 

No

Thick-knit poetic

display of heavy phraseology

No fireworks

It is–

Not a glitter of gold

Not a goblet of honey

 

MY poetry

carries

no spite for the world

But emits

A sweet aroma

of the champaka flower

You call experience

 

My poetry

Does not chant

Washed-out phrases..

Like used up manthra

Does not

growl like a dog…

Hoping

the world to

back off

with her tail

between her legs

 

If I plunk

My frustrations

and blame it on others

 

My muse

Gawks at me

like a mother

enraged by my inanity.

 

My muse will never

Separate me

From the world ‘n

Fix on a pedastal.

 

My poetry

Springs not from sorrow,

Tears are not

My inspiration.

 

It compares not to

The fanatic world

To revel in the past

nor will it ignore the present

It is no

Weakling to curse the present

And Wallow in a fit of despair.

 

My muse

Dispels the gloom

And envisions the future

It gleams

like the morning reflection

in a dew drop

My trust abounds my muse.

 

My muse

Will kill the ill-will

And articulates ME!


THE BLAZING CHILD

[Telugu original entitled Agniputri]

 

My heart is

Like a thin dark veil

Like the sky taking shape—

Indolent and crimson

and dabbed with the evening hue

 

Dropping from

Heights unknown

and

gliding off the

Brick walls at the horizon

Flames of frustration

Rising Like metaphors

 

The drowning beams of the sun

Fighting To stay

The engulfing darkness

 

The nondescript creatures

Incomprehensible

Even to

My wildest imagination

 

The flies

Hovering incessantly

Around

The rays

Forming budding sprouts

 

Some

Aweful noise of

some wiggly

Creature stirring inside

My head

 

The sounds of

Little red scorpions

Etching question marks

On my brain

 

The eyes

are not showing

the bright red desires

 

No visible hopes

of rainbows

in the sky.

 

No magic flutter,

No shimmering wings

called hope.

 

These

Blazing blue flames

Are shrouding the

Internally fixated conscience.

In my state

Of Uncertainty

Not knowing

What I want and

What I am searching for

And that’s scaring me out of wits!

***

 

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

 

I’M THE OCEAN!

 The tiniest wave

Born in the

Viscera of the ocean

 

Wakes up,

Slender and tender

Like a creeper on the fence

Soon to rise

Like a ferocious Lion

Giving in

To the surges of water

And gusts of winds.

 

The desire

in my heart

Is just a speck

at the start.

 

As the

Opportunities appear

Round the corner

Blaming the

Elusive pegs on which

It Could hang on,

Blasts off

In an undue outburst

Escalating to new heights

Unrestrained.

 

The Desire,

Confusing and startling,

Turns into

Stormy seas

Causing turmoil

In my mind.

 

 

The Desire

With its

Incessant attacks

on Me

 

Knowing

I’m defenseless

And vulnerable

Probes deep Into the

Innermost corners

Of my heart

And is

Turning me

Into numb

Sea sands on the shores.

 

The Desire is

Frightening

My wits.

Casting a spell

“You turn to a Stone

You be Ahalya[1]

Utters ruthlessly.

 

Hence

I bear in mind

Each time

I see the sea

It reminds me

With its

Constant uproar

And commotion

The self I am

The unfathomable bond

Between me and the sea

Continues to baffle me forever.

***

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

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

————————–

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

Turaga Janakirani – interview

Turaga Janakirani. Interview. October 6, 2002.

 

Malathi: When did you start writing?

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

Malathi: What was the subject?

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

Malathi: How did you come up with that theme?

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

Malathi: Were you in college at the time?

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

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

Janakirani: Yes, right away.

Malathi: No editing or revising?

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

Malathi: How did you come across those stories?

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

Malathi: Do you still have that letter?

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

Malathi: When was that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malathi: What was that new wave?

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

Malathi: What do you mean by faced opposition?

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

Malathi: Did men write with similar themes?

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

Malathi: Why not?

Janakirani: They won’t be good.

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

Janakirani: Hum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malathi: Yes. Was it translated into other languages?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malathi: When were they published?

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

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

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

Malathi: What do you mean by high style?

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

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

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

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

Janakirani: They should.

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

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

Malathi: Comment on kalaateeta vyaktulu.

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

Malathi: What do you mean by trendy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

²²²

(Interviewer: Nidadavolu Malathi, October 6, 2002.

Published on thulika.net, March 2005.

 

 

WILTED LOTUS By M. Ramakoti

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

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

“How is our Visalakshi?” I asked amma.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want me to say?”

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

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

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

“Your son is a little pumpkin.”

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

“What do you think?”

“I think he looks like my son.”

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

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

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

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

“So what? Cat will snatch me away?”

“Whoever could snatch you away?”

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

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

“Wait, my girl. Do me a favor.”

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

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

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

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

“Not that …”

“Enough of that. Come on, read it.”

“What’s that, anyway?”

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

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

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

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

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

‘Little mother,

Not knowing how to care

For the newborn child

Lifted her eyelids and looked up,

At the father awkwardly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Neat way to put it.”

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

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

“Meaning?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

It’s me, yours forever.”

I looked up. Visalakshi was dabbing her tears.

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s educated, I guess.”

“You don’t know?”

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

“What?”

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

“Learn from your Vadina,” I said laughing.

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

“What are you suggesting?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[End]

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

Discussion: Author crossing gender barrier, click here

———————–

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

———————

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

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

[3] Lord of Death.

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

[5] Literally, ten incarnations of god.

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

[7] Traditional marital status.

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

PROGRESS OR RETREAT By Vivina Murthy

Vani reached the apartment and changed into night clothes before Sarathi parked the car and joined her. The phone has been ringing for some time. Sarathi was slightly annoyed that she did not respond to the phone call.

He looked at his watch. It was 11:40.

The children were asleep. The babysitter, awakened by the ringing of the phone, came into the hall, looking at the “masters”, and went back, yawning.

The phone stopped ringing.

“Maybe it was daddy,” he said in English.

Vani opened the fridge, poured some drink into two glasses. She came back sipping her drink and placed the second glass in front of Sarathi.

He didn’t take it.

“Your behavior isn’t as it used to be,” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders, teasingly twisted them and put the half-empty glass on the coffee table, shaking her hair loose.

“How is this perfume?”

Sarathi looked at her blankly.

“You have no taste, you can’t tell one perfume from another. Do you know there is a perfume like this ?”

“I am Indian. I don’t care for trivial things,” he said, gulping his drink.

“I am glad you have conceded at least one fact”

“What is it supposed to mean?”

“That the Indians gather and the others enjoy.”

“That is insulting to me.”

The phone started ringing again. He lifted it, cutting the conversation short.

Vani settled down comfortably in the sofa. She was tasting her drink while enjoying the picture of Sarathi talking on the phone. She was reminded of a school kid obediently accepting punishment from his teacher. She wasn’t sure whether she liked the picture or not. But she would never miss to watch it.

Sarathi rinsed his mouth with the drink and gulped it in one gulp.

“It seems mother wants us to go over to her place.”

“Bangalore is horrible. It is an old man’s city. It smells old. It is run by the old for the old.”

“It’s a pity you were born there.”

“That isn’t a secret. Shall I tell you a real one? Destitutes and dimwits can’t perceive the difference between one city and another. Only enthusiasts and achievers have that knack. Look at our ever active city, Delhi. Here business is sandwitched between politics. Bombay is a heaven! There, politics marches on along with business. But Calcutta? There, business power and muscle power go hand in hand. You can gauge a city by its evenings. Evenings are their nerve centres. They tease people with brains, ease them and please them finally….”

He continued to talk.

Vani was slumped in the sofa carelessly toying with an idea—suppose we strip Sarathi naked and chase him through the street. He isn’t fat, but slightly overweight, with a thick crop of hair; has a degree in Engineering, did his M.B.A also. He is district general manager in R.K. Industries; is in the race to become the general manager. But where do his status and ambition show?

“Everyday daddy rings up. How can I go to Bangalore and stay there?”

Vani left Sarathi to himself, went into the bedroom and stretched on the bed. The dog snuggled close to her.

“Not able to sleep,” said Kameswari.

Ranganatham was immersed in a book in the dim light of the reading lamp.

They lived in a fairly old house in Malleswaram area in Bangalore. The house has a large compound with a small garden in front. He instinctively responded to her feeble voice in the calmness of the night.

“Worried about Parthu?”

“Do you think he will come?”

“Yes, certainly. He is our son”.

“He needn’t come to light my pyre. I want him to spend some time with me when I am alive.”

“I know it Kamu. Try to sleep”.

She could not catch the slight irritation in his voice.

“Ranga, don’t you feel sleepy?”.

“No. You get tired if you talk.”

“Alright, I won’t talk. So, do you think I can survive, my dear dimwit?”

 

Ranganatham shut his eyes. A powerful shiver passed through his body from head to foot. ‘I know very well what happens to this dear dear creature after she died. She will be born again and again until her karma is exhausted. My mind refuses to accept that thought. Both my body and mind become enervated as the thought passed through me. The intensity of the shiver has been reduced a little, these days. But why this wetness in my eyes? And the vacuous feelings in my heart? Is it a sign of love or age?’ he thought.

“Try to sleep, Kamu,” he said.

“No, I can’t.”

The sound of the buzzing memories…. He came closer and sat in a chair next to the bed.

“What do you want to do, then?”

He leaned forward, with his chin in his palm.

She turned her head to face him with an enormous effort.

“I can do two things. Guess what they are”.

“I can’t, dear.”

“Imagine, you block-head.”

“No, I can’t,” he said in a tone of conceding defeat.

“To talk or not to talk. But I don’t know for how long.” Tears welled up in her eyes and choked her voice.

Ranganatham patted her hair. Kameswari tried to touch him stretching her right hand painfully. He gave his hand for her to hold. Making a great effort, she closed her weak and dry fingers around his hand.

“Nothing else except talking is left between us, Ranga. Maybe, my silence is my greatest service to you”.

Her voice had lost its natural clarity and slurred.

“How is it a service?”

“Maybe your mind is on the book you are reading. Don’t you think leaving you to your book is a service?”.

“Don’t think like that, Kamu. Let me have the fortune of listening to you as long as possible. Talk about everything you want to.”

She started talking about Parthu.

Her mind is still in an excellent condition. She remembered everything, including the dates. She can describe the past incidents with the minutest detail. She can quote from the books she has read long time ago. But nothing else in her body is working. She can’t shake off an ant creeping on her body. She tries to use her hand to communicate her feelings.

Parthu comes very frequently, meets doctors but never sits by his mother’s bed even for a short while.

While he is here, the phone never stops ringing. He has different kind of friends and circles. Speed is a way of life for him.

She and Ranganatham had jobs too. But their pace of life was slower. She sensed this speed long before it actually came. She brought up her son, teaching him how to cope with it and withstand it.

Now that speeding has to be stopped for an hour; one night, if possible. He has to stay here for her sake. She has to stop him with the hand she can’t move. He has to stop for her sake …

“Don’t find fault with him, Kamu.”

“Me, finding fault with an individual?”

Ranganatham looked at her calmly.

“I am a non-believer, Ranga. You are a believer who believes in the divinity of even snakes and stones,” she said again.

“So, you think that believers alone find fault with others,” he wanted to argue, but didn’t.

As a typical mother she refuses to find fault with Parthu. But his way of thinking is quite different. If a son cannot devote some time to his dying mother, he is certainly wrong. Butthen, why try to convince her and hurt her?

“Don’t bother Kamu, we disagree in our views.”

“But you married a widow like me, made a mother of me and said ‘I’ll give you the freedom to think the way you want to think’. And you did it. We have been poles apart in our ways of thinking. But we have lived together marvelously, haven’t we?.”

“Certainly, we have, Kamu”.

AtmaParamatma … heaven … hell … birth ..rebirth.. you believed in all of them. I didn’t, not even in one. But who deserves to be given the credit for the glorious success of our family life? I think you do, and the spirit behind it is the forward-looking society. But you agree with neither opinion. You think that both should go to God.”

Ranganatham listened to her, receding gradually into himself.

How freely Kameswari talks! Often it looks as though she is losing control over her mind. Then she talks almost deliriously. Even then there are no traces of repentance in her. She never agrees that all this suffering is due to thesin” that “happened” in her life.

The present state of Kameswari forces him to ask the question ‘What is basic—belief or disbelief?’

That horrible experience! He wriggles with pain when the memory of that experience came to his mind. It leads him to thinking that her present pain is a punishment for the past sin. How wonderful it would have been if man didn’t have any knowledge of sin. Then, maybe, he would have been less distressed about Kameshwari’s pain, Ranganatham thought.

Kameswari fell asleep quietly. Ranganatham rearranged the bed sheets, increased the speed of the fan and looked out through the window curtains.

An auto-rickshaw went tearing through the street. Moonlight was slanting on the flowers outside. Dogs were barking somewhere.

 

Ranganatham sat in the easy chair, shut his eyes. Memories of the past came rushing to under his eyelids…

Kameswari was patting three-year old Parthu to sleep. Ranganatham was reading some book of philosophy. It was ten at night.

“Ranga!”

“Yes.”

“I want to tell you something”

“You have always been telling and me listening, your Majesty!”

“Ranga, please be serious”

“O.K. I’m ready”

“Don’t you observe any change in me?”

“Tremendous change! You are becoming more and more beautiful”.

She looked up, patting her son.

He is forty, good complexion, strong; a healthy physique; and an ever-smiling face.

“I have a lot of confidence in you, Ranga. So you can understand me. I must tell you something important.”

“Why all this beating around the bush. Say it directly.”

She stopped patting Parthu, went to his chair, and sat in it. Ranganatham started patting Parthu when he moved in his sleep.

After a while Kameswari started talking, “I knew Natarajan even before we got married. We had been working in the same company. The every day experience of a working woman in regard to my male colleagues is that they are vulgar and fickle. But in Natarajan I found none of these qualities, not even a trace of them. I had a sort of respect for him.

“Our jobs required us to do a lot of traveling together. When we were returning from the recent official trip we were caught in a cyclonic storm. They said they could not run the train any further. I was worried thinking about you having a terrible time with Parthu at home.

“Understanding my plight, Natarajan tried to cheer me up. Luckily we got a taxi. We sat in it huddled up, four in the back seat. The rain water was seeping through and we got wet. Observing his discomfort, I asked him to sit freely. Our rickety car broke down near a small town around midnight. The driver, after making some effort to move it, finally, said that it wouldn’t and nothing could be done until the next morning.

“When the rain gave a brief let up, we got out of the car. There was a newly married couple in our group. They were gleefully twittering away taking it for granted that none of us understood Malayalam. Their enjoyment looked rather disgusting in the situation we were in. We had idlies and tea in a shanty hotel. The hotel manger said there was a lodging house nearby.

“Only two rooms were available in the lodge. The newly-wed Malayali couple was delighted, but I felt depressed. The weather was eerie outside.

The lodge-owner said that the Malayali couple could have a room and Natarajan and I could use the other. Natarajan looked into my eyes.

“Any objection?” he asked.

“Yes,” I wanted to say. But the ideas I had valued for a long time stopped me.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. In fact, I expected him to know that I had an objection. Suppose he had an objection, what would have been my reaction?

 

There were two cots, a table and two chairs in the room. The room was smelling rotten. The bed and the pillows were smelling bad too. There was no power supply for two days. Luckily there was a hurricane lantern and a few candles.

Natarajan moved the cots apart and spread the sheets. I sat on a chair and watched him do it. Involuntarily I drew the table drawer and felt revolted by the packet I found in it. I shut the drawer with a bang. I felt a bad taste in my mouth when I realized who came to that lodge and why.

“What is that?” Natarajan asked, surprised by the sound.

“Nothing,” I said hastily.

 

“Ranga, from now on, it is hard to describe my feelings. The first necessity for conjugal amity is trust in each other and also in oneself. I don’t think we’re lacking in that. You know I am not interested in extra-marital relationships. But certainly I want freedom. I always support the desire for freedom. But I never considered extra-marital relationships a symbol of freedom.

Natarajan, maybe out of confusion or curiosity, came to the table, drew the drawer and shut it immediately. I couldn’t gauge his feelings.

‘Behave normally. The question of escaping from him arises only when he misbehaves. ‘Don’t you have confidence in yourself? Why should you hurt him without a reason? What right you have to do it?’ My ideas flowed like this.

We lay down on our beds. My sari was wet and heavy. I wanted to change it. If I wanted to do it, I’ll have to ask him to go out of the room…. If you were in his place? Your mischievous deeds and your ability to make me happy…

I looked at him involuntarily.

He appeared restless. Why?

Is he thinking like me? If he is, will he cause trouble? Is he able to read my feelings? What feelings do I have for him to read? I don’t have any. It is unnatural for him not to have any feelings, though his sophistications may hide them. Perhaps, I am not sufficiently attractive to tempt him. I am going on thirty-seven. My body still excites Ranga. Is Ranga’s excitement about me a mere pretension? Doesn’t Ranga get anything from me? Is there nothing in me to give him?

Ranga, how fascinating is the mind! How powerful are some of the unexpected happenings! Look, how the mind can create a powerful logic to satisfy the needs of the body!

Natarajan sat up on the bed and lit a cigarette.

I leaned on my elbow and tapered the lantern.

“ Not able to sleep?”

I was trying to answer. He got up and came closer.

“The sari is wet, change it. I’ll go out”

I was trying to read beyond his normal, but insulting words. There is nothing in you; you are like spring gone by…you are a withering flower… you can’t smell seductive..

I didn’t know whether my mind was guiding the body or the body was driving the mind. Some unknown feeling was challenging me.

I caught hold of his hand.

It was hot, like an answer to my challenge. I knew as a woman that it was not weather that has made his body hot.”

Ranganatham was stunned and forgot to pat his son, Parthu. He felt that the world had come to a grinding halt.

“How did people behave in situations like this?”

They killed themselves or killed the others.

“Situation like what?”

“A situation in which the husband comes to know that his wife strayed away from him. What a tremendous volume of literature has been written on “this situation”! How many books have been produced by great thinkers! How many sermons have been delivered! What is the use? No one, with his intellect, has been able to solve the problems of the other. All these ideals and sermons have failed to stem the tide of sin. Though God has given the same parts to all human beings, he has created an infinite variety in them. Different human beings respond differently to the same situation. What is the source of this variety, these different emotional responses? Everything about the human being, his ideas, emotions, responses, are individual. Human relations are a myth. Everyone builds his own nest and is scared of it. Nevertheless he tries to protect it. Marriage, family, society and government are its external symbols. God, religion and psyche are its invisible foundations. She obeyed her emotions and I’ll obey my thoughts.. We are poles apart. I’ll not live with her, sleep with her and I’ll kill her when the right opportunity comes. I’ll kill her for sure, no going back. But her death shouldn’t result in my death, Parthu shouldn’t become an orphan, so her death has to be a secret.

The phone started ringing.

Ranganatham withdrew his thoughts and lifted the phone.

“Daddy,” Parthu’s voice from Delhi.

“Parthu and children are coming, Kamu.”

“…….”

‘Ranganatham went to Kameswari’s bed and looked at her carefully. She was breathing. He heaved a sigh of relief.

“Let her sleep.”

He gently placed his palm on her forehead and felt tiny beads of sweat. He increased the speed of the fan. She needs the fan even in biting cold. He has always been scared of cold like a street dog. He sleeps curls up into a ball when the fan is on. When he woke up he would turn the fan on for her, and when she woke up she turn it off for him.

Ranganatham stood there one long moment looking at her.

She should feel very happy because Parthu is coming. How happy he would be if she is happy!

He was thinking about the greatest crisis in his life only a short while ago. The thoughts that troubled his mind appear now like dead people in old photographs. The present emotions   being totally different, the past emotions are unreachable. Inability to feel emotional when necessary and getting emotionally worked up about trifles are, perhaps, natural signs of old age.

Parthasarathi, along with Vani and children, came that evening. Children were on vacation, they said. Parthasarathi was talking repeatedly about the heat in Delhi. They had decided to leave the children here for vacation. Kameshwari’s face was glowing with delight. Vani was carefully observing everything Sarathi talked or did. The grandchildren gathered around Ranganatham for gossip. But Ranganatham could see that something was wrong with the way Sarathi and Vani were acting.

Impulsively Sarathi made a phone call and went out waving at them.

Vani spent a long time with the mother-in-law. She made the cook prepare what they liked to eat. The children, tired by the long journey, went to bed after watching the video for a short while. Ranganatham and Vani had dinner together.

After Vani went to her room, Ranganatham sat close to Kameswari’s bed. Kameswari was visibly happy.

“Parthu,Vani and the children—everybody is with me, if I were dead now …”

Ranganatham slowly touched her lips with his finger.

“You should not talk like that.”

“You dimwit, do you think it will happen simply because I wished for it?”

“But you have promised that you will never talk about this.”

“My daughter-in-law spent a lot of time with me,” Kameswari said.

“Yes, she applied oil to your hair also,” Ranganatham added mentally.

While talking about Vani, Kameswari fell asleep like a child.

 

Ranganatham sat beside the bed, reading a book.

Sarathi came home after midnight. Ranganatham told him that his mother was very happy at the affectionate attention she had received from Vani.

“Why haven’t you gone to bed, daddy ? Vani will take care of mother. You go to bed.”

Sarathi went into his room.

Ranganatham stared blankly at him and sighed. He turned off the light and settled down on his easychair. He hadn’t slept at nights since Kameswari fell sick.

Vani was still awake when Sarathi entered the room.

“You are really a nice girl” Sarathi said changing into a nightgown.

“How did you discover my goodness so suddenly ?”

“It seems you looked after mother carefully. Daddy is very happy.”

“It was done to a patient, not to your mother.”

“I am not ready for an argument. Goodbye,” he said, covering himself with a blanket.

“Look here. I am not waiting here to see your sleeping beauty. I want to know why you are avoiding me.”

“Don’t talk rubbish”.

“May I know how you get your things done if you don’t have a beautiful wife like me?”

“You are exceeding limits.”

“Limits between you and me! It is really funny that you talk about limits. Anyway, how long do you intend to hide me like this in Bangalore and why?”

Sarathi covered himself with a blanket, refusing to answer.

Vani switched off the light.

“I am ringing up Delhi.”

“Whom?”

“I needn’t tell you.”

“Why?” he shouted getting up.

“Because, you know.”

“You bitch.”

“Shut up. If I am a bitch, you are a pimp.”

“Vani, we have to live together, you must co-operate.”

“You have taken a lot of cooperation from me for your promotion.”

“Was it only for my sake?”

“No, it was for my sake!”

He was silent for a few moments.

“I asked you to be a little ‘civilized’ and move with him as a society lady does. But I didn’t want you to sleep with him.”

“But you never objected to my sleeping with him.”

“You can never understand me. Am I not telling you now to keep yourself within reasonable limits?”

“Look Sarathi, I am not your pet dog to wag my tail when you throw a biscuit at me,” she cut in.

“Maybe you trust him. He is a true businessman. He will put you up for sale.”

“I know that much. You rented me out to him. He will sublet me to someone else.”

Sarathi fell silent once again.

“Why do you think I brought you here from Delhi? How can you invite that fellow to this place and make an ass of me? Let us go back to Delhi tomorrow.”

“Let me think about it. You go to sleep.”

While getting ready to go to bed, Sarathi noticed that the door was left open.

“Why didn’t you shut the door?” he asked.

“It is you who did not have the patience to do it.”

He got up and saw that his father was sitting in the easychair. He shut the door and stood there for sometime thinking.

He felt weak and shaky. He felt as if he came face to face with a still-born child, a child of his own mind. To get rid of the apparition he moved towards the bed slowly, lay down and shut his eyes.

“Do you think daddy heard our conversation?” he asked.

The whole world suddenly became dark. He didn’t know where he stood in that darkness. He didn’t know whether he was moving or standing still. Is someone moving him or trying to stop him from moving forward? Was he under the illusion of moving forward when everyone was moving backward? Did his journey depend upon his choice? Anyway, what was his destination?

The questions were very unsatisfactory! Ranganatham was trying to answer them.

He sat in his easychair, glued to it. The incident had shaken him to the roots of his existence.

They’ve had different world views ever since.

When the present was pressing down on his consciousness Ranganatham was trying to take shelter in rethinking and revaluing the past.

That day, Ranganatham walked out of the house. Three months passed.

It was half past seven in the morning. Kameswari was getting ready to go to office, packing her lunch-box. She heard Parthu crying and come out of the kitchen.

Ranganatham was standing there with a three month old beard and emotions wrestling with one another in his eyes.

Kameswari stood motionless and was shocked.

He came closer, took her hand into his hands.

She was thrilled.

She did not ask him where he had gone to.

Neither did he ask her how she had been.

There were neither questions nor answers.

She behaved as though he had returned from a routine journey. He too responded the same way as she did.

He played with Parthu, ate and slept.

The next day also Kameswari did not go to office.

 

That night, Parthu was sleeping. The world was getting ready for the night. Like shepherd boys the stars were gathering in the sky for gossip. Human minds that control bodies started dozing off. The bodies that are still awake sang songs of welcome to their companions as the starry night and cool breeze acted as mediators.

Ranganatham wiped the sweat from Kameswari’s forehead and kissed her. She nuzzled closer.

“My belief has saved you,” Ranganatham said.

Kameswari lifted her head slowly from her reverie of happiness and said, “Not me, its our marriage, our family.”

The voice is familiar to him. But he was disappointed by something undefinable. He looked at Kameswari who was looking at him probingly and said, “Yes, my belief saved our marriage and also our love; it’s the bedrock.”

She continued to look at him.

“I went to several places, prayed to umpteen gods, bathed in sacred rivers and listened to saints. But questions continued to haunt me.

‘Did Kameswari do any thing wrong, or did the circumstances forced her to do wrong?’

‘What place does the intention have in a wrong deed? Isn’t a wrong deed “wrong” when it is forced on the doer?

“These questions plagued me for a very long time. I was away from my people and the places familiar to me. But not from my own self. I came to the conclusion that wrong certainly exists and so does sin.

Punishment follows sin as a rule even if one doesn’t believe in the either of them. But she confessed her sin. ‘Do I have a right to punish her because I believe punishment follows sin?’

Saints listened to my questions and I, to their answers. I realized that they didn’t really understand my questions. Only God can answer it. My search for the answer ended in the Jagannath Temple in Puri.

The mighty sea, the wind and the temple helped me to question myself. Subhadra’s desire and thoughts on her own brother Jagannatha answered my question. Who can succeed where gods have failed? “Nothinghappens withoutmy intervention. I am present even in the most unbearable thing that happen to you,”he said. If a wrong thing has happened with HIS knowledge and intervention, whether to punish the doer or not is only HIS problem. If the doer feels he is responsible for his wrong deed, to punish himself or not is his own problem.

“An individual like me has no right to punish another. This is how I reconciled with myself. My God and my belief in Him helped me to make peace with myself. They got me out of the thoughts of murder, suicide and desertion. They gave me the strength to pardon and accept you, you who have done “wrong”. They saved you, Parthu and me. If you can see it, they saved our love too.”

Ranganatham said everything he could.

After carefully listening to everything he has said, Kameswari sat for some time, looking at him, with probing looks.

“Your words have brought back hope to me. I feel like talking.”

“Talk,” Ranganatham said.

She brought her diary and gave it to him.

Ranganatham hesitated.

“I am giving it, read.”

 

He started reading from the page she had asked him to begin with:

“Ranga, where have you gone, you fellow! My whole being is thirsting for your sympathy, you seem to be upset because my body is tainted. What is tainting, anyway? You seem to be unhappy because I cheated you. The truth is I have disgraced myself. This is my personal defeat. I am both the cheater and the cheated. I see the two as different from the two you imagine. My cheating and my failure have taken away the right to live from me.

Death?

I consider the idea of uniting with you after death in the other world. The idea is a stupid one. The two parts I see in myself also will perish after my death. Then how is death justifiable?

Death demands a lot of courage and also cowardice.

I have the former but not the latter.

I know that I can’t change, with my death, what has happened

My death starts a chain of events. After my death what happens to my dear Ranga, who is a believer. Belief begins with cowardice. He is too weak to bear the burden of his life in my absence. He may foolishly commit suicide with a mad desire to join me. Then Parthu becomes an orphan!

What is to be done?

Ranga is a rationalist, although a believer. He can understand my personal agony. But he may think that I have committed “sin”. He believes that “sin” can be washed away with “repentance”. If he suggests any act of retribution, I am prepared to do it.

But personally I believe neither in sin nor in retribution.

In that case, what effect will my retribution have on him?

It satisfies him but not me.

Isn’t it—trying to pretend that I believe in what he believes—also cheating him?

Isn’t it cheating myself too—doing what I don’t believe in?

I’ll tell him everything that is on my mind. He will offer his sympathy and show me a way-out.”

 

After reading it completely, Ranganatham thumbed through the empty pages and looked at Kameswari. She was watching him. He sighed imperceptibly and asked, “Didn’t you feel any fear or any hesitation?”

She said, “No,” shaking her head from side to side.

“I wouldn’t have known about it if you had not told me. Ours was a smooth marriage. Didn’t you see that you could throw a twist into it with your confession”?

“You never put such fear in me”.

“If I had been different, would you have experienced such fear?”

“That is your characteristic quality. Questions. Questions. Questions! you always ask questions. Maybe you have your own answers for them. But you have the grace to bear with my answers although they are different from yours. Maybe people like you are responsible for humanity discarding old opinions and acquiring new ones”.

“You are evading my question.”

Kameswari was silent.

“You are scared now”.

“No, I am not. This experience has helped me transcend trivial fears about you and our marriage.”

“But you have not answered my question.”

“I am trying to think about the usefulness of my answer to you and to our marriage,” she smiled at him and looked longingly.

“The progress of the human race lies in knowing and making other people know. I must tell you, continue to tell you as long as I exist and we are together. You should also tell me. Secrecy prevents progress.”

“You have not answered …”

“If you had been frightening, I would have been frightened. ‘You’ are responsible for the development of my individuality.”

Ranganatham patted her hair and asked, “Didn’t you feel like committing suicide after I had left?”

“Of course, I did. Why not?”

“Then how did you resist it?”

“My ideas helped me because I was an unbeliever.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Suppose you’ve returned home after my death; can you bear it after returning so full of hope. Thoughts like those prevented me from committing suicide initially. You didn’t write to me. No information from you; perhaps you were dead. This thought was trying to enter my mind, driving all the other thoughts out. Suppose I prayed to God to save you, God in whose existence you believed and of whose existence I knew nothing about! This idea led to a chain of thoughts, which filled my mind. Your behavior, my sensations and our passion—aren’t they real? Haven’t we created the love and passion that we shared? What is God’s creation or the creation of God? Is it born out of fear or an unrealistic desire? What can my worshipping of God give me? Can it bring you back to life if you were dead? It can’t. Maybe it can give me a little consolation. Where does that illusory consolation lead me to? Man has been questioning himself even while going through this illusion. His ability to ask questions has brought him to the present state. Knowing all this, why should I fall into this trap? Is it because I have lost the ability to ask questions? Then I started thinking about your death and its consequences. Your absence has created a great void. But there are men and women in this world who have lived closer to each other than we have. What happened when they lost their partners? They grieved or became closer to some one else. If you’d died, you and your lack of imagination are to be blamed. You have merely repeated what a few others have done in circumstances similar to ours. You showed no realistic thinking. Your ignorance is the cause of your death. Ranga, after that I erased the thought of death from my mind. And it is the change in your thinking that has helped you to survive and made our reconciliation possible! Belief unites our mind and body. It never helps us to progress forward.”

Ranganatham listened to her carefully.

He took her into his arms.

“Look Kamu, the confidence you have in you and your thinking is also a belief. Belief and unbelief are the twin plants that sprout from the soil of doubt. But actually they are two kinds of belief. The best belief is the one which helps the individual to control himself .”

Kameswari kept thinking.

 

A few days rolled by. Kameswari continued in the same job.

“Why don’t you change your job?”

“Why another job? Do you think I’ll run away?”

“Then give it up. My salary is sufficient for us, isn’t it?”

“I too used to think like that. I realised how important a job was for a woman like me when you went away.”

After a few days Ranganatham asked, “Can’t we get united?”

“I am trying my best.”

After some time, he said, “Being so far from each other while living under the same roof and sharing the same bed has become unbearable for me, Kamu.”

“My dear nut, we are not distanced from each other. You won’t have peace until you get rid of that idea,” she said and embraced him. He twisted himself around her.

“Ranga, what happened in our life is closely connected with the times we live in and the thoughts we inherit. Man-Woman relationship is changing because the world is changing. The Man has no right to say that the woman should not seek employment because incidents like the one happened in our lives are likely to happen anytime. It is no answer at all. Only if you can realise that everything that is happening is a step towards progress, you will get new solutions.”

They were united.

Several times he thought carefully about the opinion that the universal values that have come down from the ancient times are gradually eroding and the world is destined for destruction.

They have lived supplementing each other. Today what is it that is happening between his son and daughter-in-law? Isn’t it a fall?

Confused by his thoughts, Ranganatham approached Kameswari’s bed and sat down in the chair. “How do you interpret it, Kamu?” he asked.

“My son is selling his wife for his career. She obeys him either for luxury or lust. What is happening between them? I consider it a great sin for a woman to sell her body even for food. But it is only you who made me understand what a terrible thing hunger was. You wanted me to understand the incident that took place in your life in the right perspective and share your distress. You said that the industrial civilization has brought about new situations and conflicts between man and woman. Though I had serious doubts about your theory, I could respect the spirit behind it. Look at our children—the generation next to ours. How should we understand it—the generation that wants to buy everything by selling anything? Looking at their colossal sin, I am forced to look back on our own past. I can’t but think that ours was also a fall and what is happening today is nothing but a continuation of that. With your argumentative ability   you convinced me that the world is moving towards progress You made me change my opinion that once dharma was walking on all its four legs and now limping on one leg. You showed me how opinions like mine originate and in whom and made me think seriously.”

“No, Kamu, I can’t agree with you on that. Humanity is certainly running towards a total disaster. Now there are husbands who sell their wives and wives who are willing to be sold.

What do you think they want? It’s horrible. How do you support their behavior? Analyse them?

Ranganatham, overcome by emotion, closed his eyes .

“Mamayya”!

Ranganatham opened his eyes.

Vani!

He turned his head toward her.

“I know you loathe me. But I loathe myself more vehemently than you ever can. But I have to answer myself.”

He hated listening to her. Vani continued, “I agree with you that your son is after career and I am after luxuries. I am an escapist. But what am I trying to escape or from whom? If I start to think about me, I always land on the thoughts of the world and the power and people running it.

“Who created careers and the instruments of luxury? Who has forced himself into our personal lives and vitiated our relationships? Who is tempting us with more and more wealth and comfort? Who is showing us the carrot and making us run for it? Who is driving us in the name of education, jobs, positions, assets, comforts and rewards? They are those who are shouting from roof tops that this mad chasing is democracy and human liberty. With the help of propaganda they are trying to convince everybody and also compelling us to believe it. They   are creating divisions between races, religions and nations. Shamelessly they make use of everything possible to achieve it. They take care to see that one human being doesn’t agree with the other. What do they want to achieve?”

Ranganadham couldn’t control himself. He looked at her. He was reminded of Vemana, the saint who lived in lust and, after a while left it, and started preaching on code of conduct.

“They want Free Market. They want to make a commodity of everything that belongs to man. Man has become commodity and a consumer too. Here you get sold and there you buy. The creators and preachers of this system are also not an exception. Their vanity and mental fragility make them what they are!”

“But the seed of its destruction is within the system itself. Free Market makes man desperate. The desperate man doesn’t hesitate to sell himself or kill the other for his benefit. But can this system satisfy all his needs? If these people, who’ve gotten accustomed to this adventure, realize that Free Market can’t fulfill all their needs, they can destroy it in no time.”

Ranganatham looked at Vani, stunned.

“You know so much. Yet…”

Vani shook her head side to side, “The idea that people who ‘know’ live with a sense of justice is an old superstition. These people who ‘know’ organize their game with better skill and taste. They create their own rules. The real commodities and consumers are those who ‘know’ what they really are. When the people who do not ‘know’ can control the people who ‘know’, then the situation will be different.”

Ranganatham suddenly turned to Kameswari and asked, “Kamu, what do you say to her?”

There was no movement in Kameswari.

Ranganatham, shaking, touched her hand, put his finger near her nostril to check whether she was breathing or not, examined her sides and then felt her pulse.

Kameswari was no more.

He knew that this moment would come, but the shock is inevitable, the feeling that a part of his existence has been taken away. He was dazed. His motive force is gone! But when? Was it after she listened to him or Vani? Was it with a feeling of defeat or satisfaction? Is this progress or retreat? Torn between sorrow and doubt Ranganatham sat there motionless.

 

Vani approached him.

[End]

 

(Translated by Vallampati Venkata Subbaiah and published on thulika.net, April 2004.)

***

(The Telugu original was entitled “payanam-palayanam” and was published in Pratibha .)

GOOD FORTUNE By Illindala Saraswati Devi

Seenayya died.

He died after suffering in bed for over two years and suffering very badly; he could not chew or swallow.

His death did not bring tears to anybody’s eyes. His family thought, “The jeeva[1] in his body has been writhing under pain for over two years and now it is freed finally.” Now he was not suffering any more. His mouth was closed shut. No more struggling. He lay there straight and stiff.

His room was located at a corner. Right from that corner he’d been groaning, screaming, calling for everybody, and fretting and fuming because nobody responded to his calls—not so much as even a peek; and then he would raise his voice even higher—all of this stopped.

It was three in the morning.

All of them were sleeping while the fan was spreading cool breeze around. Seenayya breathed his last without anybody in the house noticing it.

It’s daybreak. The sun was creeping up slowly. His four sons woke up. Brushed their teeth, had the coffee their wives brought for them, then they picked up the newspaper, a section each, and sat down to read.

All the children woke up, brushed their teeth, finished their coffee, took bath, and started organizing their books, getting for ready for school. They all were busy with their daily activities—jobs and the fear of not make it on time.

In that house, there was a 15-year-old girl, her vocal chords were muted. She was Seenayya’s only daughter. She kept looking into his face without batting an eye. She was worried since he was not moaning; she took his hand and felt his pulse; put her hand on his heart and tried to find if it was beating; touched his hands and feet. The body was cold and stiff.

Her name was Sundari. It was just in name only. She was truly beautiful. She tried to check up on Seenayya the best she knew how. Then she came out of the room, went to the servants and tried to sign to them—pointed to her heart and pulse on her hand and tried to explain that she could not hear it. Before they could figure out her gestures, she went to her brothers’s rooms and told them too.

They dismissed her, “Crazy girl! This dumb idiot makes fuss for even a small change in him. Maybe he fell asleep. The house is quiet. Maybe the medications worked today.” They all were getting ready to go to work. The daily events went on as usual.

Sundari could not speak but she was not stupid. She was doing all the chores in the house without directions fron anybody; nobody could find fault with her work. She understood that nobody was paying attention to her worry; she ran to Madhavayya who lived a few houses down the street. He is a distant relative of Seenayya.

She folded her two hands and explained to Madhavayya gesturing in her own way about Seenayya’s condition and begged him to come and see him. Madhavayya understood her gestures. He had been watching her since her childhood. He was also worried like her father about this girl who was born after four boys and about her speech disability.

Madhavayya noticed her sorrow, understood the situation, and got up quickly. He threw the towel on his shoulder and said, “Come, I’ll go with you,” and followed her.

By that time, all the men folks left for work and children for school. Working daughters-in-law rushed to their busstops. Only the eldest daughter-in-law was home, busy organizing things in her room.

Madhavayya went straight to Seenayya’s room and noted his condition. Sundari was crying her heart out. He wiped her tears and asked her to bring a mat. Per our custom in our country, they both moved the body on to the mat and covered it with a sheet.

Madhavayya came out of the room and said to Kanthamma, the daughter-in-law, “Ammayi, Kantamma, it seems Seenayya has passed away a while ago. Sundari and I laid him on a mat. About the others, are they at work?”

“Yes. They’re all gone,” she replied as if questioning so what?

“All the sons must come home; the daughters-in-law need to be here as well. They all must get this message.”

“How can we? We don’t a phone in our house. What should we do?”

“Haven’t you been making phonecalls from my neighbor’s house? Come, make the calls. It looks like he’s gone 5 or 6 hours back.”

“Did Sundari tell you? She’s crazy; she gets nervous for no reason and gets on everybody else’s nerves too. Would they let us talk on the phone so early in the morning and that too about death?”

“Why wouldn’t they? This’s an important message; I’m sure they wouldn’t object to such an urgent message. Go, give them the message.”

“I don’t know, I’m scared.”

“Then, write down their phone numbers at work and give it to me. Also include the numbers of your co-daughters-in-law. I will make the calls. They all must come,” he said, annoyed and frowning.

“I don’t know for sure. I will note down as much as I could recall. I think he was okay while they all were home. Or else, I am sure, they wouldn’t have left for work,” she thought as she jotted down the numbers.

Madhavayya went and made the calls. They all came home. The neighbors noticed the commotion and they also gathered around.

“Didn’t any of you go into his room before leaving for work and check his condition? Probably he died sometime at night,” Madhavayya said, distressed.

“We all get up and get busy with our things. We have to rush through the day or else we’ll miss our buses,” the sons replied.

“That’s true too. But when you have a sick man at home, you must look after him, no matter how busy you are. And he is not somebody; he is your own father, responsible for your existence; the father who sweated to make money and raised you; gave you all education and raised you like princes. It’s your duty to take care of him.”

“The doctor said ‘No need for any more medications. He was not able to swallow even liquids. There is nothing I could do.’ So, all we have to do is to watch, right? We’ve been checking on him before we went to bed each night. And again, before we left for work. What else we can do, you tell us. There is no remedy for his sickness. We put him in the hospital and arranged for his medications. It wasn’t easy to arrange for his radiation treatment yet we got that too for him. We did everything the doctors told us to do.”

Madhavayya had no response for this logic at the moment. Sundari sat next to Seenayya and was sobbing, heartbroken.

“Poor man. He’s suffered horribly, not one or two days but for two long years.”

“All his kindness, good heart and patience came to nothing.”

“The sons are well-educated and settled in good jobs. They all are happy with their families. But what about this poor Sundari? God gave her gorgeous looks but not voice. She has no mother to start with and now the father’s gone too. What would she do from tomorrow on?”

“What else? The brothers would get into a brawl—each telling the other to take her responsibility. Wherever she is, and although she’s still young, she’ll take on all the chores and sweat out. She’ll manage somehow enduring all the yelling and battering from the sisters-in-law.”

The neighbors were passing comments, and saying whatever occurred in their tiny brains.

Madhavayya said, “Why waste time? We have to cremate the body. Let’s start making the arrangements.”

The neighbors pitched in, Seenayya’s body was devoured by the flames.

Sundari was befuddled. She has no father anymore, who’s going to take of her? Nobody in this house recognized her service no matter however hard she worked. Nobody ever asked her did you eat, did you take bath; not even casually if not caringly. Madhavayya asked her occasionally as he passed by. She cannot speak, so she cannot express what’s in her heart.

After her father died, Sundari’s life became even more dreary. She would sit in the same place for hours; no desire to eat or drink but shed tears incessantly.

His sons were worried about Sundari in their own way. For some of them it was a terrifying problem.

Sundari’s beautiful face was worn out; primarily because she lost her father; the second reason was lack of food. And also she was worried what her brothers might decide in her regard. All these issues together got to her and got her to a point where she could collapse at the slightest touch.

After the death rites were completed, Madhavayya, in a way, assumed the headship at their house. He asked them, “You all are well-educated and well settled in life. Poor Sundari, she is still young and mute on top of it. Up until now, your father took care of her. Who’s going to look after her welfare from now on? What about her future?”

“What about it? We’ll know if we asked the lawyer—what did father do in our case? what did he bequeath to whom? We phoned the lawyer but he’s not in town,” the eldest son replied.

“Does he know about the present situation?”

“I called him from my office and told him. He was sorry about the news and said ‘He suffered a lot; Cancer is like that. There is no escape from that disease.’ We’ll know all the details after he’s back,” the eldest son said.

Time’s passing by slowly. The sons are waiting for the lawyer anxiously; they’are worried about father’s allocation of his possessions.

The lawyer returned from his trip like a dazzling sunlight. Seenayya’s sons went to him, on their way home from work, and told him, “You must be tired. We can meet tomorrow,” reminding him of their meeting on the following day.

Each has his own hopes and wishes. The brothers spent all night dreaming I wish I could get this or I hope I’d get that. Seenayya owned the two-storeyed building they were living in and also a 15-acre strip of land. He set aside the income from the land separately. It was a fertile strip of land. He bought it in Madhavayya’s name, since Madhavayya was childless. Lately he was also purchasing certificates of deposit in Sundari’s name and gave them to the lawyer for safekeeping. The boys were not aware of this transaction.

One day Seenayya read in the newspaper: A doctor from Germany will be coming to Bombay. He can make the mute persons speak by fixing a plastic sound box in the vocal chords of the people who are voiceless. He visits Bombay twice a year. He works only on young persons; he first takes an x-ray of the relevant parts and examines if his procedure works or not. Since the procedure is time-consuming, he suggests feeding the person nutritious food. After examining the x-ray, he takes the necessary measurements and will have the sound box made and returns after six months. Then he will perform the operation and installs sound box. It takes sometime for the sound box to adjust and work in conjunction with other parts of the person’s body. Up until then, the patient must stay in the hospital under his supervision. After the sound box is well-adjusted to the vocal chords and blood circulation returns to normal, after the stitches are healed, he will teach words, one by one, slowly. He will train his assistants in regard to the steps to be taken while he is in Germany, and will keep in touch the local doctors via phone on a regular basis. He would be instructing them on the procedure as appropriate. Some of the patients could start talking even before he returned from Germany.

The news item, published by the hospital administrators, said it was a golden opportunity for those who could afford it financially. It also said that the fee depends on the amount of work involved. Dollar value changes constantly. One must have about one hundred thousand rupees on hand towards the expenses—the fee for the surgery, their stay in Bombay for those who accompanied the patient, and such.

If Sundari were really lucky enough, she could obtain speech capability with this new kind of surgery. After she’s gotten her speech, they could think about her education and marriage. Seenayya wanted to do whatever he could to make Sundari have a normal life like everybody else. That was all he could hope for as her father.

Seenayya told Madhavayya about his plan and made arrangements with the help of the lawyer secretively. He was corresponding with the doctor whenever he came to visit the hospital in Bombay and gathering information. This surgery was kept secret among the three of them. At the time Sundari just turned thirteen.

Just about the same time, a doctor examined Seenayya routinely. The doctor told him that he has cancer in his throat. While he was in the hospital and receiving radiation treatment, he continued to have the produce from his land sold, certificates of deposits purchased and deposited them with the lawyer.

Although he was known as Seenayya in his town, his full name was Srinivasulu. He retired as Registrar and had been receiving pension each month. He opened an account in a local bank to be operated jointly by Madhavayya and Sundari and kept his wife’s jewelry there. The sons were not aware of this. By the time they all got married, their mother was already gone and so the daughters-in-law never knew about her jewelry.

During the two years Seenayya was suffering from cancer, Madhavayya was visiting him regularly. Seenayya was discussing these matters with Madhavayya at the time. He also made Madhavayya swear to secrecy. Seenayya told him, “Madhavayya, treat Sundari as your own daughter. Spend all this money for her welfare. If she could ever speak, think of it as her mother’s luck. Don’t ask what is luck for a dead woman. Wouldn’t she be watching Sundari from up there and be happy if Sundari could ever speak like everybody else! Maybe, I’ll also be happy from up there. These are all my golden dreams. Madhavayya, my daughter’s luck depends on your kindness and goodwill.” Seenayya took his two hands into his own and shed tears. On the third day following this incident, Seenayya died.

About a month ago, a letter from Bombay and addressed to Madhavayya came in the mail. It said the doctor would be returning to Bombay next month from Germany and asked him to bring the girl for tests; also that the doctor would be in Bombay only for two months.

Madhavayya heard that the lawyer returned home, and he went to see him after dark. Madhavayya brought with him the certificates of deposit, which were in Sundari’s name. The following day was the day the sons would be receiving their shares of the property.

The next day, the lawyer read the details of the will; the sons could divide the property—the house they were living in and the 8-acres of land which was being handed down over several generations—among themselves as they pleased. The sons also read the will. There was no mention of Sundari anywhere. They read it over and again to see whether their father had stated anywhere who should take care of Sundari and whether he had set aside any additional amount for the purpose. There was no mention at all of her.

The following day they all would go their separate ways. Where would Sundari live? Her third vadina will be having a baby in about two months. Therefore the brother and vadina invited her kindly into their home. Sundari moved in with them and took care of all the household chores. One month passed by; vadina started whining about Sundari.

One day Madhavayya came to see Sundari and overheard vadina complaining to her husband, “How long are we going to bear this burden?”

Madhavayya asked, “Don’t your other brothers take her to their place?”

“The stopped visiting us completely. How long can I put up with this?” Sundari’s third brother said.

“Ask your brothers to come here. Tell them I want to talk to them,” Madhavayya said.

All the brothers arrived within a half hour. Madhavayya asked them about Sundari.

Babaayi, our father did not say a single word about her in his will. Did he think that we should take care of her jointly? Why couldn’t he allot an additional amount to one of us for the purpose of assuming her responsibility? He held a job too; yet he couldn’t think on those lines. If I take her in, my wife would question how is it our responsibility. So also my other brothers’ wives. I can’t think of any answer for this question,” the eldest son said.

Madhavayya replied, “Alright. You all are pointing at each other and asking you or me? I will adopt Sundari. Send her to my home. She is mute, she can’t speak but she can understand the situation very well. You don’t have to worry about her responsibility any more.” He looked at them. they all heaved a sigh of relief as if a huge burden was lifted off their chests.

Madhavayya continued, “Your father was going to tell you when it was time to do so. I was also thinking the same thing. Seenayya was my mother’s sister’s son. I have no children and I didn’t marry again after my wife died. Your father invited me to come and live with him. I told him, ‘No, I have my house. I’ll live there and cook my own food.’ We used to see each other everyday. Send Sundari with me.”

“Take her. No stuff to pack or anything. All she has only is a change of clothes. She can pick them up and go with you.”

By then Sundari was standing there with her clothes folded and holding them, all ready to go.

“Shall we go to our home?” Madhavayya asked her. She nodded and followed him.

The brothers’ bickering helped Madhavayya in finalizing his trip to Bombay. He sold his house and land and took Sundari to Bombay. At the Bombay station, they had coffee and tiffin and went to the hospital. The doctor from Germany also reached his office at the same time. He invited Madhavayya and Sundari into his room. The doctor was young, just under thirty. He asked Madhavayya to tell him about Sundari. Madhavayya replied that Sundari turned fifteen and that she was mute.

“Is she the girl you’ve written to me about?”

“Yes.”

“Let me examine her. I’ll have the x-ray taken and see,” he said and walked her into the x-ray lab. He showed to the technician the parts he needed the x-rays of. The technician did as he was told.

After examining the x-rays, the doctor took them into his office. “Give her nutritious food. She has to be strong. I will take the measurements, have the device made and be back in six months. Then I’ll perform the surgery and enable her to speak. My consultation fee for the present service is one hundred rupees. The surgery takes lot longer. At that time, you will have to pay a higher fee to me, in addition to the hospital charges. She is very beautiful. In our country, it is a different kind of beauty,” he said, watching her with curiosity.

Madhavayya assured him that he would pay the stated fee, had the papers drawn, and added, “We’ll go home for now and be back in time for the surgery. I’ll give her healthy food. Is is possible for me to stay with her in the room after the surgery?”

“Yes, you can. No need to fear about her. I’ll perform the surgery myself. I’ll get her to talk. She’ll have to stay in the hospital for some time.”

“We will.”

After they returned to their town, Madhavayya started giving her good food—milk, vegetables and eggs—twice a day. The change in Sundari’s appearance was visible by the end of two months. Her face glowed with wholesome looks. She is a beautiful girl to begin with, and now, with nutritious meals, she looked like a beauty queen.

After six months, they received a letter saying that the doctor was back in Bombay. During these six months, Madhavayya sold his house and other things. He sold the land Seenayya had given him also. Both Madhavayya and Sundari packed their boxes and set out to Bombay. They didn’t know where to stay. The city and the people were new to them. They left their luggage in a room, took bath, had tiffin and went to the hospital.

Sundari was admitted into the hospital right away. The surgery was scheduled for the next day.

The next day, she was taken into the operation room. Madhavayya could not figure out at what time they started performing the surgery but he noticed that four hours passed by according to his watch.

The doctor sent word that Sundari was still unconscious and so nobody was allowed into her room yet. Madhavayya went to a close by hotel, ate and returned to the waiting room at the hospital. Inside, Sundari was being fed glucose water through tubes. The doctor stayed at the hospital for the night, sat down next to her bed and made sure that she was getting the food properly.

On the following day, the doctor sent word to Madhavayya that he could come in and see her. “The surgery went well. I readjusted the relevant parts in her throat and fixed the plastic sound box in her vocal chords,” the doctor said and added that she would definitely be able to talk, and that he was sure to hear her voice before he left. He also suggested that she can eat as usual after the cuts from the surgery were healed.

Unlike in all the cases in general, the doctor did not collect his fee at first. He said he would take it only after Sundari has gained her voice. He was visiting her every day, whenever he had time.

The hospital staff were surprised by the extra care the doctor was taking in her case. They also were taking good care of her. X-rays were being taken occasionally. It showed that the plastic sound box in her vocal chords was set well and looking natural. After running tests, the doctor tried to make her utter words one by one. He said A, B, C, D, and tried to have her repeat them. Her voice sounded very weak at first and then gradually went up. She started uttering each letter, watching the lip movements of the person who was across from her. When the doctor was not around, Madhavayya sat next to her and helped her utter small words. The doctor told him not to make her speak longer than one half hour a day.

Madhavayya was elated that Sundari could speak. He thought, per her father’s wishes, that he should find a good bridegroom for her and arrange her marriage after she gained her speech.

Sundari kept practicing speech. As long as the doctor was in her room, she would repeat each word he had said with great enthusiasm. He was teaching her English words; and he was feeding her the food himself. He was quite taken by her beauty.

Sundari is not very good at speech yet. Nevertheless she is getting interested in the doctor and is attracted to him. She is learning quickly whatever he taught her and he is equally excited about her progress. They are beginning to laugh and tease each other.

Madhavayya had no problem in teaching Telugu words to Sundari. Since she is already familiar with the subject and since it is only a matter of physically voicing the Telugu alphabet, she is picking up Telugu fast enough. The doctor is making every effort to teach her English.

One day Madhavayya entered her room and saw that the doctor was holding Sundari’s face in his two hands and saying something. The doctor saw Madhavayya, moved away quickly and said, “I’ll teach her speech as long as I’m here. In Germany, there are specialists to teach the language and further education. Should I take her with me, what’d you think?”

“Doctor garu, we don’t send unmarried women with strangers to anywhere?” Madhavayya said.

“Then I’ll marry her. I’m very much taken by her beauty,” the doctor said.

“Aren’t you married?”

“No, I’m not married yet. I felt like marrying after seeing her. You have no objection, do you?” he asked.

“This young woman is my daughter. I have no other family but for her. I can’t live without her,” Madhavayya said.

He is happy that the doctor wanted to marry Sundari. But what about him, after she’s gone? The very thought brought tears to his eyes.

“I’ll go with her. I’ll find a job and earn my living. Take me with you. I’ll pay your fee in rupees. You can convert them into dollars. Besides, this girl has money of her own. You can convert that sum also into dollars. Her mother’s jewelry is in a safe deposit box. I’ll get them for you. Doctor garu, she has no mother, never knew what the word affection meant. You must take good care of her.”

“I’ll worship her like a goddess. We can think of conversion after your returned from you town,” the doctor said, watching Sundari fondly.

“Where is the marriage going to take place—here or in your country?” Madhavayya asked.

“Why do you say ‘your’ country? You’re also coming with us! Say ‘our’ country. I am so lucky! I got such a beautiful woman for wife! No need to discuss any fee for me. Give it to her. One more thing. Would you mind if I call her by a name I like?” the doctor asked Madhavayya.

“Where is the question of my likes and dislikes? Whatever you two like goes for me too,” he said and went away. He returned with the jewelry on the third day. “Wear them and show them to the doctor,” Madhavayya told Sundari. She wore the jewelry and showed it to the doctor.

“Oh, you’re so beautiful! Like a doll! Wait, I feel like taking a picture of you with that smile,” he said and brought his camera.

Madhavayya was happy that lady luck smiled on Sundari in such a strange fashion. He had a picture taken standing next to Sundari.

(Author’s note: This story was written after reading a news item in Newsweek in Chicago. It was reported that a doctor in Germany fixed a plastic sound box in the vocal chords of one or two mute persons and succeeded in getting the persons speech capability.)

[End]

 

²²²

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

(The Telugu original adrushta rekha is included in the anthology swarna kamalaalu by Illindila Saraswati Devi) .

 

[1] The divine spirit in human body, equivalent of life-breath.