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.

New articles on www.thulika.net

Please, visit www.thulika.net for new articles posted today. Also read “A Word From Me 7″ for more details.

Thanks

Malathi N.

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

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)