Anomalies

ANOMALIES

(Or 70 in 07).

 

On June 23^rd, I sat down with my second cup of coffee and turned the computer on. Right there staring in my face, the question, do you know who is a Cancerian, accompanied by photos of Dalai Lama and George Bush. My jaw fell. I could not think of two diametrically opposite characters if I raked my brain to the back of my skull.

 

Two Cancerians

All about self

One exploring self

The other self-absorbed

For one, the world is home

For the other, the world is his to own.

 

And here I am,

The third Cancerian

Groping my way in the dark

Searching for a spot

To set my foot

Like the celestial *Dwarf

bracing up to burst forth.

 

And then I read that the local community leaders announced lifetime achievement award for a professor at the same time the university has canceled the course after offering for over forty years.

 

The year is 07 and I am 70. Is that the reason everything is looking topsy-turvy for me?

 

—

 

* Vamana, one of the ten incarnations of the Lord Vishnu.

 

 

(NM, 70,07)

 

The River Flows

RIVER FLOWS

 

(©Malathi Nidadavolu)

 

The river flows

Like a thousand-hooded cobra

Uncoiling

In a

sly, sensuous oscillation

Like an archetypal danseuse

In a dazzling finale,

Full of zest and splendor,

The river flows.

 

The river flows.

And moves on as she flows.

The river flows

And moves on

 

I gaze in amazement

As she bursts through

The caverns on the hilltops

Like

A towering inferno

Devouring space,

Or, a raging bull

Charging his opponent,

Hungry lion

Pouncing on its prey,

The river flows

Rolling down the mountain slopes

Stomping on the rocks

Tumbling over the boulders

Like an expert juggler on a rope.

 

The river flows.

And

Stops for a moment

As if

Gasping for breath

Or,

To size up

With a touch of disdain,

The transient lives,

The lost souls of animate things,

Their hopes,

Fears, frustrations,

Anger and avarice,

Petty jealousies,

Foolish clinging

To insignificant things

And

Thousand shades of

Empty aspirations.

The river flows.

 

The river flows

Stealing my heart

With her imperious gestures,

Like a seasoned dancer,

Following her own course,

Carrying the tender souls

In her arms

To the unknown shores

As she flows.

 

I wonder…

Does she feel the things

She holds

In her luring heart

The things

She collects

In time and tide

And

Leaves behind

As she moves on?

Does she feel

The umpteen silly objects

She is forced to contain,

Paper boats,

Broken hearts,

Flower bouquet,

The holy dip,

Seashells on the riverbeds,

The dirty feet,

The human waste,

The spit,

Dead bodies,

The moss,

Motorboats

Tearing her guts,

Crocodiles glutting

Over the half-decomposed bodies,

Little fish

Fighting for their lives

The River flows.

 

The river flows

Moving in a stately defiance

Of the mean structures

Men construct,

Poking steel,

Pouring concrete,

Desecrating the pious waters

In a desperate attempt to curb

Her invincible waters

The river flows

Following her own course.

 

Enraged by their arrogance,

The river

Bursts forth into a

Ravishing outpour

Of fury,

Shattering

The dams and bridges

The mean structures men built

And their dwellings,

In one clean sweep

As if

Breaking ground

For a new order,

As if challenging

Their inadequacies,

And Proving

Her own strength

Beauty

And integrity.

As if

Staging the fiery Cosmic Dance

Of Nataraj.

 

I sit there on the shore

And wonder..

Is she aware of the bond

Between her apparently Unfathomable flow

And the complex lives of the myriads on the banks?

The mankind conglomerate

Replete with

Mothers, daughters

Fathers and sons,

Polluted with

Politics, power

And money,

Electric lights

Engulfed by

Low life,

And,

Where,

Scholarship has failed

Human decency,

And turned into a market commodity

And sold at discount price

 

She flows quietly,

Like a royal gamut

Untouched by the failures

Of mankind

 

As I sit there,

Listening

To the murmurs of the

Million little ripples,

Hitting the rocks on the shores,

Melodious to the beat,

I wonder.

 

Is She,

Unaware, unobtrusive,

Unattached, indifferent,

Intent on pursuing

Only her own course?

 

The river enters the plateau

In a noble stride

Reciting Vedic chants

Propping up the drooping spirits

Embracing the dismal creatures

And unfolding universal harmony.

 

As she flows

Touching myriad souls

Lighting up thousands of hearts,

Splashing the colors of rainbow

Holding up her generous heart

To the dark clouds,

The river flows

Graciously,

Basking in her own lustrous spirit,

And murmuring rhythmic notes.

The river flows.

 

The river

Flows like an ageless dancer

Imparting the wisdom of centuries

The mettle of a divine warrior

And the aura of an empress,

The river flows…

 

The River

And the Life

Entwined in one

Intricate bond

Each

An intrinsic part

Of the other…

The river flows.

And

As the river flows

Life goes on.

 

 

 

 

(Nidadavolu Malathi, 3/3/98.)

 

Anger

ANGER

 

©Malathi Nidadavolu

 

 

*

 

 

 

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Kantham screamed and slammed the phone.

 

She could barely contain herself; she was like an overripe tomato ready to burst. Normally Kantham was a gentle person.  That is what everybody said about her. “You’re always smiling; don’t you ever get upset about anything?” they would say. The only time Kantham would flare up would be when she heard the voice of a telemarketer. She would snap and take the narasimha[i]avatar in a split second.

 

She tried to tell them in so many ways and in so many languages, yet they would not stop. They reminded her of Bhatti Vikramarka[ii] for all their determination to get a sale out of her. Therefore, she had gotten used to yelling at them; she was not embarrassed about her tone. She even had blurted out one or two expletives in English, Telugu, and Sanskrit, in a desperate attempt to stop them. After such explosion, she could not think straight, could not revert to whatever she was doing. That hurt her worse.  

Kantham, with a low-paid job in a small Midwestern town, was a loner by choice. She preferred her own company to that of her colleagues at work and neighbors at home. That being the case, those phone calls were not appreciated.

 

During one of these exasperating days, she received a phone call from India. Her younger brother called to tell her that his daughter’s wedding was fixed and Kantham was invited to the ceremony. Kantham was elated. She had not been home for over fifteen years. Now was a good time or so it seemed. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could not help thinking that she would be free of those annoying phone calls.

 

Thus the decision was made to go to India. She told her brother of the date of her arrival in Hyderabad. Her brother replied that he would not be able to receive her at the airport but he would send Mr. Jogibabu. Kantham wondered who this Jogibabu could be. As far as she could recall, there was no Jogibabu among her relatives. But then, it did not matter. All she cared was somebody would be there to receive her at the airport in Hyderabad.

*

Kantham landed in Hyderabad. She collected her luggage and rushed to the custom’s desk. The middle-aged clerk at customs desk took his own sweet time to clear her passport and let her go. It was one o’clock by the time she had gone through the ritual and walked out of the airport. She identified Jogibabu easily. He had an imposing personality. He was wearing a white dhoti,[iii] a zari kanduvaa [iv]neatly folded and sitting cozily on his shoulder; and a dot on his forehead, which seemed to speak of his erudition. He stood out among all the others who wore ordinary shirts, pants, lungis.[v] Jogibabu also recognized Kantham with equal ease. She might be a Telugu girl yet the signs of having lived in America for fifteen years were strikingly obvious. After identifying each other thus, they walked into the street.

 

Jogibabu was not much of a small talker. He seemed to be living in his own world. He gestured to Kantham to hand over the wheeled suitcase. Kantham said she could handle it but he ignored her meek protest and grabbed the handle. 

 

In the next half hour, she noticed Jogibabu’s demeanor to be somewhat foreign to her; probably, strange should be the word to describe him. He kept arguing with the driver about the route, the reason why he would not go one way or the other, and whether he understood the instructions. Kantham was not sure whether the driver cared for such interference with his job. After forty-five minutes, the auto-rickshaw stopped in front of a big building.

 

They entered the flat number 47 on the fourth floor. Kantham stood at the door and looked around. She noticed that the room was resonating with bits and pieces from America. Several questions beset Kantham: Who are these people? Why did Jogibabu bring her here? And when would she go to her brother’s home in Guntur? However, she could not ask him, she was cowed down into silence.

 

Jogibabu put her suitcase in the small room on the right, and returned to the living room after fifteen minutes or so. Kantham perched on the sofa apprehensively. Jogibabu told her about the family briefly. Vishnu vardhana Murthy, or” Bisu”, went to America a decade ago for six-month training in sales. Six years back he married Sarojini. She had not been to America but Bisu gave her a series of lectures on the American lifestyle. At his suggestion, she shortened her name to Ginni. The net result was they both mastered the “proper way of living”. They filled their house with modern paraphernalia–from plastic forks to pop CDs, from Corning Ware to bed sheets from Target. Jogibabu finished his speech as he said, “I thought this would be comfortable for you. Bisu and Ginni are like my family.”  Kantham did not expect this. For some reason, it was a bit awkward for her. 

 

At the end, he said, “Go, lie down,” and nodded toward the small room where he put her suitcase. Kantham went in, tiptoeing as if she was sleepwalking. She lay down but could not sleep. It was four. She kept rolling in the bed. At about six, she heard noises in the living room. Kantham got up and went into the living room.

 

Jogibabu poured hot water in the coffeemaker, turned to Kantham and showed her the bathroom. “I’ll get a towel,” he said. Kantham said she had brought her own towels.

 

Ginni woke up and called out for her son, “Hey, Bantu, come on, up, up … getting late.”

 

Kantham was startled by Ginni’s tone. She did not understand why Ginni had to shout? Ginni went two more rounds before Bantu answered and he did it at the same pitch. In the next forty-five minutes, Jogibabu did the same. He was telling the boy pretty much in the same tone “Take a bath,” “eat breakfast,” “where is your bag?” and so on. Kantham thought the same instructions could work for the boy next door as well. She flinched at first and then told herself, she might as well get used to it. Amidst all that commotion, she had not gotten a chance to say hello to Ginni in that commotion.

 

Jogibabu did not tell her why they had not gone straight to the train station, nor when they would go. Kantham was too scared to ask the question herself. Jogibabu went out after Ginni, Bantu and Bisu had left for their respective destinations and returned home a little before six. He started shouting again at somebody or other for some reason or other. Kantham had not heard one person in that house speak in normal tone; not one voice under 80 decibels.

 

Ginni returned home at six, went straight into the kitchen, made tea and served to Bisu and Kantham, and disappeared into her bedroom with her cup of tea. After twenty minutes or so, she shouted “Bantu” from the bedroom, came out and said in English, “This is the only time I can spend with my son.” She could be talking to a wall for all Kantham saw.

 

“Go with them,” Jogibabu said.

 

“To where?”

 

“To the park.”

 

Kantham was puzzled. Did he hear what Ginni had just said? Didn’t he understand? Or, did he choose not to understand? Besides, Ginni did not say, “you come,” not even for the sake of propriety. Kantham did not want to explain all this to Jogibabu. She was quiet, made no effort to leave her chair.

 

“Didn’t you hear me, go with them,” he said again.

 

Kantham said she had a headache and went away into her room.

 

                                                                        *

 

In the next twenty-four hours, Kantham understood a few things about Jogibabu. He did not have a family of his own but Bisu and several families in the neighborhood were treating him as part of their families. He had developed a peculiar relationship with them. They all addressed him with garu followed by his name showing their respect for him, were seeking his advice in personal matters and listening to him when he spoke. He commanded respect around there, no doubt. Nevertheless, something bothered Kantham.

 

She couldn’t figure out when they’d be leaving for Guntur; even wondered if she would be in time for the wedding at all. After mulling over it in her head for a while, she decided to ask him. 

“At time our train to Guntur leaves?”

 

“Trains … um … there are several,” he said, scrutinizing for something in his notebook.

 

“We are taking which one?”

 

Suddenly there came another snap. “What’s your problem? You can leave right now if you want. Come on, I will take you to the station this minute,” he screamed. 

 

Kantham felt mortified. “That’s not what I meant …?” she mumbled. To her, it was clear that Ginni did not enjoy having Kantham stay there. What is not clear is whether Jogibabu understood it or not, or, maybe, he had understood but was pretending not to.

 

Kantham was getting frustrated by the minute. She remembered that her childhood friend Radha was living in Hyderabad. Her heart yearned to visit the friend and reminisce those days. What would be the best way to broach the subject with Jogibabu? At this point, even saying hello to him seemed to be a nerve-racking ritual. Finally she picked up the nerve to say, “My friend Radha is here.”

 

Jogibabu nodded. Kantham’s hopes to continue ended right there.

 

After an hour or so, “Where does she live?” he asked.

 

Kantham knew that Radha was in Banjara Hills but not the exact address. “I have their phone number,” she said meekly. Jogibabu dialed the number. It was no longer in service.

 

“What’s her husband’s name?”

 

“Subbarayudu.”

 

Jogibabu left without saying a word and returned after three hours. He said, “I tried to find their current phone number. There are twenty-five Subba Raos in the phonebook.”

 

“It is Subbarayudu, not Subba Rao.”

 

“How would I know unless you speak clearly?”

 

“I said Subbarayudu,” Kantham said softly.

 

“I am slow. You have to speak loud and clear. You do know Telugu, don’t you?”

 

Kantham was flabbergasted; she was lost for words. Where is this coming from? Who said anything about his intellectual faculties? … Why did she bother talking to him?

 

Jogibabu did not leave it at that though. He found out the correct address and phone number of Radha and her husband Subbarayudu the next day. But within the past twenty-four hours, he questioned Kantham’s Telugu language skills eight times at least. She began to wonder about his language skills. He is the one, who was not listening to her or to anybody else for that matter.

 

Jogibabu dialed Subbarayudu’s number. Radha answered the phone on the sixth ring.  She was elated to hear that Kantham was in town. She invited them, Kantham and Jogibabu, for meals the next day. “Come early, about ten o’clock. We can chat and eat at leisure,” she said. Then she added, “My husband has to go to Malakpet, needs to leave at 1:30.”

 

*

 

The next morning, Kantham woke up early and got ready by 7:30. Jogibabu changed leisurely; it was getting close to ten. Earlier in the morning, on her way to work, Ginni had given him some CDs and asked him to return them to her cousin, Chandram. “His house is on the way,” she said.

 

“Why didn’t you return them before,” he said in her usual tone, throwing the CDs into his bag.

 

Finally, they left home at about half past ten. Jogibabu found an auto rickshaw and told the driver to go to Malakpet first and then to Banjara Hills.

 

“Malakpet this way and Banjara Hills that side,” the auto driver said. He wanted twenty rupees over the meter charge. Jogibabu offered five.

 

For Kantham the entire haggling was ridiculous. She stood there, watching them like a foreign film. At the end, Jogibabu told her to get in. It was already 10:45 and they were still just outside their own house. Radha asked them to come at ten, and they had places to go … Forget ten; can we be there by noon at least? What if Radha and her husband had left for their friend’s house by the time she arrived there?

 

Chandram was very happy to see Jogibabu. “Haven’t seen you in such a long time, ohh, aahh, …” He was even more excited to meet Kantham from United States of America. He insisted that they should eat there.

 

“That is trouble for you,” Jogibabu said politely. Kantham was surprised to hear him speak softly.

 

“Besides, we are on our way to my friend’s house. She invited us for lunch,” Kantham said, encouraged by Jogibabu’s new gentle side.

 

“Oh no, no trouble at all. Actually, my wife had finished cooking. Eat a little and go, for my sake. I haven’t seen you in such a long time, it hurts me if you don’t eat,” Chandram said.

 

Kantham was about to say something but Jogibabu shut her up with his usual remark. “Didn’t you hear his words? He says the food is ready. Don’t you understand Telugu?”

 

Kantham wanted to shout that she could understand the language but not his attitude.

 

 Chandram told them the food was ready but that was not the case really. His wife started rice and dal in the pressure cooker, and sat down to cut eggplants. Jogibabu started narrating his autobiography to Kantham. She sat there pretending to be listening. She was not all that anxious for his story; she understood some parts and skipped others. In her heart of hearts, she was longing for the peaceful moment she would have with Radha.

 

While they were eating, Radha’s name came up. “You are heading toward Banjara Hills? My pinni —you remember my mother’s youngest sister—is living in the same area. I haven’t seen her in years, poor woman. Uncle died three months back. I haven’t seen her yet to offer my condolences.”

 

“Come, we are going that way,” Jogibabu said, invitingly.

 

Kantham’s spirits slipped two more notches down. She was not able to speak one word without Jogibabu crackling like fireworks. At their house, Chandram’s pinni invited them all into the house. After a while, Kantham and Jogibabu got up to leave. Chandram also got up. Kantham was confused but there was no use asking for details.

 

It was almost two by the time they arrived at Radha’s house. Radha was elated to see her childhood friend. Kantham was apologetic for their inordinate delay, “I am sorry. We messed up your plans for the day, I suppose.”

 

Radha dismissed it with a cluck. “No mention. I am so glad to see you after so many years … what it is twenty-five years? Right?”

 

“But you said Subbarayudu garu has to meet somebody.”

 

“Don’t worry. We always have plans and always break them,” Radha said reassuringly.  

 

Subbarayudu, Chandram and Jogibabu sat in the living room and started discussing world politics. Kantham was dying to talk to Radha alone—their childhood days, the teachers, the mango grove behind the school building, their escapades during lunchtime … but not amidst that kind of din. She was choked with the memories of old times. After an hour or so, Jogibabu stood up, saying, “Let’s go.” Kantham did not feel like she had spent time with her best friend at all.

 

Radha also felt the same way. “You just got here, leaving already? We were expecting you at noon. Stay for dinner. You can leave after eating supper,” she said. Kantham looked at Jogibabu, expecting another little flare-up.

 

Jogibabu cleared his throat, took a sip of water and continued his chat as if nothing happened. That was a big relief for Kantham. She heaved a sigh and followed Radha into the kitchen.

 

Radha set the table for four. she served food for the guests and her husband; she would eat after they had finished per custom. But Jogibabu suggested that she should sit down with them to eat. She pulled up a chair and sat between Subbarayudu and Kantham.

 

At the dinner table, Jogibabu made no exception; he had to have his own ways. While he was trying to scoop rice from the bowl, the ladle stuck to the rice and the bowl swirled. Subbarayudu grabbed the bowl to keep it steady.

 

“Leave it,” Jogibabu said abruptly. Kantham was surprised.

 

Subbarayudu tried to explain, “It is easy if the rice is hot. But when it is cold, it gets stuck.”

 

“Just leave it.”

 

Subbarayudu left the dish quickly; only Kantham noticed the expression on his face and felt bad for him. She was annoyed with Jogibabu. What is wrong if Subbarayudu held the dish? Why can’t he understand that there’s nothing wrong if somebody offers a hand? She wanted to ask but decided not to worry about it.

 

After they had finished eating, she helped Radha to put away the dishes. In the kitchen, she could not help mentioning, “Jogibabu is short-tempered. I hope Subbarayudu garu did not take it to heart.”

 

Radha dismissed it with a chuckle.

 

“What? Didn’t you see the way Jogibabu garu talked to your husband? Or, you didn’t think it is odd?” Kantham asked again.

 

“You are thinking too much, maybe, because the American waters had gotten into your bloodstream. Obviously, you’ve forgotten our ways. We don’t take these little annoyances seriously. His temper is his and our tempers are ours—we all have them and learn to live with them.”

 

Kantham was confused. “You know him?” she asked.  

 

“I don’t have to know him specifically. Take my maava garu [father-in-law] for instance. He came to live with us after he had retired, that is ten years back. He worked as headmaster and even now, we all look like ninth graders in his eyes. He is the teacher and we are the students. What can we do? That is the way some people are. He keeps telling us whatever he feels like, and we keep doing whatever we feel like. Holding the rice bowl is a very small matter. Whether my husband holds it tight or leaves it—it is all the same, not a big issue. You are worrying as if it is an international problem,” Radha said with a little laugh.

 

“You barely managed to get through each class in school. When did you get this smart,” Kantham said and then bit her tongue. She shouldn’t have said it.

 

Radha burst into a big laugh and said, “You can say it, I don’t mind it. I’m not going to fuss about it. I’ve told you already. Here we don’t take anything seriously—big or small. We just say, so be it, and leave it. There, in your country, you say ‘take it easy’ yet worry about every little word and thing.” She squeezed her eyes mischievously.

Kantham’s eyes glowed like two magnolias. The early days of her youth sent sparks into her head; this friend Radha is from that time. A splash of jubilation erupted in their hearts.

 

About ten, Jogibabu got up to leave. They dropped Chandram at his place and reached home. It was eleven-thirty.

 

Ginni came into the living room with sleepy eyes and said, “I cooked for you two. I thought you would be back for dinner.”

 

Kantham vanished into her room. She did not want to hear what Jogibabu would have to say. “I can never understand how they communicate and I don’t care”, she told herself. 

 

*

 

Eventually, Kantham went to Guntur, and attended the wedding. She had a wonderful time with her brother and the family. On her way back to the States, she had plenty of time on the plane to ponder over. Radha’s words kept ringing in her head. She knew it had been like that in her early days. When did the things change, and when did she change? When did she come to take every little thing as an earth-shaking issue? What happened to her?

 

One thing about herself became very clear to her. She never raised her voice again, not even to the telemarketers. The one line that kept coming to her mind, when somebody upset her, had been maybe I am reading too much into it. Or, maybe, they do what they do because that is what they need to do. They are going to do so, no matter what I say to them …

(The End).

*

(April 2008)

---

[i] One of the ten incarnations of Lord Vishnu. In Narasimha avatar, he assumes the form of a half-lion and -half-human form to kill the demon king Hiranyakasipu.

[ii] A Children’s story in which Bhatti Vikramarka relentlessly answers the whimsical questions of a vampire relentlessly in order to accomplish his goal, which was to bring him the vampire to a yogi at his request. Vikramarka is a symbol of relentless pursuit and the vampire a symbol of asking enigmatic questions.

[iii] A five-yard, plain cloth men wear waist down.

[iv] A fine piece of cloth, with gold-threaded trim, men carry on shoulder.

[v] A three-yard, plain cloth men wear waist down. Unlike dhoti, lungi is not pleated.

Tenneti Hemalata: An Invincible force in Telugu literature

Tenneti Hemalata (1935-1997):

An Invincible Force in the History of Telugu Fiction, Andhra Pradesh, India.

 

(© Nidadavolu Malathi)

 

 

In Andhra Pradesh, in nineteen fifties, Tenneti Hemalata, better known, as Lata, entered the arena of Telugu fiction with her novel, gaali paDagalu, neeTi buDagalu. “I can proudly say I am the first sensational Woman Writer of the present age of Telugu literature,” she said in a letter addressed to me. (Personal correspondence, dated August 28, 1982).

 

Hemalata was born on November 15, in Vijayawada, to Nibhanupudi Visalakshi and Narayana Rao. In his book, Sahitilata, the author Anjaneya Sarma noted the year of birth as 1932 while Kondamudi Sriramachandra Murthy wrote in his article, chalaaniki Arunaaachalaaniki Madhya Lata, as 1935, which appeared in other sources as well. Her full given name was Janaki Rama Krishnaveni Hemalata.

She wrote about herself in Uhaagaanam 56, partly in jest, I suppose.

 

At the time God was making me, his hand must have needed rest. After resting for a while, probably he looked for clay to complete the form but did not find it and then he grabbed an aravinda flower and a bunch of flames available at hand, put them in me and turned the key on and let me to go to live the life I had received. But, Oh God, this flame is burning the delicacy of the flower. ( p.154).

 

Lata’s ancestors enjoyed a zamindari lifestyle, and Lata was as raised as a darling child in her family. Her father had inherited considerable wealth which he squandered on women, liquor and gambling. He also, it would appear, entertained literary gatherings at home. Lata spent most of her time with her father at these gatherings sporting liquor and literature. Her father used to offer her a sip from his drink occasionally, wrote Anjaneya Sarma. In her later years Lata was criticized by purists for her drinking habit, which she defended in her book, antarangachitram (1965). She wrote about liquor in her novels, not as a plausible habit, though. More on this subject later.

 

Her father died at the young age of 32. At the time, her mother was pregnant with her brother. Lata stated that, in deference to her father, she supported her little brother’s education with her income from writing. It is important to note that Lata was one of the few female writers to earn a substantial income from their writings in the sixties.

 

Lata lived an unusual lifestyle in many ways. She was married to Tenneti Achyutaramayya, at the age of 9 and he was 16. Her husband’s incurable medical condition, two difficult deliveries, (first son in 1956 and the second in 1963, both cesarean) and financial troubles—all seemed to have given her rare insights into the perplexities and complexities of life. Against these insurmountable odds, it is no surprise that she had learned to take a good hard look at life and the meaning of life and develop a sardonic humor.

 

In her antarangacitram, [self-reflections], she talked about some of her struggles in life, which inspired her to write the stories. The book, antarangachitram itself  reads like a meandering stream of incoherent thoughts, confusing at times and profound at other, and records the pain she had suffered, and the questions she had been provoked to raise about life and god.

 

A famous feminist writer, C. Mrunalini, wrote to me in a personal email, that there was lot of confusion in Lata. I asked her to elaborate for which I never received a reply.

 

In this article, I will try to present my understanding of Lata and her writings against a backdrop of the little data available to me, and you may discern your own conclusions.

Also, please note that I have not read the entire literature produced by Lata. That is beyond the scope of this article. I am recording only my impressions of her writings only from what I have read and/or known personally.  

 

Lata studied extensively Telugu, Sanskrit and English classics at home. She started her career as an announcer at Vijayawada radio station in 1955 or 56. She took to acting while she was there, played notable roles in radio plays and on stage. She was also a singer and a staff writer of radio plays. In a letter addressed to me, Lata wrote “I have written 100 novels, 700 radio plays, 100 short stories, 10 stage dramas, 5 volumes of literary essays (Uhaagaanam), 2 volumes of literary criticism (Vishavruksha khandana, and Lata Ramayanam) and one volume of Lata vyasaalu, 25 charitrakandani chitrakathalu, 25 charitra kandani chitra kathalu, poetry …”.

 

This letter was written in 1982. Possibly she had written a few more between 1982 and her death in 1997.

 

Her awards included: Gruhalakshmi Swarnakankanam in 1963, and an honorary doctorate [kalaaprapuurna] by Andhra University. She was honored as “Extraordinary woman” in 1981 by the Government of Andhra Pradesh. She was a member of Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Academy for over 20 years. She was “the only elected woman member to the academy”, She stated in her letter.

 

Ghatti Anjaneya Sarma, a mechanical engineer by profession and an avid reader of Lata’s writings, published a book, Sahitilata, in 1962, wherein he quoted profusely from letters she had received from highly reputable male writers and elite like Bucchibabu, Malladi Narasimha Sastry, Acanta Janakiram, B. Gopala Reddy and Toleti Kanakaraju.

 

Several writers and readers drew parallels between Lata’s characters and the characters in works by famous western writers like Hemingway, Shaw, Maugham, and C. Scott Fitzgerald. Whether one would be willing to accept these comparisons for what they are worth is beside the point. The fact remains renowned Telugu writers and critics noticed Lata’s talent and accepted her as a notable writer. And they wrote personal letters to her. An interesting factor worth mentioning here is she started receiving them within a decade since she started writing and publishing, which in itself is a tribute to her status as a writer.

 

Lata started her career as an announcer at the Vijayawada radio station. Soon after that, she started writing plays for the radio. Kondamudi Sriramachandra Murthy mentioned that her first radio play was silaahrudayam [stone heart] broadcast on Deccan Radio in 1952. Ghatti Anjaneya sarma stated that Lata’s first radio play was mahabhinishkramanam, [The Great Exodus], but did not give the date of broadcast. Regardless, the fact remains that Lata launched her literary career at a radio station.

 

By early nineteen thirties, Telugu fiction was gaining ground as a literary genre. The new emerging story technique incorporated some elements of the earlier writing style; the stories were suffused with vestiges of Sanskrit poetic diction as well as the western story-writing technique. The Romantic poetry of the British writers like Robert Browning, Elizabeth Browning, Byron and Keats influenced Telugu fiction writers in the forties and fifties. And Lata, like several other writers had read several books in English and was influenced by them. We see the effects of Lata’s avid reading in her writings.

 

Among other things, she also tried to write detective fiction, without success though. She admired Arudra and Kommuri Sambasiva Rao. She particularly wanted to write like Arudra. In her own words, her detective stories turned out more like propaganda material—the thief turned into a man of distinction and the detective into a thief by the time she finished it, as she put it herself.

 

Lata also tried to paint which again was not a success story. She realized fairly early that she had no talent for the brush. It is notable that later she compared writing to painting, and writer to a painter. She drew a clear distinction between photography and painting. In photography, you click the camera and it captures the scene as is. On the other hand, in painting, the artist adds with each stroke of his brush, a new meaning and a new perspective gradually.  

 

Lata’s language is quixotic, awash with imagery and earthy at the same time, with heavy slang at times. It filled with metaphors, sensuous imagery, and even luxurious poetic verbosity at times. She was an admirer of famous singer and song-writer, Mangalampalli Balamurali Krishna. She herself wrote a few lyrics, for which Balamurali Krishna composed tunes. We find this musical quality in such books as antarangachitram and mohanavamsi, wherein separating the author from the work is impossible.

 

On another occasion, Lata lying on a hospital bed, while waiting for her second son to be born, she describes her thoughts as follows:

In this scanty life of mine, I have been through numerous experiences—hardships, tears, suffering, happiness, love, and duty; temptation and desire. While grappling with my life and financial problems—amidst all this—I would still travel in first class in airplanes, watching the beauty beyond description and ugliness beyond words—how many times I’ve seen it in this life? My life is small yet it is puffing up with my experiences, lightening and floating in the air like a balloon. Probably it will burst today.(ARC. p.13)

 

Her knack for imagery is amazing. Whether it is her sparkling enthusiasm for life or antipathy for the injustices in the society, it is always entrenched in a combination of sarcasm, sharp wit and uncanny humor.

 

Some of her convictions are a mix of tradition and innovation. Lata possesses a peculiar sense of the anomalies in life, which go beyond the bounds set by any single conviction. In some ways, she would fall right into the category of Telugu romantic/idealistic writers like Tallavajjhala Sivasankara Sastry, Devulapalli Krishnasastry, and Malladi Ramakrishna Sastry, to name but few. And in other instances, she is confrontational like Chalam and Ranganayakamma.

 

I believe that the anguish Lata had experienced in her personal life set her apart from many writers of her time. Her experiences or anguish defined her perception of life and her technique of storytelling. While other writers used the flowery language to describe their idealistic dreams, Lata used it to drive home the ruthless realities of life.

 

Lata believed in mystical somewhat platonic love. That is what we see in Mohanavamsi.

She claimed that she was speaking in abstract terms in mohanavamsi; she was not Radha but the concept of Radha [p.106]. She further explains, “My Krishna is a human being. … My Krishna should not be an egotist … People may label me immoral, still I would have gone with him, defying all the familial ties. … I have made plenty of mistakes. Maybe I would stay away from these mistakes if my Krishna were human. … But my Krishna is anantanaariihrudayavarthi [One who wanders in the hearts of innumerable women]. … Extremely selfish… Am I jealous? No.. I am worried only about the selfishness incorporated with pain. … How can he be god if he knew only to take but not give? … He is good to be worshipped only without asking for returns. … Maybe I am worshipping him all the same. ..  The same thing happened for a second time. It was the fault of the circumstances. The same circumstances would call my love prostitution. … That is why I turned around and came home. ..But I set fire in that person’s heart before I returned. [ARC p.106].

 

Her usage of diction and metaphors are elusive even when she is speaking in a book supposedly nonfiction about herself. She barely draws a distinction between her fiction and her reality.

An episode described in her antaranga chitram, describes this ambiance in her perceptions. She wrote that a local businessman approached her for sex in a rather forthright and primitive fashion. At first, she was surprised; she teased him for a few minutes as was her wont, and then sent him away. She took the situation to make a categorical statement about the life on Vijayawada streets (which apparently was the reason for the man to approach her in that manner).

 

In this Vijayawada city, this kind of requests and mediations is quite common. There is no evidence of any woman rejecting any man either. Underneath this scenario, money is dancing garishly. … In fact, that is the way the topography of Vijayawada—surrounded by the river and hills, and streams—they all make it a unique city in the entire state of Andhra Pradesh. I don’t think there is another city like this in the entire state. … And the people of Vijayawada are matchless in making the shorelines of these streams unbearably ugly.

The roads are always crowded. Most of the pillars of society in our town have amassed wealth by running brothel houses only. ….

The second problem in our city is the lorries. There are plenty of lorry drivers who stop them anywhere they please, crawl under the vehicles and fall asleep. … It is not an exaggeration to say that our roads are laid only for the purpose of those lorries and lorry drivers; they stop their lorries everywhere for repairs, and for others to die freely under those vehicles. …

On top of all this, there are brothel houses… in each corner of every street … They are referred to as “companies” respectfully. All these companies are invariably owned by women with rowdy protectors by their side. …

 

I quoted this passage to highlight the fact that this account in her nonfiction book is a replica of her description of the Vijayawada streets in her novel, gaalipadagalu, neetibudagalu. This may be a simplistic example but I believe that it does point to the authenticity in her novels. She used the same setting and the situations as she perceived them in the life around her. She seemed to have put her heart and soul into her writings whether it is fiction or nonfiction.

 

Acanta Janakiram was one of her harshest critics to disapprove her style. Referring to his disapproval, Lata wrote, “He [Janakiram] was annoyed by my abrasive and candid language. But what I’ve written is the truth. He told me several times not to write like that. Probably he was repulsed by my gaalipadagalu, neetibudagalu [Kites and Water Bubbles]. I don’t think he has forgiven me for that even after I had published Mohanavamsi and  Umar Khayyam. I heard that his nonfiction books, naa smrutipathamlo [Down the Path of Memories] and saaguthunna yatra [Journey in Progress] contain more poetry than actuality. In my opinion, Authenticity is more beautiful than poetry.”(ARC 147).

 

Lata claimed that, contrary to the public opinion, she was not writing about sex and there was no discussion of sex in her books except gaalipadagalu, neetibudagalu. She added that, “Even in that book, it was meant to cause disgust in the readers but not fondness. Whatever it is, there is plenty of falsehood in his [Janakiram’s] theory of beauty. And I resent falsehood.” (ARC 147)

 

Contrary to her statement however, Lata did write another novel, raktapankam [Quagmire of Blood], on the same subject as gaalipadagalu, neetibudagalu. The second book is a longer version of the same story. The difference lies only in the event that instigated her to write. The basis for gaalipadagalu, neetibudagalu was her observation of the brothel houses round the corner from her home in Vijayawada. For the second novel, raktapankam, the basis was a stack of letters sent to her by a woman who actually lived the horrific life and requested Lata to write the story. The woman’s friend who brought the letters to Lata told her [Lata] that the friend (the main character in the story) was moved by Lata’s earlier novel, gaalipadagalu, neetibudagalu [Kites and Water Bubbles, 1953], wanted to meet the author personally but could not. For that reason, the woman wrote her story in the form of letters addressed to Lata. And Lata decided to write this novel, defying the angry reprimands of several writers and critics. In the preface to the book, Lata said she had written as it was told in the letters, and changed very little.

 

Several critics compared her to Chalam for writing these novels. From my perspective, the comparison is not tenable. While the writers dealt with sex in their novels, their approach and their perceptions are distinctly different. Chalam’s views were rooted in his ideology and in that sense his novels were mono-directional. His characters are two dimensional. Readers will know nothing about the characters beyond their engagement in sex. In Lata’s novels, on the other hand, sex is only part of bigger picture. Her characters are alive; they eat, talk to each other, have children, and worry about other things in their daily lives. Her stories tell us stories we all know, and raise questions we are confronted with on a daily basis. Her stories are closer to the life her readers could relate to. A word of caution. Chalam’s novels may not be out of this world but they are monolithic at best.

 

About the same time as the two novels mentioned above were published, Lata also started writing a series of feature articles in Andhra Prabha weekly, under the running title, Uhaagaanam [musings] from 1958 to 1963. Its success was unbelievable. Lata became a household name and the readership for the weekly magazine escalated greatly. In a way, it could be her salvation for writing gaalipadagalu, neetibudagalu. Earlier, I mentioned about the umpteen letters she had received from prominent writers and readers. I believe that Uhaagaanam convinced them that she was a gifted writer.

 

The volume I used for this article is a single volume containing 197 articles in 600 pages, and published in 1978. The publishers stated at the beginning that the book covered umpteen topics such as the poetry and the style of Rabindranath Tagore, Shakespeare’s tragedies, Tolstoy’s humanism, Maupassant’s love scheme, Krishnasastry’s heartening lyrics, social philosophy of Chalam, maro prapancam [Another World] of Sri Sri, and several others. Her selection included Telugu, Hindi, Bengali, Tamil, English, translations of Russian and Persian writers and Vedic texts. She also drew on her experience in the movie industry and contacts she had developed  as a writer and actress (I think she acted only in one or two movies). (See her comments on acting noted earlier). The publishers also added that this book included all the issues of the entire world abundantly, and potent questions like: What does “society” mean? In what way the society is related to you?

 

Each article runs from two to five pages. Basically, the format is: Take a quote from a well-known book or a popular axiom, explain, comment, and describe one or two occurrences from everyday life we all are familiar with, and finish it with a brief recap.

 

In these articles, Lata comes out as humorous, caustic, sarcastic, ponderous and rambling incoherently at times. They captured a wide range of readership for that very assortment of topics. I, for one, was fascinated by all those quotes from the great books I’d never heard of, the wisdom they contained and the manner in which she illuminated a view or a thought. For me, it was the second best thing for not being able to read the originals.

 

In this weekly feature, she proved her abilities to put two seemingly incoherent situations in juxtaposition and hold them up for the readers to see the underlying commonality. In the process, she could be impulsive, pondering, confounding, ridiculous, and sarcastic all in one breath.

 

For instance, in Uhaagaanam 129, Lata opens with a popular poem from the great epic, Maha Bhagavatam [The Story of Krishna] and goes on with her mystifying questions about God. Then she shifts the somberness to levity as she describes an event from everyday life.

It is about a husband trying to learn to cook while his wife was out of town. He turns the radio on for instructions and the next few lines are just hilarious. He is unaware that the radio is broken and it is broadcasting two stations simultaneously. The result is,

 

1. Add water to the dal. After it is cooked, … put your hands on your waist and take two feet forward.

–He did so per instructions.

2. Put a pan on the stove, add oil, … stand on one foot, look sideways playfully.

–He did that too.

 3. Walk three feet poised, lean forward, smile… drop little lumps of dough in the hot oil.

–He followed the instructions.

4. Hop back three times …

 

As expected, the outcome is a disaster and he writes to the radio station that the instructions were messed up.

 

My [Lata’s] point is, our lives and the universe are comparable to the two broadcasts. That is why I want to tell god that, “Look Mister, your management is hopeless. Why don’t you stop creating for a while. Then we all can have peace for some time.”

 

But He is not listening and letting the Judgment Day happen. He hides in a corner, and keeps broadcasting two shows simultaneously and tells us to live the best we can. What has he got to lose?

 

The Uhaagaanam articles featured her humor on one level. At another level, she also was capable of initiating challenging dialogues among the elite on topics such as god, traditional values, and religion.

 

On one occasion, she received a letter from an avowed nonbeliever, Tarakam, in which he stated that Lata’s convictions about god in one of her Uhaagaanam articles was out of character for her. Lata responded saying that they both (Tarakam and Lata) were on the same page since their objective was the same except for the terminology. “You are calling it Truth and I am calling it God,” she said. Then, another prominent writer, Bucchibabu, wrote to Lata further elaborating on various conjectures of the same subject.

 

The fact that Lata was able to involve the elite of her times in a dialogue on critical matters speaks for her strength as a writer.

 

Her novel pathaviheena.(1971?) is about the disparity between woman’s chastity [pativratyam] and humanism. In the novel she discusses her views on pativratyam [wife’s unflinching devotion to her husband] and claims that, unlike in other countries, pativratyam is overrated in India.  She said she had received 7000 letters during the time the novel was being serialized in Andhra Prabha weekly.

 

In the same preface, she talked about another famous writer, [late] P. Sridevi (of kalaateeta vyaktulu fame) and added that Sridevi died because of a mistake she had made. The next comment of Lata is noteworthy. She said, “many people expected me to make the same mistake. But I am a devotee of beauty. … That is not the reason I did not make the same mistake. I also have soul. …  I have not sacrificed my soul … I have desires … and part of it is mischievous like everybody else’s  … I am a writer but that does not mean I am not a woman.” [ARC p. 105]. This passage seems to indicate that Lata had her share of heartbreaks in real life. Secondly, I am not sure if her comment on Sridevi is tenable but then probably it is irrelevant here.  

 

In her preface to this book, antharangacitram, Lata said she spoke only good things about her friends and left out bad things on purpose. Should we give her credit for being discrete? What does it say about her character? And about her sense of propriety and by default her wits? Why did she mention Sridevi at all?

 

This style of speaking in conundrums is rare in her novels. Beating around the bush is not her style. She was not afraid to take on any writer, male or female.

 

One notorious episode involving two other prominent writers was about their versions of the great epic Ramayanam. For the purpose of clarification, I will recount the story briefly. A jnanapith awardee, Viswanatha Satyanarayana, wrote the epic under the title Ramayana kalpavruksham [Ramayana, the celestial tree]. Then, Ranganayakamma, a reputable Marxist writer, wrote the same epic, entitled Ramayana Vishavruksham [Ramayana, the poisonous tree] in a confrontational move. Then, Lata wrote another book, Ramayana Vishavruksha Khandana, [Rebuttal of Ramayana Vishavruksham] challenging Ranganayakamma’s version. The three books created a huge commotion in Andhra Pradesh in the eighties polarizing readers, male and female, around each of these writers. Further discussion of this literary event is beyond the scope of this article but would suffice to say that Lata never hesitated to jump into the fray if occasion called for it.

 

Lata held strong views about acting and actresses. “I am not used to sugarcoat even in acting,” she commented. She said she had to struggle a little when she had to play the wife of another man in a radio play but managed to go through with it. She refused firmly when she had to cry for her (stage)son. “I cannot cry, even in the name of acting, for a child while I have a son in real life.” She would not tolerate doubletalk in the name of art either.

 

She later had come to realize that “the obstacles for actors and actresses to act are only their own sentiments but not their family life.” (ARC p.30-31). Woman remembers her duty to the society and family only after her profession as actress. On the other hand, she who aches for fame and to show off her well-formed figure while grappling with her own insecurities may shroud with morals like sugarcoated pills but can never be an actor. (ARC. p.31).  “Actors and actresses who cannot pronounce aspirated sounds come to participate. No matter how many times Banda garu told them the phrase was avinaabhaavasambandham, [inseparable connection] they still say avi naa baava sambandam [that is my relationship with my cousin], … [We announcers] will have to put up with unbearable sounds in the name of classical music,” she commented. (ARC. p.79).

 

Regarding the relationship between the writer and the writing also, Lata held unambiguous views. She said,

“Usually a novelist will be guided not only by the society in which he is living but also by his own insights and conscience [antharyam]. Yet, his experiences, memories and the conclusions drawn from his experiences—all come together and create a common ground of acumen for him and the readers. It will act as telepathy or a telephone wire. That telepathy is the connection between a first rate writer and a well-informed reader.

 

Additionally. An artist’s imagination may change the proportions and the form of the incident he had seen, rework on the connotation and the display. … All novels and musings depend on reality to some extent. ….

 

I will not accept that a great writer would write for entertainment or fame. He also would aim at making the life and his goal as well broader in perspective. There is nothing wrong if he uses his book as a moral sword in his attempt to achieve his goal. … I believe that there is no writing, never will be one, which is free of the author’s agitation. … A writer without talent is worse than ordinary person. Nowadays the ordinary person is turning into a writer, which is one more problem.

 

Once a friend showed two pictures of elephants to a great artist. Both the elephants were the pictures of angry elephants. The artist said, “this is great art since the sculptor  carved it with not only the trunk but also the tusk raised. The second one as ordinary and so there is nothing peculiar about it. There is no display of one’s perception. … If some brainless man called it [the first] as lacking in realism, that is his problem [ARC p.93-94].

…

Look at any Telugu novel that is not successful, you would notice only a series of aspirations, love, a couple’s movie dialogue, an overbearing gentleman, struggles in a rental property like in a display of dolls …    Life might be like a novel but a novel is never like a grocery store.   [98]

 

 She categorically disapproved the pretensions of women who would blame their family life for their failures on stage. She said only second rate women actors live under the delusion that acting was immoral, while in fact the problem was their own lack of talent.  

 

 

Lata covered a wide range of topics in her novels—harmony at individual or social level, underlying principles of caste, marriage, traditions in other parts of India, beliefs such as ghosts and predictions based on horoscopes, and so on. Here is then the main question: Can we find a common philosophy of Lata from these novels?

 

Her themes ranged from to streetwalkers, to ghosts, to imaginary coup by gods, to philosophical or theological debate. Lata explained in her prefaces the incidents that lead to her writing the novels. Each novel was inspired by either her own observation, a book by a famous writer or a brief conversation with another writer of repute. For instance, the much needed changes in society in tiragabadina devatalu,[Gods that rebelled] was based faintly on Time Machine of H. G. Wells, whose characters defy time, distance, and dimensions of life. Brahmana pilla [A Brahmin girl] is about reverse discrimination. She stated that she was not advocating restoration of brahmin superiority but highlighting the negative impact of the eradication of caste system on poor brahmins who needed help. Niharika is about the institution of marriage; she questions the acceptance of man having two wives but not woman having two wives in our society..

 

At the risk of digressing for a moment, I would like to comment on writers in general. Often the writers who write to advocate their ideological perceptions, are deeply rooted in their ideology. (Like Chalam, for instance). All their writings point solely to that one view. And then there are writers like Lata who take each topic and stay focused on that topic, attempting to present several angles of that one topic, offer a more balanced view of the topic and pose potent questions for readers to think. Chalam appealed to the elite and maybe readers fascinated by his portrayal of women’s sexuality. Lata reached out a much wider audience with her technique (which included humor, sarcasm and plain talk) as well as her points of view. 

Here are some of topics in her novels.

Closer to home: Jeevanasravanti. Her father’s financial problems, his use of morphine and his lifestyle were the basis for this novel, she stated in her Antarangachitram (p.34). Mohanavamsi: Her personal journey.

 

Stories inspired by her readings and per perception of cultural values: Bhagavantudi pancaayati [God’s court] was inspired by a novel by Somerset Maugham. She said she took some of the characters Maugham had created. She understood only after reading Maugham, that the human nature is not the same as usual at the time of war. Wherever and whenever war happens, the result is always the same—bloodshed and death.

 

In this novel, she depicted the Tibetan traditions, and environment at the Himalaya mountains. She also apologized for any topographical errors she might have made in regard to the area.

Dayyaalu levu? – “In general, I don’t believe in ghosts. Premchand wrote in his novel, Nora, that he believed in the theory of rebirth. Tagore expressed his belief in ghosts in his Hungry stones.

 Chellapilla Venkatasastry wrote that he believed in the grahas and had personally suffered from their displeasure. … The reason I am saying all this is, we may assume to be real what we are calling baseless fantasies and unreal. We have gotten used to think that the things we don’t know don’t exist.” (preface )

 

On Religion and philosophy

Edi Nityam [What is Eternal]? Tried to establish that humaneness is more important that religion.  It was about a woman writer, Radhamma, who was labeled a “prostitute” regardless she lived righteously. “In reality, I am partial to men; I support women. In this novel, Rajamma’s life is heartbreaking.”  This is a confusing statement. Is the word “men” in the first part a typo? She did mention about the typographical errors in her books. She quoted her husband saying that she became famous only because of the typos in her books.

 

Saptaswaraalu [The Seven Musical Notes] “Once I heard a story that supposed to have happened in a sanitarium in Mangalagiri. Some of the characters in the story resembled the characters in a story, “Sanitarium” by Maugham. Similarly, some of the incidents in Shaw’s Man and Superman. … “

Prominent composer-singer, Balamurali Krishna often mentions that the seven notes are the foundation for one’s spine, lyrical composition and the harmony in life. I have come to understand that life also reorganizes the notes and sometime strikes a discord and life is a stream of dissonance and harmony. A novelist has no choice but surrender to his own creation: he needs to forget his own existence and become the character in the course of creating each creator. The characters he created turn him into a puppet in their hands. In that play, he will need the help of the seven musical notes. We can’t say whether dance of destruction or eternal bliss is but it continues to agitate him to the end. This saptaswaraalu reflects that agitation of mine.

 

About Tulasivanam, Lata said prominent writer Gopichand and she were sipping coffee at a local coffee shop and listened to the story from a woman. Gopichand asked if Lata were interested in writing the story and Lata said he should write it. Eventually, Gopichand died without ever writing the story. Lata’s story explores the belief that tulasivanam is present wherever a woman is present. She takes her cue from a mythological character, Tulasi, wife of Jalandhara, who was a cruel demon king. Gods tried to kill him but to no avail. He was shielded by Tulasi’s pativratyam and invincible. The only way he could be killed was to seduce Tulasi. Therefore, Vishnu, pretending to be her husband, deprived her of  her moral code [pativratyam]. Later Vishnu granted her a boon; and she became a plant to be worshipped by women seeking exemplary life eternally.

Now the question , it is true that money matters but is it justifiable to grow marijuana in a tulasi patch? Marijuana sedates the senses, numbs the conscience. It may provide a temporary solace but no  healthy remedy. Tulasi on the other hand has medicinal value, it is wholesome.”

Her experimental writing: Love stories

By her own admission, she wrote some sort of love stories like vaitariniteeram in the beginning. Later she divested herself of the western influence. But she wrote Vaitariniteeram in response to a suggestion from younger generation readers, who had gotten used to reading the novels by other female writers, who were lifting stories from Herald Robbins, Barbara Cartland and Mills and Boon (Lata noted it as ‘Bouquet’ but I believe Boon is the correct word.). It was serialized in sowmya monthly.

 

Lata said her characters lead her to the conclusion; they appear in her dreams and tell their stories. In the case of niharika [Mirage] it took a couple of months before the main character, Saradadevi told her the complete story. Within those two months, lying on bed in a nursing home, she had finished two more novels, bhagavantudi panchayati and Omar Khayam.

 

All the five novels carry the publication date of 1963. To me, writing five novels with a so wide range of themes is remarkable. Then the question is: In doing so, did she succeed in becoming an esteemed writer? I have no statistical data, but in view of her renown, I’d say yes, she remains an important writer of our times.  

 

In a final note, I would like to quote Lata’s comments on contemporary female writers, that, “Many female writers are afraid that they’ll be forgotten if they don’t keep publishing but I don’t have any such fears,” she said.

And to substantiate her belief in herself, I would like to quote a prolific, well-informed writer, J. K. Mohana Rao. After learning that she passed away, Mohana Rao wrote, “I am saddened to hear the demise of Tenneti HemaLATA. In the golden days, in the late fifties and early sixties, I was introduced to Lata through Andhra Prabha. She used to contribute a column called UhaagaanaM. It used to be down-to-earth and yet poetic. … I can call her a mix of Bucchi Babu and Chalam. She fought for the one half of the oppressed in society, viz., the women.
… She always used to write with a certain enchantment and elan that is not easy to surpass or imitate. Lata reminds me of my youth, my return to Telugu literature (particularly novels) after a break, and my rethinking about women, relationships and a sense of poetry in many activities of our daily lives.”

 

I can’t think of a better tribute to a writer who took the world by the horns in the early nineteen fifties.

                                                                                                                                    [End]

 

 

 

Resources:

Anjaneya Sarma, Ghatti. Sahitilata. Vijayawada: Sri Vani Prachuranaalayam. 1962.

Hemalata, Tenneti. antarangacitram. Vijayawada: Vamsi Prachuranalu, 1965.

Sriramachandra Murthy, Kondamudi. “Chalaaniki Arunaachalaaniki madhya Lata.” Andhrajyoti Sahitya vedika. Sunday supplement. May 24, 1981.

Prefaces of the novels mentioned in the article. 

Hemalata, Tenneti. Personal correspondence dated August 28, 1982.