My e-Book

 

I put together several articles from this blog and my website, www.thulika.net entitled Eminent Telugu scholars and other essays and posted on the digital library, archives.org.

Here is the link. http://www.archive.org/details/EminentScholarsAndOtherEssaysInTeluguLiterature

Your comments are welcome.

 

Malathi

Dynamics of transcultural translation

Based on my eight-years of experience in translating for readers from other  cultures, I attempted an elaborate explanation of the issues and my solutions in this article, entitled “Dynamics of Transcultura Transference: Translating from Telugu to English.

The article is a reprint from AFCIA Journal of English Studies, June 2009 issue.

http://thulika.net/2009July/transculturaltranslation.html

I appreciate your comments.

Thanks

Malathi Nidadavolu

www.thulika.net is up and running.

PLEASE NOTE: IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:

Hello, all,

I am very happy to announce that www.thulika.net is up and running as usual.

You may now visit www.thulika.net as always and enjoy the stories and articles posted there.

Please remember to include www before thulika.net.

Thanks for your patience.

Malathi Nidadavolu

Editor

While trying to switch domains, I ran into a small snag and as a result, my website, www.thulika.net, has become unavailable temporarily.  The site will be up and running in a day or two.

I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience and hope you will be back to enjoy the stories and articles.

Thanks for understanding,

Malathi Nidadavolu

Editor

Please find new stories on thulika.net for updates as of April 2009.

Looking forward to your comments.

Thanks.

THE IMAGE IN HER MIND

(This is one of the stories discussed in my book on Telugu Women writers, 1950-1975. The story depicts the status of Telugu women in society during the period under discussion.  –Nidadavolu Malathi

                                                                             000

“Viswapriya’s speech today,” 14-year-old Uma tiptoes into the room with the same humility as Nara [Arjuna] would approach the Lord Narayana.

Badari, with his head buried in his math homework, says, “What?” without looking up.
Uma repeats the same and then adds, “I told you about it yesterday too.”

She is a year younger but two classes behind. He is studying first year Intermediate and she is still in the tenth class. Because of his short stature, he often gets compliments for being so advanced in his studies. He knows that his sister also gets similar compliments yet he is a man and she is a woman. He never forgets that. The reason being occasions like this. Mother does not allow Uma to go out alone in the evenings. Uma needs him to accompany her.

She says, “I told you about the meeting in the town hall. They are celebrating Gurujada Appa Rao centenary.”

“Amma told me to ask you to go with me,” she says.

Badari is quiet. For a second he is annoyed that amma should assign the bodyguard duties to him constantly.

Viswapriya is one of the most popular writers of our times. Telugu readers are crazy about her stories, they can relate to the characters in her stories and the events she illustrates. Viswapriya is plain and unpretentious in her writings. She has never published her picture, and almost never appeared in public but for a few rare occasions like today. Whenever she travels, she is accompanied by her husband or a close friend but never alone. In her stories, she never talks big.

Uma is a huge fan of Viswapriya. She has a box full of newspaper clippings and tear-sheets from magazines—every story and every article the writer has every written and every piece of news the newspapers have reported. Telugu readers adore her the same way they adore the movie stars, Savitri or Jamuna. In fact, several women writers are enjoying similar status nowadays.  

“I can’t go now. I have lot of homework,” Badari says.

Uma can not argue with her brother. Disappointed, she brings her box full of memorabilia and sits down. She may be young in age nonetheless smart, very smart. She can pick a good story from a handful of badly written stories; not only that, she can even spot the finer qualities in a story. She is impressed by Viswapriya’s progressive views and the manner in which she presents them. Viswapriya’s pen excels in depicting sensitive views and delicate thoughts in everyday language, without resorting to highbrow rhetoric.

Uma picks a story, “Habits,” and starts reading for the nth time. The narrative is about a young man who went to Chicago for a year, married a Telugu woman, who was born and raised in Chicago. They return home and the mother invites them in wholeheartedly. However, she realizes soon enough that there is an inexplicable cloud shrouding the room. There is  change in his attitude of her son but there is a marked difference in his habits. He sleeps in late, eats breakfast before brushing teeth, and drinks coffee ten times a day. The daughter-in-law puts too much salt in everything and insists that her husband cannot eat spicy foods. Much to the chagrin of
the mother, the daughter-in-law maintains that her husband has gotten used to table meals; he can not sit on the floor. Mother is hurt. “How could her son ditch his habits of twenty-five years in just one year? And how is it possible that the habits he has acquired in one year became permanent?” mother reflects painfully.  

Each time Uma reads it, tears fill her eyes. The author does not blame any one character; she presents the three angles skillfully. Society is a river which runs against each individual. Caught thus in the opposing current, each individual will have to lose a part of him or her, necessarily.

Badari glances at her sideways and, after a while, agrees graciously to accompany her to the meeting.  
It is almost time to leave. They tell their mother and proceed to the meeting. On the way to the meeting, Uma tries to imagine how Viswapriya looks: Possibly she is 30 or 35, and tall; has a pleasing expression, beautiful eyes like lotus petals, shapely nose, sharp and pointed chin; she is wearing 150-count handloom sari, peacock-colored with two-inch gold-threaded border, and a matching blouse. That is the image Uma has in her mind. She also plans to obtain Viswapriya’s autograph. Autographs are funny. Some people scribble their names, some dash off a wavy line but very few write beautiful messages. Uma hopes to get a nice message. Then she remembers something. Long time ago, she wrote to Viswapriya telling how much she had enjoyed her stories but never received a reply.

“Well, if she keeps replying to all the letters she has received, she will never have time to write the stories you craze about,” Badari teased her.

“Ha!” Uma stuck out her tongue at him but understood his point nevertheless. There may be some truth in his words, she admits.  

They reach the town hall. First ten rows on the left are marked for women. Uma takes a seat in the second row. She does not want to miss the view, but does not want to sit in the first row either. The second row seems to be perfect. Badari makes a mental note of her position and goes to the back row, not too far from his sister.

The meeting starts on time. Probably the organizers thought that it in itself would be a special attraction for the day.  

The chairman begins his opening remarks. Uma. There is one woman on the stage, and that woman is not looking anywhere near the image Uma has in her mind, not even close. The woman on the stage is heavy set, short; her face is a full circle like a new moon. She is wearing a cheap nylon sari and the same colored blouse. “Well, it is not her fault that I imagined differently,” Uma consoles herself reluctantly. She tells herself that looks do not matter, what is important is the words Viswapriya writes.  

The chairman finishes his speech and moves on to introduce the writer, “Srimati Viswapriya needs no introduction. You all know her only too well. She is the greatest writer of our times. She has been writing for over fifteen years. She is second to none. Very few possess the level of creative skills she has and we are blessed to have her in our midst today. She has written several long poems, hundreds of short stories and one and a half dozen novels. There is no need for me to say anymore. Here she is, brothers and sisters, the unparalleled writer, Viswapriya garu.”

Uma looks around. Just like her, the entire audience is waiting anxiously for the writer’s speech. Viswapriya gets up from her chair and approaches the mike. The operator hops on to the stage and lowers the mike.

The second-to-none writer clears her throat, looks around and starts her speech, “Before I start my speech, I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to the organizers who are kind to invite me to participate in this extraordinary event. To be frank, I was not sure I would be here today. I was not planning on attending this meeting. There are several reasons for that. For one thing, it is ridiculous for me to go on the same stage as Satyanarayana garu, one of the greatest scholars and orators of our time. I even mentioned this to the secretary. He would not listen. Maybe because of his respect for me or my writings, he insisted on my acceptance. So here I am.
“This town is the place for numerous renowned writers, to speak the truth. To me it is heartening that you all have decided to celebrate Gurujada Appa Rao centenary. I am flattered that I was invited to participate in these celebrations. This is an unusual gift to me. Let me explain why. Ten years back …”

Uma is fidgety. She looks around. The rest of the crowd also appears to be confused. The enthusiasm in the audience begins to fizzle away. The anxiously-awaited speech of Viswapriya is slipping.

Badari feels an uncanny satisfaction in this turn of events. He glares at Uma. His looks seem to say, “Enough, let’s go”. Uma signals back, “Wait.”  

“Speaking of a great man like Appa Rao garu in three words is like narrating Ramayana in three words—katte, kotte, teche, [bound, beat and brought], proverbially. I am not that bold. Also, Satyanarayana garu has already said all that needs to be said, and he did it in an enchanting, inspiring language. In the eyes of Appa Rao garu, woman is a remarkable force. …”

Somebody pulls Uma’s braid from behind. Uma turns around. The woman behind her points towards the door. Badari is standing at the door, shaking his head vigorously, “out, now!” Uma remains seated for another fifteen minutes, ignoring all the signals from Badari. The speech is stretching like elastic, no sign of substance. She gets up, disappointed.

“It is so stupid,” Badari says, on the way, “I told you, she did not write those stories.”  
“Hum,” Uma sighs. She is in no mood for chitchat.

By the time they returned home, it is quarter to seven.

Father and Murthy Mamayya are on the porch, chatting. Mamayya came from Guntur for a brief visit.
“You kids, remember me? I think it is four years since we’ve seen each other. How was the meeting?” he asks them sounding relaxed.

Uma goes up to his chair and asks shyly, “When did you come?”

Badari is standing by the pillar, smiling.

Amma calls out from the kitchen, “Chitchat later. Supper is ready. Come in, eat first. You can chatter all night.”

Uma goes in, changes and goes into the kitchen. She sets the plates and sitting planks quietly.

Father and Mamayya resume their favorite topic, politics. Badari goes to his room to change.

While eating, Mamayya asks Badari, “So, what was that meeting about?”

“Some literary meet. You tell him,” Badari replies, eyeing his little sister. He is anxious to let Mamayya know that he is not that stupid; he will never attend such mediocre meetings. As far as he is concerned, he has seen them all, such soapbox speakers are dime a dozen, only if they can find listeners! However, he does not speak aloud since his father is right next to him.

Uma is feeling down as is; no need for this jab from this big brother. Nevertheless, she wants to answer the question since Mamayya asked it. He is her favorite uncle, a Pandava prince in her eyes.

She says, feeling dejected, “Gurujada Appa Rao commemoration celebrations, Mamayya”. Her eyes are glued to the rice on her plate.

“Who are the invitees?” Mamayya is keen on pursuing the topic.

“Satyanarayana garu and Viswapriya garu,” Uma says. She is not enjoying this conversation.

“Satyanarayana garu must have given a very good speech,” Mamayya says.

“Yes, he is a great speaker. It was fascinating.”

“Ask her about Viswapriya,” Badari says teasingly. Immediately he also feels a bit of pity in the
remotest corner of his heart. He softens his tone as he continues, “She hoped to hear an
extraordinary speech from that lady writer.”      

Mamayya cuts in quickly and says in Telugu, “Oh, yes, I know. She is no good at speeches,” and repeats the same in English, “She is not a good speaker.”

Badari casts an “I told you so” look at Uma. He is so proud of himself for being so knowledgeable. “I know that, Mamayya! I am sure she is not writing those stories at all. I think her father or brother writes them publishes in her name,” he says assertively.

 

Uma glares at him for a second and lowers her head again; she hates such opinions.  
Mamayya comes to her rescue. “That is not fair, Badari. Some people are good speakers and some are good writers. Where is the rule that every good writer must be a great speaker too?”

“Well, in that case, I would have to say that she did not come prepared and that is not good either. Why did she not write her speech in advance and memorize it?” Badari retorts.

“Memorized speech will sound like a memorized speech still; it shows. I know her since she was a little girl. In fact, we two came here by the same train. I even invited her to our home. She may visit us sometime tomorrow.”

The ball of rice in Uma’s hand drops into her plate. Each word Mamayya spoke hits her ears like the early summer showers.

“Are you saying you know her that well?” she asks.

“She worships Viswapriya,” father says with a little smile.

“I can’t say ‘very well’. She knows who I am and I know who she is. Like I said, we traveled together. We were chatting and it came up casually,” Mamayya clarifies his position.

Uma is silent for a while. She wants to ask so many questions but not sure which ones she can ask and which ones she can not or should not.

“So, you both live in the same neighborhood?”

“Yes, in a way.” And he turns to father and says, “You remember Chalapati, our classmate in M.A.?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Viswapriya is his niece. Besides writing, she is also Women’s Welfare Officer in our town. Trust me, she is very brave, a real free spirit in every sense of the term. I never saw another woman like her in my life. She jumps on a jeep like Rani Rudrama on a horse and goes around as she pleases. Just a few months back she was caught up in litigation, escaped without a scar though. The rumor is she bought silk saris with a government grant meant for sewing machines for poor women. She argued that she sold her land and bought the saris and the purchase had nothing to do with the grant. God only knows the truth.” Mamayya stops and takes a sip of water.

Mother sees Uma is losing her appetite with all this chat. She says to her, “You are not eating. Here, have some curry.”

Uma shakes her head, “No.”

 

Father does not like discussing scandals in front of children. He says, “Yes, Murthy, you forgot to eat with all your talk. Come on, have some rice and curry.”

“Oh, no. I am eating fine,” Mamayya replies.

“I don’t feel like eating anymore,” Uma gets up and leaves the room. Mamayya notices it and is
puzzled for a moment.

“She is always like that, too sensitive. Last week she went to a movie and did not eat for the next three days,” father says, apologizing on her behalf.

Mamayya nods, and finishes eating quietly. After they are done, father and Mamayya go on to the terrace where they start a serious debate on the China-Russia affairs.
                                      000

Badari sits down with his books but is not in a mood to study. Earlier at the supper, he was happy for
a few minutes that his little sister’s fairy tale had crumbled. Later however he started feeling bad for her. He does not want her to be hurt that bad.

Uma is lying on her bed with a blanket pulled all the way up to her eyeballs. “It is not even nine yet. Why don’t you study for a while?” Badari asks her. He wishes he has not been so hard on her.

“I am sleepy,” Uma rolls over towards the wall, and closes her eyes tight, trying hard to fall asleep.

In fact, she could not get sleep the entire night. She remembers an incident from long time back. A few years back Badari broke her most favorite doll. It hurt then and now the hurt is as bad.

She wonders. Is it possible that the story Mamayya told is a fabrication? But then, why would Mamayya lie? No. Maybe he does not know all the facts. He says he heard it apparently from somebody else. What if that somebody was making up the story out of some grudge? Badari broke her doll; Mamayya shattered the image in her mind; he ruined her supper that evening and her sleep that night.

Uma wakes up late in the morning. It is past seven. Amma notices her red eyes and worries, “She is so naïve! How on earth is she going to live in this world?”

Uma pretends like nothing happened. She quickly finishes bath and sits down with her books. She wants to talk to Mamayya when nobody else is around. Finally, she gets a chance after father has left on some errand, Amma is busy in the kitchen and Badari left to see his friend. Uma approaches Mamayya.

“So, Mamayya, is it true that Viswapriya is involved in the Free Love Society in Madras?” That is the question that has been consuming her for sometime. Since Mamayya says he knows her, maybe he can clear her doubt.

Mamayya is taken by surprise. Evidently, he has not expected Uma to know about this piece of information.

“I’m not sure. People talk all kinds of things you know. Rumors spread like mushrooms.”
Uma is not satisfied with his answer. Mamayya folds the paper he is reading, puts it down and says, “Come here.”

Uma pulls up a chair and sits next to him like an ardent student ready to learn.
“Let’s say everything I said is true. So what?” he asks her, with a puzzling smile.

Uma is mystified. She stares at him, trying to figure out his thoughts.

Mamayya takes a few minutes to say what he is going to say. “Uma, writer or not, people are complex creatures. You have formed an opinion of Viswapriya based on her writings. You cannot expect her to live up to your idea of her personality.”
“How come? Is she pretending?” Uma asks.

“Well, what I am saying is writers create characters as they saw in the world around them. The characters they depict in their writings are not themselves, not necessarily anyway.”

“Does that mean they are dishonest?”

“Oh no. That is not what I am saying. This is hard to explain. Let me put it this way—they depict characters, some at least, in a manner they would like them to be. Even when their personal lives are screwed up, they want to be remembered as elite. That may happen consciously or unconsciously for all I could see.”

Uma is still confused. It still comes to the same. Writers are dishonest or so it seems.
“All right. I will ask you another question. Let us say you have a friend. She has a distant relative. She tells you that he is like a brother to her. And then you hear a few things about her from others—things like she is romantically involved with this socalled brother. You confront her and she of course denies it vehemently. Eventually she marries him. What do you think your conclusion would be under the circumstances?”

 

“That she lied to me. I would be angry.”

“Yes, at first,” Mamayya waves his index finger and says, “and then, if you really like her very much, you will try to justify her actions. You will say she did not tell you the truth because she respected you so much, and because she wanted you to cherish the impression you have of her. Is it not true?”

“Maybe.”

“That means you interpret her so-called lies as her respect for you.”

“I suppose.”
“And why is that?”

Uma has no answer.

“I will tell you why.”

She nods, still puzzled. To speak the truth, she has no clue where he is heading?
“It is all in your head. You have invoked an image of her in your head. And you have come to believe that is her true personality. After that, every one of your beliefs about her is based on the first image. That first image could have resulted from any number of sources. Your idea of her personality is a collaborative composition so to peak.”

He stops and looks into Uma’s face. She smiles vaguely. He is elated for pulling out a smile from her.

“I am telling you. The moment you start believing a perception, even when it is thin as onionskin, it turns into a steel fence fairly quickly and it narrows your perspective. After that, you lose the ability to hear the opinions of others and make sense of them. Let us take your case for instance. Why did you develop such an unusual interest in Viswapriya? Because the ideas expressed in her stories appealed to you at personal level. Based on her writings, you conjured up an image of her in your mind: She is beautiful because she described a beautiful girl in one of her stories. She deserves to be worshipped because she created a character worthy of worship in another of her stories—all the great qualities you worship. In fact, what you did is not very different from what she did. She wrote in her stories about the qualities she appreciated and
you rewrote them in your mind. Forget all that. Just learn to appreciate them only in fiction and be happy. You can not expect a branch to carry the same fragrance as the flower.”

Uma feels like she has understood his words vaguely though. Something is beginning to clear up, that is comforting.

Mamayya continues, “It is like the movie stars, Savitri or Jamuna you know. You form an opinion of them based on the characters they play in the movies. But in your heart of hearts, you do know the actor and the character are not the same.”

“I see what you mean,” Uma says. Then there is one more question. “What about what Badari has said? That her brother or father might be writing in her name? Do you know anything about that?” she asks.

“Personally, I don’t think so. In the past, in the thirties and forties, some men wrote and published in the names of their sisters and wives. They did so in order to encourage women to write. Now, in the fifties, that has changed. Now women are writing about things men did not write or wrote only from their own perspective. Women are writing what they are seeing and feeling. It is almost like a new
genre, and refreshing too. In my opinion, you are enjoying her stories because you share her views. Just leave it at that and you will be one happy reader.”

“All right,” Uma says and returns to her memory box.

[End]

 

 

Telugu Women Writers, 1950-1975. Online supplement

 

Hello,

The following link takes you to the Telugu stories in English, discussed in my recent book,

 Telugu Women Writers, 1950-1975, Andhra Pradesh, India. A Unique Phenomenon in the history of Telugu literature.

http://www.thulika.net/MYBLOG/twwsuppltoc.html

Looking forward to your comments, as always,

Malathi N.