Structure [silpam] in Telugu story

(Published as author’s editorial for January 2007, www.thulika.net. Some of the stories referred are available in tanslation on the site)

Stories evolve in a given culture, like their lifestyle, from their own environment. Readers and critics need to analyze a story from that perspective. In practice, however, there seem to be two angles. One one hand, it would seem untenable to apply modern criteria to assess a work of fiction written long time ago. On the othr, we will not have new insights into the literature of previous centuries if we had not applied new ways of reading a text of the past. Then the question is what is the plausible way to appreciate the fiction of the past?

Kondaveeti Satyavati, editor of popular well-known feminist magazine, bhumika, pointed out in her article on Bhandaru Acchamamba , that Acchamamba was not given due credit by the  establishment as the first writer in the history of modern fiction. She commented that the critics dismissed Acchamamba’s story, dhanatrayodas, as “failed to meet the criteria for short fiction.”

I thought it would be interesting to compare Acchamamba’s story to a contemporary story by a writer who is regarded highly as writer and critic. While I was searching for such stories, I stumbled on an anthology, alasina gundelu [Tired hearts] by [late] Rachamallu Ramachandra Reddy. In the same anthology, Ramachandra Reddy included a 43-page essay on the structure in fiction, “kathaanikaa, daani silpamuu” [Short story and its structure]. In the essay, Ramachandra Reddy quoted Kodavatiganti Kutumba Rao, our top-ranking Marxist writer and critic, as saying, “In these stories we read about the same events we see in real life, and which we ignore, and are electrified.” Translating the entire essay is beyond the scope of this article. I will quote a few salient points relevant to my discussion from the aforesaid essay.

Ramachandra Reddy elaborated on his views on short story as follows:

I wrote these stories with a hope that they would imprint a strong sense of emotion on the readers’ hearts. … In fact, the entire literature is oriented towards hearts. There is no literature without feeling. That feeling however must not turn into a melodrama.

One popular notion is that a story must have a ‘point’. “I am not sure if there is an equivalent term in Telugu for the word ‘point’. For the present, I would call it lakshyam. A story must convey a truth, a moral, a principle, or a hypothesis. …

In the previous century, when the story was born, its point was either a truth or a moral. That means it is only a concept in the mind of the writer.

Then there is the question, What about feeling? … The reader continues to experience the emotions of the characters while reading a story. Then the question we must ask is whether a story can be written to either invoke a feeling or convey a message exclusively?”

Ramachandra Reddy discussed the topic at length quoting a few European writers like O’Henry and Katherine Mansfield and then posed the question how it was relevant to his discussion on hand. He stated that currently the short story in Telugu has gotten entangled in the steel arms of the commercial magazines, lost its original form, and been reduced to a skeleton. He further added:

Because a story will inevitably contain a “feeling” in some form or other, and because nobody is writing at Katherine Mansfield’s level now, let us limit our discussion to the point in a story. … A short story must have only one point, and, characters and incidents should contribute toward that end, the point.

From that perspective, Ramachandra Reddy attempted to write a story as an experiment in structure, an indispensable characteristic to achieve the point in the story. The author observed that most people in the world live a tedious, uneventful life, and most of them are women, understandably. Therefore, he decided to depict the life of one such woman.

The story, mana jeevita kathalu [Stories of Our Lives], opens with the statement, “I may search her entire life and still find not a single incident worth writing about. How can I write a story without anything special in her life or lifestyle?” That is the problem for structure, says the author.

Mr. Ramachandra Reddy took it as a challenge since he had never come across a story without point, which makes it impossible to make the story structurally strong. The closest he could think of was “Madame Bovary” by Gustavo Flaubert, in which Emma, the main character, lived a droning life. She was not without emotions. In fact, she had a fantasy in her mind, which clashed with her surroundings outside, leading to her mental breakdown. Her husband on the other hand was willing to take life as it came and so he had no problem. There was no conflict in his life. He was a flat character.

Ramachandra Reddy decided to create a character similar to the husband in “Madame Bovary” in peddamma, the main character in “the Stories of Our Lives.” Since there was no conceivable tension or conflict in peddamma’s life, the author created two more characters, a couple living next door. He based his story on the responses of the couple to the dull life of peddamma. Readers are expected to respond to the husband/writer/narrator’s anxiety to find a thrilling incident in the old woman’s life and the wife’s two-fold anxiety. She attempts to squeeze out a story from peddamma for the sake of her husband, and in the process, builds a bond with the old woman rather unwittingly. In the end, the wife sees a story in the life of peddamma but not the husband. Is that a comment on the way men and women think and respond to a fellow human: Or, is it supposed to be the way a writer and a non-writer would respond?

In his analysis of structure, we see three perceptions–that of Ramachandra Reddy the writer, Ramachandra Reddy the critic, and the narrator in the story. The author and the critic explain the why, how and the result of writing a story without plot. The narrator within the story lives it. There is however some overlap, I think between the writer and the narrator.

The author says, “Peddamma has a husband, children, and the usual events such as children’s weddings, and the little tribulations in life, the same as everybody else … That is a common denominator for almost all people. Other than that, there are no events, nothing unusual, in her life. She has not experienced intense pleasures or unbearable hardships. She believes that life is the same for everybody. Her understanding of life is so narrow.”

As I was reading this analysis, I had to stop at the last line. Suddenly it felt like the critic became the narrator in calling the woman’s understanding of the world into question. The narrator in the story had the same impression from peddamma’s life. However, his wife could relate to peddamma’s account of her life. That became obvious when the wife asked her husband, “Did you hear peddamma’s story?” There is a story for her.

Ramachandra Reddy the writer decided to write a story about the way people around her would respond to peddamma’s unflustered life in the absence of passion in her own life. “Others may react to her in any number of ways. Some may be sympathetic to her. Others may resent her apathy, or even be aggravated by it and become philosophical. If I could depict all these responses effectively, it could turn into a good story,” said Ramachandra Reddy.

There was also a comment about the names in the story. In response to the comment by another critic, the author said, “Somebody commented that I did not give a name to the old woman to imply that she is a very ordinary person, insignificant in a way. I did not think so. In fact, I did not give names to the other two characters in the story either. I agree that names do carry weight in stories but I did not find the need to do so in this story.”

I would like to add a note on this aspect in our stories. In Telugu culture, we often address people using relational terminology such as peddamma (granny), akka (older sister), atta (aunt( even when we are not related by blood. I see the term peddamma as a proper name in that context. Other minor characters in the story such as son and daughter are also not given names.

Acchamamba’s story, “strividya” [Women's education, www.thulika.net/2007January/ABstory.htm] is comparable to the above story in some ways stories deal with no major heartbreaking issues or earthshaking resolutions. In Acchamamba’s story, the point is women’s education, a mode of communication between husband and wife, while the husband was held as political prisoner. The story illustrates the main problem, which is the wife’s lack of reading and writing skills, and includes an elaborate discussion of the benefits of women’s education.

In both the stories, the incidents leading to the end are not played out or described in detail, which is common in our narrative technique. They are verbalized in brief statements. In “Women’s Education,” the wife says she would have her younger brother read and write the letters on her behalf. In “The Stories of Our Lives,” peddamma says she was married, her son and daughter were married and so on. Each incident was rounded up in one-liners or a few lines at best.

I thought it would be interesting to study the two stories written in juxtaposition, using the criteria, Mr. Ramachandra Reddy had identified.

The story, “Hard to Believe” brings up yet another question regarding the element of reality in fiction. Can a reader suspend his disbelief in the illusory figment temporarily and enjoy a good story just for its point of view? Is it possible to sift truth from fiction and apply one’s mind to the underlying argument in the story? I liked this story for its narrative technique. While the author addresses a potent issue, a social malignancy, the technique she adopted to tell the story raises questions in regard to its authenticity. Or does it?

Souris’ story, “A Memory” maybe construed as one more romance fiction or a brief peek into a given moment in human psyche based on how we look at it. Some readers may perceive this story as an illustration of a woman’s heartbreak. I am inclined to see it as a stop, a turning point, in one’s lifespan. The key point is, or so it seems, when she asks, “When did all this—the son-in-law, the daughter, and the children–happen?” It would appear that she blocked out, knowingly or unknowingly a considerable portion of her life between the kamini flowers and the grown up children. Strange as it may sound, I have known of male retirees ask the same question after a long period of their public life, “Where are the little children?” The point is we all get carried away by one preoccupation in our lives (the woman in the story enjoyed her husband’s wealth and social status for the time being) and then return to what captured our hearts in our adolescent years.

Souris’ father, Gudipati Venkata Chalam, spent major part of his life on his radical writings, advocating sexual freedom for women and later settled down in Arunachalam for peace. I could envisage him asking himself the same question, “What happened in the past several years?”

On a different note, I am also wondering if the story, “A Memory” was inspired by her father’s story, “O Puvvu Poosindi,” [A Flower Bloomed], a story about a girl’s coming of age.

(©Malathi Nidadavolu)

January 2007

New book on Telugu Women Writers

 

  Telugu Women Writers, 1950-1975, Andhra Pradesh, India.

  A Unique Phenomenon in the History of Telugu Fiction.

 

I am happy to announce my latest book on the Telugu women writers, 1950-1975, Andhra Pradesh, India.

The book is a critical study of the women fiction writers in the fifties and sixties, who became a unique phenomenon in the history of Telugu fiction.

Following is the preface to my book which explains the book’s contents.

In the history of Telugu fiction, one quarter of a century following the achievement of our independence in 1947, from 1950 to 1975, stands out as unique for women’s fiction writing. Contrary to the popular belief that, women’s writing suffered for want of a room of her own and/or lack of economic resources, Telugu female writers wrote and published their fiction with extraordinary success. Sitting quietly in their kitchens or on the back porch, they wrote and rose to a level where they could dictate the terms to magazine editors and publishers, demand contracts without submitting complete manuscripts, and were paid higher than their male counterparts were. Using female pseudonyms by male writers became common during this period. To the best of my knowledge, this is unique and happened only in Andhra Pradesh.

In the past several centuries, women writers were quiet and anchored in religion. Present day writers are highly vocal, and are anchored in their ideologies. Historically positioned between these two groups, approximately, one hundred women had created distinctive fiction for a period of two and a half decades. This book is an attempt, however small, to examine their contributions contextually, and demonstrate that they, quiescent on the surface, had raised potent questions and expressed unconventional views powerfully in their fiction. 

I started out with a couple of premises: first, in our culture, which evolved over a period of several centuries, the demographics have played a vital role in formulating the familial and societal values. Secondly, women in the past had created their own world imbued with rituals, stories and songs, anchored in religion. Their literature was conformational. Present day writers, beginning in the eighties, women writers, called themselves feminists, created a world of their own, with separate magazines, organizations, literatures and websites, anchored in their ideologies. Their fiction and poetry are confrontational.

Positioned between these two groups, the women writers of the fifties and sixties created fiction, taking a significant part of the past tradition in expressing their views yet deviated from the beaten path, laying ground for the latter writers. It was a period of silent revolution. By that, I mean, they had departed from the traditional past in their choice of themes and language, while continued to cherish the traditional values in real life. Owing to the democratic principles put in place in 1947, the female writers were able to set a new trend and evolve a new culture, and enlist the support of men in the process.

This book addresses one more need. During the nineties, two major works, Women Writing in India (1993) and Knit India through Literature by Sivasankari (1998), have been published on women’s writing in India. Both the volumes set Telugu women’s writing in the larger context of Indian literatures. This book, on the other hand, offers exclusively an in-depth analysis of Telugu women’s writings. This is a product of my personal knowledge and experience, and my standing as a writer from the period under discussion.

Some of my friends in the United States asked me why I had chosen this particular period for my study. The one simple answer is, as a writer, I belonged to that generation, and therefore, am interested in examining how they/we had fared in the history of Telugu fiction. However, more importantly, lack of an all-encompassing critical work on this segment of Telugu literature, namely, the fiction by women writers during the period, 1950-1975, and, thirdly, the fear that it might disappear completely in course of time if somebody had not brought it to the fore. Yet another reason is, while the academic studies are focused on the literature of the past, and the current literature is featured in magazines and the media extensively, a well-balanced critical analysis of the fiction by women writers of the immediate past is sadly missing.

 I must admit that this book raises more questions than provide answers. Due to severe constraints of resources, financial as well as academic, this book is nowhere near being complete. Nevertheless, it provides valuable information and lays the ground for further research. I have put forth a few of my arguments and raised a few questions, with the pious hope that our Telugu scholars will continue to explore and examine this area of study further.

I attempted to trace the familial, social, and economic conditions that contributed to the success of women writers during this period; also, various stages in the development of women’s fiction—from encouragement and praise at home and in the society to reward, and later to ridicule and even to damaging criticism in the final stage.

This is also a personal journey for me. For that reason, I chose the style of narrative nonfiction in this book. The intended audience for this book is non-native speakers and non-Telugu readers. In that, I may have given more details than necessary in explaining the cultural nuance at times.

Organization: I started out with a brief history of women’s writing identifying the areas their values came from, and discussed their familial and social conditions.  In chapter 3, I gave the synopses for a few short stories and novels in order to familiarize the readers with our fiction, assuming that readers are not knowledgeable in Telugu language, and thus not in a position to read the original texts. The synopses are intended to facilitate further discussion in the next chapter. In chapter 5, a brief note on culture and humor was given and conclusion in chapter 6.

Originally, I planned to include a few stories in translation, in support of my views on the fiction under discussion. However, while finalizing this manuscript for self-publishing, I realized that it would serve my purpose better if I made the stories in translation available separately. I urge you to visit my website, www.thulika.net, for stories discussed in this book and several other stories.

Data gathering: I started on this project nearly twenty-five years back. In additional to reading the books I had access to, I wrote to writers, invited readers to write their opinions on the women writers of the period under discussion, and also traveled to India to interview writers, magazine editors, and publishers. Although I had started in the early eighties, I had to put away for several years in between for personal reasons. Again, in the summer of 2000, I had the opportunity to revive the project. Thus, part of the data may be dated. However, I have revised this version, based on the discussions I had with several writers, male and female, in the past six years.

The Telugu and Sanskrit words in this book, I gave the words per pronunciation, following our practice in Andhra Pradesh. Being unfamiliar with the use of diacritical marks, and uncomfortable with the transliteration used by some writers, I decided to avoid both the practices.

One more note regarding the form of address. In referring to the authors, I used the first names, as is common in our country. For us, the established practice is to address a person by his or her first name, with the suffix, garu, in the case of adults.

It is my sincere hope that my venture of recording a piece of history that might otherwise be lost for future generations will encourage scholars to undertake further research.

Kalpana Rentala, a promising feminist writer from the current generation, has taken the time to write the foreword to my book, as soon as I asked. Thanks, Kalpana, for the informative foreword. I wish you all the best in your writing activities.

My daughter, Sarayu Rao, is a big part of my life and activities. She has watched me through my triumphs and travails of this undertaking. Therefore, I asked her what she thought of it. Her observations in her own words are fascinating. Thanks, Sarayu! I wish you all the best in your acting career.

[End] 

 

 

For details of the book, click on http://www.createspace.com/3348017 

Copies may be had from e-store, CreateSpace.com or Amazon.com.  

 

 

 

Malathi Nidadavolu

Madison, Wisconsin

July 2008

What is a Good Story?

(Note: English versions of the stories referred to in this article are available on www.thulika.net.)

²

What is a Good Story?

(Note: English versions of the stories referred to in this article are available on www.thulika.net.)



This article is about a question I’ve been struggling with for sometime. My website, Thulika, is specifically created to introduce Telugu fiction to the global audience. Nonetheless, I am flattered that my site is reaching out to the young Indians who have adapted English as their medium of communication.

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

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

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

Taking the earlier example, Gopalam, like all the idealists in real life, lost sight of the realities of life and failed to see the setbacks in his mode of thinking. Whether Gopalam’s character was depicted well or not depends on what the reader considers a good characterization. This is only one example of how various views could emanate from the same story.



Let us get back to the topic under discussion. What is a good story? For me, two pieces fell in place automatically—the cultural nuance and the insights as presented by the Telugu elitists. I reviewed some books and articles written by Telugu writers in the past three decades. Based on my readings, the essential components seem to be the same as in the case of world literatures. The list included the opening, the development of a plot or conflict through a series of incidents, the resolution or the ending, technique, the message or the author’s point of view, characterization, unity or structure, and author’s command of language. Using some of these elements as touchstones, I tried to examine some of the stories published on thulika.net.

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

The title: Not that the authors always start with a title. However, I would like to start with the title since that is what captures the reader’s eye first. The story, “Diary” by Vasundhara is a good example. The original title in Telugu was “Kukka” [Dog]. For Telugu people, the term “dog” may invoke an image of a sick, stray dog eating garbage on the streets. For the western audience, dog is a domestic animal, man’s best friend, and the impression on the reader’s mind is not as revolting as that of Indian readers. I wrote to the author, and we both agreed to change it to “Diary” in the English version. The term diary raises curiosity since a diary allows the readers to peek into somebody else’s private thoughts. The very first lines tell us that it is a peek into a child’s mind. The child’s use of a dog as a metaphor to make his statement is even more interesting which was the basis for the original title, “Kukka.”

The second title that caught my attention is “Soham” [He is I]. The phrase, soham, is taken from the upanishads, referring to an individual identifying himself with the Supreme Soul through a long and rigorous process of contemplation and reflection. The title for this story is open for interpretation. I had a hard time interpreting it and contacted some of my friends, writers and the author’s son, Malladi Narasimha Sastri garu. Narasimha Sastri commented that the title meant, “I am part of God because he stays within me, meaning I love and worship God and when he is within me, I cannot abuse my own body. I must respect myself and in turn respect others.”[1] Satya Sarada commented, “Perhaps the protagonist just realized who he was and stopped trying to be someone else based on false pride or instigation.” I understand the logic but fail to see the needed incident to justify the revelation the protagonist was supposed to have experienced. The discussion between the young man and the protagonist towards the end does not lead to this realization. The young man’s description of his experience at Rattamma’s house was left to the reader’s imagination. What do you, as a reader, think happened at Rattamma’s house? Was it the same as Swamiji’s experience? Why did the author leave out this particular, apparently crucial, incident out of the story? Was it the author’s intent to provoke the reader into thinking? Or, did the author imply we all have our share of the inexplicable in our lives, and we all live at random? Is this a strength or weakness in the story? Yet the story caught my attention only because of the title. Was that the author’s plan in choosing this title?

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

The title “The Drama of Life” is also open for discussion. Madhurantakam Narendra, son of the author and a writer in his own right, pointed out that the term prahasanam (part of the original title, “jeevana prahasanam”) meant burlesque or farce as opposed to the term I used.[3] I however felt that, if I used the term burlesque or farce, the implicit irony and satire are apparent for the native speakers but not for the English-speaking audience. I think a term like farce diminishes the intensity particularly because the sarcasm is lost in the translation and for those who are not familiar with the culture, the term drama conveys the gravity of the conflict the performer, Harinarayana Sarma, was grappling with. I would like to hear from readers, particularly non-native speakers.

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

The opening lines in the “Primeval Song,” once upon a time, by Maharshi, take us to the good old days of oral tradition. It is a song. It is about the enchanting times. The first paragraph depicts a luring scene only to highlight how far we have come from that heartening time to the disheartening present.

In the “Illusion,” by Racakonda Viswanatha Sastry, the story opens with a shrewd, seasoned lawyer lecturing on the stark realities of law practice to a junior lawyer, naive and fresh from law school. The senior lawyer’s crude and abrasive presentation makes the reader want to know what the junior lawyer would discover at the end. In both the stories, the opening scenes set the mood for the reader as in a play. The opening paragraph is a brief statement of what is to expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The end wraps up and reveals the author’s point of view. That is the simplest statement in any good story. Some readers felt that the ending in “Illusion” was left much to be desired. Bhaskara Rao commented that the ending fell flat.[4]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Characterization: Creating believable characters is part of good writing style. Depicting a character does not necessarily mean providing a physical description of the character. Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry is highly regarded for his character portrayal, particularly, strong female characters. The story, “Moments before Boarding the Plane, is developed with extraordinary flair in the form of a dialogue between a queen and a chief in her husband’s court. The chief, because of his long-standing association with the family, becomes a friend, confidante, protector and attains a brotherly status. The dialogues written in simple, everyday language of the ordinary people, is simply captivating.

A writer from current generation, Satya Sarada Kandula wrote a similar story, in her Old Letters. From the letters written by Vennela to thatha, the readers will understand that she is a young woman, has been married, divorced and is perplexed by serious questions about life. The readers can visualize a young woman and a grandfather from the storyline—the granddaughter sitting in her room and jotting down her baffling thoughts and the  grandfather from a far off place reading those letters and comforting his granddaughter in his own way.

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

Technique: Each writer develops his own technique. In a way, the writer is the technique as far as his writing goes. In addition to the elements discussed above, the technique includes the idiom, his knowledge of his culture, his awareness of his societal norms, and his ability to pull them all together to make that one indelible impression on the reader’s mind.

Most readers can identify a writer from his style. Style is one of the elements that does not lend itself for translation. For instance, let us see a line from “Marigolds” (published in September 2002).

buddideepam cheta pucchuku aa guddivelugulo chukkallaati kallato bikkubikkumantoo choostondi Kamalabala.

“With her starry eyes, she sat there, slouched over the flower bed, staring at the marigold plants furtively in the dim light of a little wick lamp in her  hand.”

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

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

In any case, individual writers use such reference whenever the occasion supports it, and in an attempt to evoke the nuance in the mind of the readers. Would the stories read the same without these references to the classics and the artists? For the native speakers, it is a bonding experience. For foreigners, probably, the story is easier to follow without these references. However, these details do serve a purpose, provide an opportunity to understand the culture better.

Author’s point of view: Whenever a story is written, a point of view is expressed. What specifically that point of view is a moot point. As mentioned at the beginning, different readers relate to different aspects in the story and different critics see different viewpoints. The story “Choices” (Empu) (Thulika, June 2002) provided a platform for different viewpoints. The author, Chaganti Somayajulu, was one of the early modern writers, well respected for his social consciousness fiction.

Let me first explain my perspective. The story was first published in 1945. At the time, most of the literature was focused on the middle class issues—the hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears and frustrations of the era. If the working class characters were depicted, they were depicted as victims of either the system or the centuries old tradition, which meant depicting only stereotypical images. The author of “Choices” seemed to point out that the hopes, dreams, and family values of the beggar community are not different from other human beings in the upper classes. The centers round four characters, an old man, his daughter, and two prospective bridegrooms, a blind man and a crippled man.  The father, musilaadu [old man] is looking for an eligible bachelor for his daughter within their own community, the beggars community. The father prefers the blind man but the daughter has her heart set on the crippled man. The father’s logic, the correlation between the marriage and the economic status of the two grooms, and the persuasive arguments of the crippled man are the same as in any middle class family. The only aspect that sets them apart is their status as beggars. Keeping that in mind, I mentioned that the story was about the beggars community—their hopes, dreams, aspirations and family values. Daskhinamurthy, a noted writer and critic, also commented that, “Their [the beggars’] philosophy was that all the beggar girls must invariably look for and find only blind men to marry”(498).

Chaganti Tulasi, a well-known writer and the author’s daughter, offered the following explanation: “The story, “Empu” was published in ARASAM special issue, September 1945, and that was 58 years ago. But the situation of arranging a marriage for one’s daughter has not changed much. Though ChaSo [the author] took his characters and life from beggars it is about the fundamentals of economics of all communities, rich and poor alike. The richest man’s philosophy is also the philosophy of the poorest. Chaso wrote a small keynote sentence in the story - musilaadi upanyaasam mushti lokaaaniki upanishattu [The old man’s speech is an upanishad for the beggars’ community]. Here mushti lokam has an inner meaning besides the meaning ‘the beggars world.’ The word mushti is used as a derogative term for the entire human community. In your translation, the second meaning has not been conveyed. It tells about the panhandlers community only. Fathers, daughters, would-be son-in-laws are all alike in all communities.”[5]

Themes: I’m going to make only a brief comment about the themes since enough has been said in the above paragraphs while discussing other aspects. I agree that a good writer can write a story almost about anything. However for the purpose of my website, I am looking for themes which are commonly ignored or overlooked, stories that throw light on cultural peculiarities, and stories that deal with human nature but unique to Telugu people. Writers and translators may also note that humor and satire are culture-specific and hard to import in translation. I know I am taking some chances in this regard.

Language: Diction is illustrative of the author’s command of figures of speech, knowledge of traditional values, symbols, epithets, proverbs and the ability to suffuse the story with native flavor.

Sripada Subrahmanya Sastry and Racakonda Viswanatha Sastry are often quoted as two writers who could present dialogue with the sharpness of a knife (Dakshinamurthy. 339). A famous poet, Sri Sri. stated that Muthelamma’s speech in the story “Illusion” belonged in the world’s greatest literatures.[6] Metaphors and proverbs are powerful ingredients of our socio-cultural history. Most of our writers draw on the characters from ancient literature for what the characters stand for in the public perception. A writer need not believe in Rama as a god to use the name as a symbol for an ideal person. In the story, “Reform”, the author, known for her Marxist ideology, describes the state of mind of the couple at the end as “two persons lost in dharma yuddham.” The phrase dharma yuddham refers to the great war in the epic, Maha Bharata, fought in the name of justice. The reference invokes an image in the reader’s mind of a battle fought for a just cause and lost.

On a different note, some of my American friends, Judy, Nancy, and Lucille,  commented on the lengthy names in our stories. One of them said that the long names are like roadblocks, they do not let the reader move forward with the story. In that context, I would like to mention that foreign names are hard to remember for any reader and long names are the hardest. However, the names are part of characterization. They add considerably to the narrative.

Tentatively, as an experiment to help my friends, I tried to change the names in “The Man Who Never Died” after contacting the author. I could change one name, Appalakonda to Appanna, but could not come up with a decent substitute for Markandeyulu. I was wondering what the thoughts of the writers and translators are on this one.

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

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

Looking forward to your comments.

(As I finished this article, the lectures of Prof. K. Viswanatham garu on E. M. Forster during my college years, 1956-1959 came to my mind. Professor garu, I am grateful for the confidence you had put in me! –Malathi)