ASTITVA

Telugu Short Fiction From Telangana

Chief Editor
Nandini Sidhareddy

Editors
K. Damodar Rao
Elanaaga

Telangana Sahitya Akademi

Ravindrabharati, Saifabad
Hyderabad.
2 / Astitva

Astitva: Telugu Short Fiction From Telangana

Chief Editor: Nandini Sidhareddy
Editors: K. Damodar Rao and Elanaaga

Publication No: 76

© Telangana Sahitya Akademi

First Edition: August, 2019

Copies: 1000

ISBN: 978-93-89228-16-8

Price: Rs. 250/-

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized

in any form or by any means without prior permission in writing
from Telangana Sahitya Akademi.

Cover Painting: Thota Vaikuntham

Cover Design: Bangaru Brahmam

Published by
Telangana Sahitya Akademi
Kalabhavan, Ravindrabharati,
Hyderabad-500004.
Phone: 040-29703142

Printed at Charita Impressions, Azamabad, Hyderabad-20.

Ph: 040-27678411
 Contents

Page No

Publisher’s Note 5
Foreword 7
Introduction 13

1. Eleven Bottle Gourds, Twelve Village Officers 41

Suravaram Pratapa Reddy
2. Affection in Ignorance, Animosity in Awareness 46
Kaloji Narayana Rao
3. Justice 51
Potlapally Rama Rao
4. Golla Ramavva 57
P.V. Narasimha Rao
5. Fire Flowers 67
Dasarathi Krishnamacharya
6. The Kite 73
Vattikota Alwar Swamy
7. Two Prisoners 84
Vallapureddy Buchareddy
8. Deathless 90
Cherabandaraju
9. The Right 97
Madireddy Sulochana
10. Murder 105
Naveen
11. Am I Dead? 115
Ch. Madhu
12. The Jar 127
Sadanand Sharada
13. Chitrakannu 138
Nandini Sidhareddy
14. It’s Not Yet Sunrise 147
Devaraju Maharaju
15. Fireflies 156
Muktavaram Parthasarathy
16. The Stud Bull 168
Uppala Narasimham
17. Forage 188
Ayodhya Reddy
18. The Funeral Feast 195
Tummeti Raghothama Reddy
19. Education 214
B.S. Ramulu
20. Opponents 230
Allam Rajaiah
21. War-Zone 262
Kaluva Mallaiah
22. The Dispossessed 277
P. Chand
23. One-legged Siva 301
Bejjarapu Ravinder
24. The Introvert 308
Jathasree
25. Ordi (Half Wages) 317
Amballa Janardan
26. 9/11 Love Story 327
Mudiganti Sujata Reddy
27. Nemalinara 339
B. Muralidhar
28. The Virtual World 353
Kasturi Murali Krishna
29. Categorical Imperative 361
Adepu Laxmipathi
30. Power Game 379
Boya Jangaiah
31. The Walls 387
Shahjahana
32. Money Pouch 394
K. V. Narender
33. Flames of Grief 400
Raama Chandramouli
34. Rain in the Heart 409
Peddinti Ashok Kumar
35. “They” 420
Tayamma Karuna

Glossary 430
Notes on Authors 438
About the Translators and Editors 444
 Publisher’s Note

Short story is a genre that could boast of an animated, enlivening

description of the multifarious facets of modern life. It evolved in
Telugu with the influence of English literature. In Telangana, the short
story came into existence in the early years of 20th century. It was
born even before the Telangana armed struggle, and so recorded the
tales of struggles and its contexts besides the myriad faces of society.
The stories written in this region have more of reality than fabrication
in them. Besides, content rather than form was given importance.
Whatever the reasons, Telangana story did not get proper attention
in the literary history of the combined Telugu state. Telangana Sahitya
Akademi deems it fit that Telangana story needs to be introduced to
the people of other regions and languages. It intends to get the
representative stories of Telangana rendered into other languages and
published.
For the purpose of selection of representative stories of
Telangana, a committee comprising Dr. Mudiganti Sujatha Reddy,
Adepu Laxmipathi and K. P. Ashok Kumar was constituted. The
committee has selected thirty five stories keeping in view the content
and form. We are publishing the translated stories in Hindi and
English, and for ready reference we are anthologising them in Telugu
as well. The Akademi wishes that these stories are translated into
other languages from Hindi and English.
The discerning readers who read these thirty five stories would
understand the changes that had taken place in the social, political
and cultural fields of Telangana in the 20th century and the first decade
of 21st century. They would also come to appreciate how Telangana
was formed as a state of independent identity as a result of the many
aspirations, agitations and multiple forms of reclamation. The
Akademi is glad that it is able to publish the representative stories of
Telangana in three languages simultaneously.

Hyderabad Telangana Sahitya Akademi

03.06.2019
6 / Astitva
 Foreword

When things that are considered impossible become possible or when

these happen with the interference of forces unknown, they are called
miracles. Telangana movement in which people participated with
gusto, the youth even sacrificing their lives in hundreds, and the
resultant victory in the form of statehood also appear as great
wonders. People’s will remaining strong, sustaining for long to
become a reality is rare, exceptionally remarkable. All the dreams
associated with myriad aspirations might not be realised but when
we see the few results of realised dreams we feel very proud and
satisfied. This book is one such result of a realised dream. But for the
Telangana movement, this anthology wouldn’t have materialised;
such a thought wouldn’t have come in the first place. Through this
anthology of selected Telugu stories, English reading people and the
many non-Telugu readers will get an opportunity to understand the
astitva of Telangana. This is a remarkable thing in the journey of
Telangana identity and its literature. Among the many good things
that the Telangana Sahitya Akademi is undertaking, this is all the
more commendable.
In the second and final stage of Telangana movement, literary
and cultural factors stood in the vanguard. While the voice needed
for the movement was lent by song and other oral forms, literature in
written form made an effort to provide the ideological platform.
Debates about the disparities in employment, irrigation and industries
used to take place even earlier. But they were confined to few
intellectual circles of Telanganites belonging to social sciences.
Literary discussions were different. They used to exist in the form of
arguments and severe clash of views. The debate as to what was the
representation of Telangana and its reckoning in Telugu literature
had started from 1996. In the early years of the second stage of
Telangana movement the agenda was clearly marked: Questioning
the periodic division of modern Telugu literary history; bringing to
light the forgotten Telangana first generation writers; interrogating
the validity of anthologies, histories, organisations and movements
that claimed inclusiveness which, in fact, did not represent all regions
8 / Astitva

and social sections. Telangana movement at that stage started

questioning the bias in the “total” and “inclusive” narratives. As a
result, Telangana movement has achieved three things viz. correcting
the history, contending with the present and manifesting the
multifaceted creativity.
Among the early story writers Achamamba’s name was heard
occasionally and Madapati Hanumantha Rao was remembered rarely.
Not much was known about Telangana writers of the 20th century
early decades. It was expected of outsiders to express their biased
view that Telangana story was negligible. However, it was the time
when there was no compilation here to show the treasure trove of
our stories. If we notice the transformation that has taken place in
these two decades, we will be surprised and delighted. The stories of
first generation came out in the form of two anthologies and there
were other story collections of many forgotten writers. More
importantly, an index of stories with their details written before 1956
came out with the title Dastram. Collection, compilation and
anthologising have been taking place at a phenomenal pace.
Amnesia here is not personal. Like memory, selective amnesia
too is political. There are political and social forces behind retaining
a thing and excluding the other, showcasing a thing and erasing the
other. Economic changes also play a part in it. The prevailing
atmosphere of a given period ordains the processes of memory-
amnesia. In this respect, the regional bias was reflected in three forms:
Firstly, though there are writers and writings matching those of the
dominating region, they are not taken into cognizance, not given their
due recognition. This is overt bias. Secondly, the tendency to dismiss
the writers of the oppressed region and their writing methods as
inferior while elevating the writings of the dominating region as
superior works. This is tantamount to legitimisation of bias. Thirdly,
the opportunities and atmosphere congenial for full realisation of
creativity in the dominant region were woefully lacking in the
oppressed region. This is organised bias. In the process, even people
of the same region tend to continue the same discrimination, though
unwittingly. Everything such as taste, standards and literary
production takes the direction determined by the dominant region
and no effort to highlight the history and greatness of the oppressed
region takes place. While not recognising the existing talent is the
 Foreword / 9

fault of dominant sections, not making any effort to bring to light the
forgotten works is the fault of the locals. The Telangana movement
has recognised these two facets and took upon itself a long term
responsibility.
After collection, compilation and publishing are accomplished
to a satisfactory level, another thing to set our eyes on is analysis. If it
does not take place we cannot assess the position of our writing in
relation to contemporary Telugu writing. Even if it is stated that
comparison is not required and that the two should be considered as
diverse trends, analysis needs to take place. The substantial research
that had taken place as part of the second stage of Telangana
movement contributed immensely in bringing to light many forgotten
works. It has effectively carried out the work of compilation as well.
But the fact remains that it hasn’t done enough analysis. Anthologies
like this give scope for multi-dimensional analysis. They offer fresh
insights that were not touched upon earlier. They give scope for many
appraisals that were not attempted in the past. For instance, there are
two stories in this anthology, one was written by P.V. Narasimha Rao
and the other was written on him. There is a history of half a century
between the two stories. By including them in the same book, we get
to understand Telangana reality’s contradiction, its distinct peculiarity,
also its tragedy. Each story that found a place in this collection gives
its distinct meaning, and together additionally offer multiple and
varied meanings. Such an analysis is needed to comprehend
Telangana’s social, economic and literary past.
The work done so far for couching the history of Telangana story
in a single postulate is not sufficient enough. Telangana story had
emerged even before there was enough readership. When compared
with the contemporary British Andhra, Telangana was in no way equal
in respect of literacy, modernisation of cities and spread of middleclass
ideology. Many new ideas brought about by social reform, female
literacy and independence movement were not indigenous to the
Telangana society of those days. Telangana story took birth in the
midst of these factors. The influence of British Andhra to some extent,
and that of Urdu, Parsi literatures to a great extent guided the efforts
of earlier writers. But as response of the local society, its readiness
and educational standards had left much to be desired, the stories
conveying Telangana voice did not emerge till mid 1930s. The themes
10 / Astitva

of first generation stories, frictions of thought manifested therein were

all distinct. The paucity of educational opportunities and lack of
mobility must also have been the causes for this variance. In fact,
these seeming shortcomings must also have played to its advantage
in that a unique style has evolved in Telangana story. That style could
be identified in the stories of 1940s. By that time Telangana was
introduced to and interacted with Telugu literature of British Andhra.
As a result, influences too have increased. This can be discerned in
the stories of 1950s. The formation of united Andhra Pradesh in 1956
changed the literary scenario in Telangana and its priorities in the
hands of new generation writers. The decade between 1955 and 1965
is identified as one of stagnation of progressive movement. It needs
to be probed whether there was stagnation in Telangana during that
period. That was the period when new age writers emerged and
modern writings originated even in district headquarters. The
collection, Gaddipoolu from Mahabubnagar district is an example.
Could there be many such efforts at local level in other districts? There
is a need for researchers to focus on compiling and collecting
Telangana literature even after 1960.
A few critics have attempted to identify the nature and
dimension of Telangana story from 1970s. It is true that for the next
three decades a special mode of story was prevalent in Telangana. It
is also the kind of story that reflected ground reality in Telangana.
This can also be considered as an extension of the type of story that
emerged in 1940s and 1950s. But, if only the Telangana story had
manifested the complexity of human relationships, treatment of
modern subjects like clash of values in the fast changing society,
middleclass mores in the backdrop of city life, it would have
contributed a lot to the modern (hi)story of Telangana. Has such a
story flourished or not? If it has, is it clearly identifiable as Telangana
story? Have we not recognised them even if they appeared? Answers
are yet to be found. In recent decades there may be some writers
from Telangana who wrote stories without intimations of a region or
a region-specific dialect. Are such writers just reflections and imitators
or is there any reality reflected in their writings? These are some
related questions.
That which has ceased to exist except in the form of story is
called Kathavashishtam (remainder only as a story). Even the story
 Foreword / 11

has not remained in its residual form in Telangana. Comparatively,

the number of stories written was less. Many of them remained
unrecognised in the annals of time. Numerous stories have to be
archived. Even in those that are available, new appraisals are needed.
Expecting the hundred year old story of Telangana to reflect the
Telangana life of a century is justifiable. But the problems of Telangana
did not allow the writers to depict its expansive life. Even now, there
is a great disparity between life and literature in respect of quantity
and extent. All the stories in this anthology put together may not
give even a fragmentary reflection of a hundred year history of
Telangana. The Telangana story writers of every generation and every
type may not have found representation in this anthology. I think it
is primarily due to space constraints rather than non-availability of
information. It cannot even be said that each selected story represents
the concerned writer’s oeuvre. The number of writers in early
Telangana was less and due to this, just a single writer had to write
political and social stories with responsibility. In such a situation it is
difficult to identify representation. It appears that there is not much
representation from 1950s and 1960s. In order to give suitable
representation to the stories that appeared in a surge after 1970 when
Telangana story became vigorous, it may be unavoidable to exclude
some stories. These are all editorial constraints. Even in the midst of
so many limitations, this anthology of Telangana stories can truly
represent its astitva. It certainly mirrors, partially at least, the social
and economic life of Telangana. This anthology might not hold a
perfect mirror to Telangana society and story to readers of English
but it will certainly not give a false picture. The Telangana that is
reflected in these stories might show a path to the journey of
realisation of its astitva.
The researchers of this generation need to read these stories and
unravel the many associations, realities and histories captured by the
word and essence therein. It is the responsibility of literary critics to
throw light on this homage of stories, a treasure-trove of Telangana
that offers great scope to explore a wide variety of issues.
I express my compliments and gratitude to the editors,
translators and Telangana Sahitya Akademi.
Hyderabad K. Srinivas
June 2, 2019
12 / Astitva
 Introduction

Indian literatures in English translation form a vast, diverse body

that offers multiple vistas to appreciate one or many layers of the
idea of India. Indian fiction in English is largely urban-based, more
privileged, rich/upper middleclass-oriented dealing with themes like
migration, inner conflicts, alienation, man-woman relationships,
familial tensions, cross cultural encounters. It predominantly used
historical events and political upheavals as the backdrop of fictional
works in the last many decades whereas social issues could not be
projected, primarily on account of the class/caste orientation of the
English fictionists. Regional writers while handling the historical and
the political effectively gave substance to social issues too lending a
touch of authenticity to their fiction. In comparison, the regional and
sub-regional literatures enjoy the ‘privilege’ of being insiders’ accounts
and hence could capture the ‘soul’ of India. These literatures are rooted
in the soil, bringing the many complexities, contradictions, identities,
in short, the heritage and diversity of the country into full play. With
the publication of translations of these literatures in English on a large
scale, finding favour both with publishers and readers, the distance
between the privileged position of Indian English and hitherto
marginalised Indian Literatures in translation is gradually reduced.
These literatures are increasingly viewed as part of the corpus of
Indian Writing in English making it copious and varied.

The State of a Story

Telugu short story from Telangana is a dynamic, unique literary
phenomenon. Born of the region’s ethos, it has a long tradition with a
history of more than one hundred years. It carries with it the
originality and authenticity of an independent literary tradition
though until recently it was considered part of the larger Telugu short
story tradition comprising the regions of Rayalaseema, Andhra and
Telangana. Though Telugu is the official language of the state in each
of the above regions it has a distinct tone, tenor, dialect, accent and
flavor of its own. Telangana, in particular, is different from other
regions insofar as it has got its own cultural manifestations in terms
14 / Astitva

of customs, festivals, dialects, culinary habits, and linguistic nuances

as evidenced in its literature and performing arts. Oral, folk elements
play an important role in the cultural scenario of Telangana.
Even geographically, it is different from other regions. The
weather here, irrigation facilities, water flow are quite distinct. It is
well-known that civilizations flourish depending on the availability
of water and irrigation facilities. Telangana is an upland where fields
are to be irrigated by lifting water from rivers. The land does not
yield to natural irrigation. Water has to be diverted and lifted which
required political will. Linguistically, the Andhra region, under British
rule, came under the influence of English language while the impact
of Urdu, the official language imposed by the Nizam, had been
immense in Telangana. The Telangana story writers of first generation,
as such, were influenced by Urdu writers, and their expressions find
their way naturally into Telugu stories.
The story form flourished rather early in British Andhra and
Telangana. Middleclass mores and social reform formed the main
themes in Andhra region in the hands of such fine practitioners as
Chaganti Somayajulu, Nori Narasimha Shastri, Palagummi
Padmaraju, Chalam, Butchi Babu, Munipalle Raju in the first
generation and Vishwanatha, Sripada, Butchibabu, Kodavatiganti,
Ravi Shastry, Kalipatnam Ramarao, Balivada Kantharao,
Madhurantakam Rajaram, Bina Devi, D. Kameshwari, Abburi Chaya
Devi and others in the second generation. They chiefly dealt with the
complex struggles in the inner life of an individual, women’s choices,
changing man-woman relationships, questioning the status quoism
in social and moral codes, human greed and power politics in their
writings. The fictional mode employed is chiefly one of social realism
while humour, satire and irony are the techniques used by these
stalwarts.
Until recently it was held that Gurajada Apparao’s “Diddubatu”
(1911) was the first ever story to have appeared in Telugu (Gold
Nuggets, Sahitya Akademi, p. ix; That Man on the Road, Penguin, p.
225). But it is now generally agreed that “Lalita, Sharadalu” by
Bandaru Achamamba (1874-1905) published in 1901 in Telugu Janana
magazine was the first Telugu story. She was born in Krishna district
in AP and educated and brought up in Nalgonda district in Telangana.
She followed her first story with “Dampatula Prathama Kalaham”
 Introduction / 15

(First Quarrel of Newly Weds) which was published in Hindu Sundari

(founded by the social reformer, Kandukuri Veereshalingam) in June
1902. Bandaru Achamamba also wrote other stories like “Dhana
Trayodashi” and “Stree Buddhi.”
Renaissance in Telangana is associated with the Library
Movement that began in 1901. It played a crucial role in spreading
literacy and bringing awareness among the poor, illiterate masses in
a feudal set-up. K. Srinivas is of the opinion that “In a system that
had gadis in villages, government officials in towns and the king in
the capital as symbols of authority, libraries emerged as new power
centres or people’s power centres” (Telangana Sahitya Vikasam 1900-
1940. Telangana Publications, 2015, p. 373). The libraries in villages
acted as centres of active mobilisation of public consciousness and
awareness, and even subtly challenged the unbridled authority of
landlords. “Srikrishnadevaraya Andhra Bhasha Nilayam” was
established in 1901 in Hyderabad by Komarraju Laxmana Rao with
support from Munagala Raja Nayani Venkata Rangarao. Together,
they also started “Vignana Chandrika Grantha Mandali” in 1906.
Inspired by them, Madapati Hanumantha Rao established “Rajaraja
Narendra Andhra Bhashanilayam” in Hanumakonda in 1904. These
were followed by Andhra Saraswata Parishad which together
endeavoured to create awareness, spread literacy and propagate
importance of Telugu language and heritage. The culmination of these
efforts could be found in the formation of Telangana Writers
Organisation on 6 September, 1951. It encouraged young writers of
the period to lead the Telangana literary and cultural movement on a
large scale over a wide platform. Writers like Biruduraju Ramaraju,
P. V. Narasimha Rao, Kaloji Narayana Rao, Dasarathi
Krishnamacharya, C. Narayana Reddy, Palla Durgaiah, P. Yashoda
Reddy, Guduri Sitaram among others actively took part in organising
meetings in Hyderabad and publishing books from Hyderabad city
as well as other towns like Nalgonda, Warangal, Mahabubnagar and
Karimnagar.
Another factor that provided momentum to the cultural
awakening of the period was the publication of literary magazines.
These factors eventually led to the Telangana armed struggle that
was two-pronged: It was waged against the Nizam rule,
simultaneously against the landlords, doras and jagirdars at another
16 / Astitva

level. Many periodicals and literary journals appeared in Telangana

during the first half of the twentieth century. It also contributed to
propagation of Telugu at one level and reclamation of past glory and
history at another level. Hitabodhini, Nilagiri, Tenugu, Shobha, Sujata,
Kakatiya, Udayini, Pratyusha, Navodaya, Swatantra, Sarathi, Golakonda
were some of the periodicals that continued for a few years before
ceasing publication for obvious constraints, and acted as beacons of
Telangana culture and literature. As early as 1913 Badaru Srinivasa
Sarma published a monthly magazine from Mahabubnagar district,
Hitabodhini that carried articles on education, medicine, agriculture,
science, and spirituality. Though it was short-lived it reflected the
needs and aspirations of Telangana people then. Oddiraju
Sitaramachandra Rao and Oddiraju Raghava Rangarao popularly
known as Oddiraju brothers did immense service to Telangana by
publishing books on such diverse areas as short fiction, poetic drama,
novels, historical drama, translations, science, photography and
handicrafts. They were based at their small village of Inugurthi in
Warangal district from where they brought out the first issue of Tenugu
in 1922 that continued for five years.
Many writers who published their stories in the magazines did
not bother to bring out their collections. Madapati Hanumantha Rao,
an activist-writer, took active part in the propagation of Telangana
culture and literature and also spearheaded the Library Movement.
Devulapally Ramanuja Rao, in an essay published in Sujata, a special
issue brought out on Telangana in 1951, observes that Madapati
published his thirteen stories in Krishna Patrika by 2010 and showed
the pathway for Telugu story. His stories like “Hridaya Shalyamu,”
“Nene,” “Agni Gundamu,” “Atmarpanamu” were published later in
a collection entitled, Mallika Guchamu in 1911 itself. The first two
stories were originally written by him and the other five stories were
by Prem Chand translated by him. He also translated Bankim
Chandra’s Ananda Math into Telugu. His second collection consisting
of six stories written by him was published in 1940 with the title,
Malatee Guchamu. It is the writers’ social concern and commitment
that had been the mainstay of Telangana fiction since its beginnings.
Writers like Madapati, Suravaram Pratapa Reddy, Nandagiri Indira
Devi, Potlapally Ramarao, Guduri Sitaram, Vattikota Alwaru Swamy,
Kaloji Narayana Rao and Heeralal Moria of the first generation have
 Introduction / 17

created excellent short fiction portraying the harsh realities, suffering

of the masses, social movements and reforms of the times. But these
writers were not accorded their due recognition, hence their stories
did not find a place in anthologies both in Telugu and English.
In the collections brought out by many compilers and publishing
houses over the years the first generation writers from Telangana were
conspicuous by their absence. Indifference to the excellences in local
art and culture combined with glorification of their art is a stratagem
effectively employed by colonial masters everywhere; another device
is to make the locals feel that they are indeed inferior allowing the
dominant category to view them in a condescending manner. Chinua
Achebe, the influential African novelist, while insisting on the role of
a writer as teacher mentions that it is his responsibility to “help society
regain belief in itself and put away the complexes of the years of
denigration and self-denigration” (African Writers on African Writing.
Heinemann, 1973, p. 4). This is precisely what happened in Telangana
literary history marked by the syndrome of ‘denigration and self-
denigration.’ The writer-critics here have been engaged in the process
of setting the record straight.
Even a cursory reading of the first generation Telangana short
stories shows that it is no less effervescent and appealing than those
that appeared in British Andhra region. The technique and style
adopted by these writers in consonance with their themes make them
so endearing that one wonders how these could be sidelined by
successive anthologists. Charanjeet Kaur, then Chief Editor of Muse
India, an online literary journal, has this much to say about the quality
of first generation Telangana stories five of which were published in
its Sept-Oct, 2016 issue in a special section devoted to Indian literature
in English translation: “The fiction ... is especially significant because
it brings to the forefront many writers from the pre-independence
era. This is a rich corpus, indeed!” The need for a special anthology
of first generation of Telangana stories is felt all the more here.
Besides, many collections of Telugu short stories written by
second and third generation writers, and those commissioned by
organisations covering the language as a whole did not have
substantial representation of Telangana writers. To cite only a few
instances of Telugu anthologies: In Katha Bharati: Telugu Kathanikalu
(New Delhi, National Book Trust, 1973, rpt. 1982) edited by Vakati
18 / Astitva

Panduranga Rao and Puranam Subrahmanya Sarma, not even one

Telangana story could be found in a collection of twenty seven stories.
In a Sahitya Akademi publication, Telugu Katha (1988) D. Ramalingam
the editor includes only one Telangana story in a collection of thirty
stories. On the occasion of the Golden Jubilee of India’s independence
the Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, brought out a collection of Telugu
stories, Bangaru Kathalu in 2001 under the editorship of Vakati
Panduranga Rao and Vedagiri Rambabu. There are sixty stories in
the volume out of which only ten are from Telangana.
Unlike these, theme-based anthologies such as Shweta Ratrulu
(Visakhapatnam: R.K. Publications, 1993) and Rutupavanaalu
(Visakhapatnam: R.K. Publications, 1996) edited by Kalipatnam
Ramarao contained eleven Telangana stories out of eighteen in each
collection. These included stories of the oppressed classes/communities,
of peasants and left-wing liberation struggles that the region is known
for. Another exception is the series of Vimukthi Kathalu (Anantapur:
Rama Publications) that contained Dalit stories from all the regions.
The case of English translation anthologies offers no better
picture. There were two story anthologies that M. V. Sastry edited: A
Generation of Telugu Short Stories (Hyderabad: International Telugu
Institute, 1985) with fourteen stories and Another Bunch of Telugu Short
Stories (Hyderabad: Telugu University, 1986) with ten stories. While
the first collection has no story from Telangana, the second one
included two writers, Vattikota Alwaru Swamy and Nelluri Kesava
Swamy. One does not question the merit of the stories included, but
the point of contention is the inadequate representation accorded to
Telangana, two out of twenty four stories in this instance, a glaring
example of bias. In Classic Telugu Short Stories edited by Ranga Rao
(New Delhi: Penguin, 1995) out of eighteen stories only one story by
Suravaram Pratapa Reddy, “Strange Divorce” is included. Again, out
of another eighteen stories included in his second collection, That
Man on the Road (New Delhi, Penguin, 2006) two stories are from
Telangana, one by Boya Jangaiah and the other by Allam Rajaiah.
Individual efforts these maybe, but the process of inclusion/exclusion
while anthologising stories from different regions, especially
Telangana, speaks of discrimination.
From Akademi’s Telugu volume, Bangaru Kathalu, thirty one
stories were selected and translated into English in a volume entitled
 Introduction / 19

Gold Nuggets (New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, 2004) by the editors Bh.
Krishnamurti and C. Vijayashree, with only three stories from
Telangana. This obviously shows how erroneous the editors’
assumptions were and unrepresentative their collections were. One
cannot, in fact, take away the merit of the stories selected or translated,
but insofar as inclusiveness is concerned, these anthologies are found
wanting in respect of proper representation from other regions.
Having made their representations, it obviously takes time and proof
on the part of the deprived region to break such misrepresentations.
On the issue of challenging established notions Anisur Rahman
observes: “It takes even longer to revise old notions and establish
new ones. It is also true that representing essentialisms is easier than
resisting them by calling for yet another kind of representation.
Essentialist representations, therefore, survive longer than even a
period or periods of history as they are politically motivated and are
made to appear crucial, critical, even fundamental to their society.
Resistance in order to protect another kind of representation, on the
other hand, presupposes conflict, confrontation and long struggle”
(“Indian Literature(s) in English Translation.” Journal of Postcolonial
Writing, vol. 43, no. 2, 2007, p.162). It is significant to note that in
Telangana this ‘long struggle’ to challenge the earlier, established,
essentialist representations of Telugu literature has been taking place
at individual and institutional levels with a note of fervour and a
sense of immediacy as part of subversion.
If the above mentioned instances prove discrimination in
representing the Telangana story both in Telugu and in English
translations, the condescending remarks of translator-anthologists are
equally appalling. Ranga Rao, in his “Afterword” appended to That
Man on the Road (pp. 225-36) makes some sweeping generalisations.
He subscribes to the view that Gurajada was the first modern short
story writer in Telugu despite the evidence to the contrary at that
time. He cursorily surveys the growth of Telugu story in the hands of
Chaso, Palagummi Padmaraju, Madhurantakam Rajaram, Munipalle
Raju, Kalipatnam Ramarao, Toleti Jaganmohan Rao and P. Satyavathi
and the heights it has achieved. He observes: “Then an epochal shift
occurred in the last two decades of the last century. Though for many
years after Gurazada, Telugu short story writers had written about
the plight of the weaker sections of their society, these writers hailed
20 / Astitva

from upper castes. The vast majority of them came from the more
developed coastal region of the Telugu country and they wrote generally
in the standard written or spoken idiom of the educated classes of
the area” (italics ours). Is his expression ‘Telugu country’ a literal
translation of ‘Telugu Desam?’ It would have been appropriate if he
had elaborated on the writers belonging to upper castes of developed
coastal region who wrote about weaker sections.
Secondly, he does not take cognizance of a large corpus of short
fiction about the oppressed sections created by a number of writers
in Telangana. Further, regarding Telangana and Rayalaseema writings
he has this much to offer: “With the spread of education and the
democratic spirit, the other Telugu regions of Rayalaseema and
Telengana have yielded a harvest of writers. The medium of
expression, as a result, has moved closer to the respective dialects.
We now have writers using dialects for both dialogue and
commentary and earning the attention and respect of fellow Telugus.
Thummeti Raghothama Reddy and Allam Rajaiah from Telungana
are two such anothers” (p. 227). One wonders how a diligent writer-
translator that he is, Ranga Rao could make such incongruous
observations. The seemingly innocuous statement raises important
questions about the patronizing attitude, a resultant aspect of
hegemonic mindset: 1) What he means by “anothers” is intriguing. If
the two writers from Telangana are ‘two such anothers,’ who are ‘true/
authentic ones’ and who are the ‘others’? Instead of using expressions
such as ‘writers’ or ‘authors,’ he employs a denigrating coinage. 2)
The translator-critic uses two different spellings for Telangana,
‘Telengana’ in first place, ‘Telungana’ at the end. Deliberate ploy of a
mindset? 3) By the expression, ‘with the spread of education and the
democratic spirit’ if he means post-independence situation, then ‘a
harvest of writers’ were there in Telangana before independence
writing about the feudal set-up, oppression of dalits and healthy
human relationships but marginalised by the mainstream Telugu
literary establishment.
It is to counter such statements, fill the gaps, and set the history
straight that attempts have been made in recent years by Telangana
writer-activists in the form of bringing out a) Telugu anthologies with
proper representation from Telangana and b) Telangana-specific,
some district-specific anthologies. Noorendla Telugu Katha (Hundred
 Introduction / 21

years of Telugu Story) edited by Mudiganti Sujata Reddy and

Sangishetty Srinivas (Hyderabad: Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University,
2011) is an example of the first category. The anthology begins with a
story by Bandaru Achamamba instead of Gurajada as was the practice
in earlier anthologies, and the editors mention in their introductory
remarks that all the members of the advisory board were unanimous
in their approval. This only goes to prove that literary history is not
static and one needs to be flexible to accept new findings. There are
121 stories in this volume out of which 39 are from Telangana, and
due representation is given to all regions. The need for Telangana
literary history is felt all the more in this context and one hopes once
it is published by Telangana Sahitya Akademi many established myths
will be shattered.
Secondly, Telangana-specific anthologies proliferated on a large
scale since the Telangana agitation gained momentum at the turn of
the century. B. S. Ramulu began publishing a series with the title,
Adhunika Katha Saritsagaram: Karimnagar Zilla Kathalu (Jagityal: Vishala
Sahitya Academy) from the year 2000 onwards. Chowrastha (2002) is
a collection of sixteen stories by four writers, P. Yashoda Reddy,
Uppala Narasimham, Mudiganti Sujata Reddy and Kasula Prathapa
Reddy. In a pioneering effort, first generation fiction writers were
anthologised by Mudiganti Sujata Reddy in Telangana Toli Taram
Kathalu (First Generation Telangana Stories) in 2002 with 35 stories;
she along with Sangishetty Srinivas archived and brought out a second
volume of stories, Tolinati Kathalu (Stories at the Beginning) in 2005
with 46 stories. Visalandhra publications brought out an anthology,
Telangana Kathalu with 90 stories in 2005 with Kaluva Mallaiah,
Sadanand Sharada and Chandra as editors. Other notable efforts,
among others, are Telangana Katha annual series by Karra Yella Reddy
and Vethale ... Kathalai! a collection of 56 stories by women writers
(Nizamabad: Rajani Publications, 2011) with Amrita Latha, Anisetty
Rajitha, Turlapati Lakshmi and Kiranbala as editors.
After the formation of Telangana in 2014 Sangishetty Srinivas
and Veldandi Sridhar have been bringing out annual short story
collections. They published their first annual anthology, Randhi in
2013. Subsequent anthologies Tanlaata, Alugu, Kooradu and Daawat
contained selected stories of that year that best captured the life and
struggles in Telangana. A number of writers came up with their
22 / Astitva

individual collections; Vemuganti Muralikrishna and Bellamkonda

Sampath Kumar edited Medak district stories in Metuku Kathalu
(Manjeera Writers Association, 2016). Moodu Taraala Telangana Katha
(Three Generations of Telangana Story) edited by Sadanand Sharada,
M. Ayodhya Reddy and B.V.N. Swamy for Telangana Sahitya Akademi
in 2017 with seventy stories from the region is the latest addition.
Sunkireddy Narayana Reddy’s Mungili (Courtyard), a re-construction
of Telangana literary historiography with particular stress on poetry,
and the two volumes of first generation stories mentioned earlier,
and the recent series under the imprint of Telangana Publications
have paved way for re-writing Telangana literary history. The act of
setting the ‘story’ right and the attempt at reclaiming history has been
undertaken in English translation with the publication of Telangana
Harvest: Telugu Short Fiction 1912-2011 (Dept. of Language and Culture,
Government of Telangana, 2017) edited by Harikrishna Mamidi and
K. Damodar Rao with fifty stories covering three generations. The
present anthology is one more pioneering effort in that direction
undertaken by Telangana Sahitya Akademi.
Thus, the astitva of Telangana came to be asserted and celebrated
in many region-centric collections of stories and poetry as a
counterstatement to the cultural hegemony imposed for many years.
Any resistance movement is accompanied by literary, cultural
Renaissance, and the turn of the century witnessed this phenomenon.
At the same time, the fact remains that in Telugu literature regional
consciousness is not new. It didn’t begin with Telangana anthologies
that marked the recent Renaissance period. In fact, as far back as the
1960s an anthology, Kalingandhra Kathalu (North coastal Andhra
stories) was published by Chaganti Somayajulu (Chaso), an eminent
short story writer. It was the first region-specific anthology to have
appeared. After a few years Seema Kathalu, an anthology of
Rayalaseema stories appeared. It is significant to note that along with
Telangana these are the other two backward regions in the united
state of AP.
Besides the cultural and geographical factors, social-political
aspects made Telangana literature distinct from other regions. The
Andhra region as part of the Madras state was under the British rule
in pre-independence days while Telangana was under the Nizam rule
until 1948. Modernism entered early in British Andhra while
 Introduction / 23

Telangana had to grapple with feudal forces before and well after
independence: Nizam feudalism before independence, and
subsequent landlordism, the ‘dora’, ‘banchen’ phenomenon in post-
independence situation. It was common for the Telangana writers to
portray the cruelties, harsh realities of the land, the atrocities of
landlords in a vertically divided society of miniscule rich/powerful
section and the multitude of poor/underprivileged sections. In fact,
Telangana is known to be a land of struggles. Before independence,
it was the two-pronged Telangana armed struggle spearheaded by
the Communists against the local landlords, and also against the
Nizam. After independence the people were engaged in yet another
two-fold struggle. Inspired by the Srikakulam uprising and the
Naxalbari movement, a violent struggle marked the region chiefly
against the oppression of doras and other exploitative sections in the
countryside. It was chiefly agrarian in nature. The second is a peaceful
struggle against neocolonial forces of exploitation resorted to by the
powerful class/caste categories from the Andhra region. The stories
selected for the purpose of this anthology by a team of experts deal
with all the social, political and cultural dimensions of Telangana
mentioned above.
One could draw many similarities between Telangana fiction
and other literatures of the oppressed such as African fiction in English
wherein the writers aimed at the empowerment of the
underprivileged, exploited sections. Both cultures are rich in Orature.
The writers in both instances attempted to use literature as instrument
of social change and justice. The use and superimposition of oral idiom
that is found in African fiction is also corroborated here in the
translation of Telangana story into English.

The Story of a State

The anthology contains thirty five stories, seven belonging to the first
generation from 1911 to 1955, and twenty eight stories of the second
and third generation writers from 1970 to the present. As is evident
in this collection, many eminently readable, interesting, and thought-
provoking stories were written by the first generation writers. The
stories, each with its unique and enchanting narrative style, invariably
attempts to come to terms with the specific social-political situation
prevalent in the first few decades of 20th century in Telangana. There
24 / Astitva

are stories that focus on the phenomenon of oppressive landlordism

and others dealing with the victim paying back, celebrating the victory
of an ordinary man, a matter of poetic justice. The first story by
Suravaram Pratapa Reddy, “Eleven Bottle Gourds, Twelve Village
Officers” belongs to this category. Written in 1930, the story holds a
mirror to the dynamics of a feudal village in which multiple agents
of authority play havoc with the life of a poor farmer who refuses to
take it lying down. He devises a dubious plan to become rich by
collecting ‘water tax’ from a well near a crossroads on the supposed
orders of the Nawab. He deceives the people as well as the officials
like Subedar, Diwanji and even Nawab. When it gets exposed, the
farmer is ready with his version of the story only to be rewarded by
the Nawab. Other noteworthy stories, written much later, that
depicted poetic justice with the victims emerging triumphant over
the oppressors are “Gadi” by Chava Sivakoti (1973) and
“Amballabanda” by Bhoopal (1991) and Boya Jangaiah’s “Power
Game” (2008) which is included in this anthology.
Kaloji Narayana Rao’s “Affection in Ignorance, Animosity in
Awareness” bears his stamp of wit, humour and satire while
portraying the ground reality of caste conflicts. The messengers of
Yama carry the lives of two individuals who died recently. As they
find leisure they exchange pleasantries. But soon they realise they
were the ones who died in a clash in a village over the issue of Dalits
temple entry, one a Brahmin and the other, a Dalit. As long as they do
not know each other’s caste, there was bonhomie, but the moment
each one identifies the other and his caste the same violent streak
that took their lives on earth comes out. The evocative story remains
as a telling fictional statement on the caste-ridden village life relevant
even to this day.
In his story “Justice,” Potlapally Ramarao portrays a typical
Telangana village in which ordinary people following different
vocations are exploited by the village officers like Jawan and Karanam
in the name of Tahsildar’s visit to the village. As the farmers eagerly
wait for him with their representations, they get disappointed when
they come to know that he was not coming that day. The preparations
too are wasted. When he leisurely arrives the next day, instead of
considering their grievances, he takes the signature of the Karanam
on a bond to the effect that the villagers have to supply provisions,
 Introduction / 25

fowls and sheep to the ensuing wedding of dora’s daughter which

they come to know through the Karanam. The villagers consider it as
yet another blow on their impoverished lives.
The scholar-statesman and the former Prime Minister of India,
P.V. Narasimha Rao is known as a polyglot who translated
Vishwanatha Satyanarayana’s Veyi Padagalu into Hindi. Not many
stories he had written, but the one included here, “Golla Ramavva”
is a much anthologised one. It captures the turbulent period of the
atrocities of Razaakars in Telangana during 1948. The protagonist,
Ramavva is worried about the safety of her teenaged granddaughter
at the hands of the Razakars. She is aghast to find an eighteen year
old young man entering her hut who was bleeding from bruises and
also running high temperature. She and her granddaughter nurse
him to normalcy and he reveals that he is a volunteer of the State
Congress fighting against the Nizam. How she cleverly saves him
from the chasing Nizam police forms rest of the story.
Dasarathi Krishnamacharya is a well known poet and lyricist.
In this anthology, there is a story by him titled, “Fire-flowers” which
is a revelation of sorts. This is a female-oriented story far ahead of its
times. Taking the tumultuous period of 1948-49 as the backdrop of
the story he portrays the fast changing power equations. Narrated
from the point of view of one of the wives of last Nizam, Begum
Sahiba, it contrasts the beauty of rural Telangana symbolized by the
palash (fire flowers) and the comforts of the royal palace signified by
the tangedu flowers. The title is also symbolic of the passion that the
Jagirdarini develops for a village woman, Gowri. The way the story
moves at physical, emotional and symbolic levels with the Begum
giving up all her comforts for the sake of a live-in relationship with
Gowri to which Gowri’s husband does not object projects an
interesting scenario and a complex relationship. By any standard,
this is a superbly crafted story given the context in which it was
written. Ismat Chughtai’s celebrated Urdu story “Lihaaf” was written
in the same decade.
Vattikota Alwaru Swamy’s interesting story, “The Kite,” written
shortly after India’s independence, brings the idealism and
reformatory mood of the times to the fore. It sensitively portrays the
problem of prostitution. The protagonist is sought to be enticed by a
young lady. He comes to know about her past and confides in
26 / Astitva

everything to his wife. His friend Mallesham also knows about the
lady’s past, but is prepared to marry her. Despite the initial hesitation
born out of the false promises made by wily men in her past life, the
lady agrees to the proposal.
The seventh and last story in the anthology in the cluster first
generation stories is “Two Prisoners”, a fable by Vallapuredy
Buchareddy. It captures the confrontation between a king and a
people’s leader. The latter is imprisoned by the former for his revolt
against the authoritarian tendencies of the king, but the king too finds
himself in the prison as a result of popular revolt. They exchange
their experiences even as the people march into the jail for the release
of the commoner much to the astonishment of the king. The message
is clear: Authoritarian tendencies may flourish, may flash their power
for some time, but it is the surge of the people for participation in the
democratic process that ultimately prevails.
The period between 1955 and 1970 appears a lean patch in
Telangana as far as the short story is concerned unless, of course,
proved otherwise by literary historians. Sunkireddy Narayana Reddy,
noted critic and literary historian, observes that in Telangana, literary
activity continued unhindered till 1955 before an ‘unnatural change’
(334) occurred with the merger of Telangana with Andhra state. He
says that writers until then identified with social-political changes
and reflected the same in their stories. The decline in Telangana short
story during this period could be attributed to the lack of movements
and disappearance of periodicals and literary journals with the
formation of united AP.
The categorization of second and third generation writers is
rather vague theme-wise, even chronology-wise. Chronologically, one
finds there are many overlappings with the writers of the second
generation continuing to write to this date. Writers who are supposed
to belong to the second generation (who started writing stories in
1970s or early 80s) like Naveen, B. S. Ramulu, P. Chand, Devaraju
Maharaju, Adepu Laxmipathi, Allam Rajaiah, and Mudiganti Sujata
Reddy continue to write to this day. Thematically too, the issues raised
by the writers in 1970s and 80s have their relevance even today. For
instance, 1970s and 80s witnessed the emergence of the political story
with a number of writers taking to the theme of oppression of
landlords and the subsequent revolt in the form of the emergence of
violent agrarian revolution.
 Introduction / 27

Cherabanda Raju’s story, “Deathless” written in 1971 and

included in this anthology deals with the encounter of a courageous
young boy who takes to Naxalism and takes pride in it even after he
is arrested, in the face of imminent death. The way he talks, rather
expresses his ideology, endears him to the policemen who accompany
him to the encounter site and develop a soft corner in their hearts.
The last story in the anthology, “They” by Tayamma Karuna deals
with the same theme though written in 2016. The story is narrated
from the point of view of a mother who has lost her husband and son
in the movement. “Why did this fellow too go? He did not know—
her every thought, movement, and work was for him. Yet, he left her
and went away,” she laments. A pertinent question that women
frequently ask is what could be the plight of women deserted by their
men in pursuit of causes—personal, spiritual or political, from the
Ramayana period (Urmila) through 4th century BC (Yashodhara) to
20th century (Kasturba). Women writers have raised this issue in
fictional and non- fictional forms. The story, “They” presents the two-
fold struggle of a mother: On the one hand, she sympathises with the
cause with which her husband and son identify, but as a woman feels
for their loss as the cause consumes them.
Another story that has the Naxalites issue as the backdrop, if
not the main theme, is Kaluva Mallaiah’s “War-Zone.” The eloquent
title signifies the turmoil in North Telangana in the last quarter of
twentieth century. The story, in the process, unravels intricate human
relationships. Though piqued by the idea of selling his two-acre land,
having no other option, Manohar reaches his village along with his
friend Thirumal to complete the formalities of registration. On their
way, they discuss the changes that have taken place in the last twenty
years: “Vetti was a common thing. Was there any protection to the
security of working class women? In some villages a girl was first
sent to dora’s gadi soon after reaching puberty. Workers’ wages were
decided by them arbitrarily. Now the doras have left the villages.
The few who remained are afraid to be called doras .... At least the
movement acted as a catalyst for speeding up the changes.” It
effectively sums up the role played by the movement in the region
before it was ruthlessly put down by the state. Another dimension of
the movement of uncalled for violence, of unwarranted interference
in village affairs alienated them from people. In the story, as the sale
28 / Astitva

deed is about to be finalised, a few young men claiming to be ‘Annalu’

(another name for extremists) intervene and obstruct the process as
they argue that Manohar was a job-holder with fixed income and
they would not allow the sale of the land. The story raises interesting
questions in respect of the turns the extremist movement has taken
in course of time.
Thematic continuity is found especially in women’s stories as
reflected in Madireddy Sulochana’s “The Right.” Written in 1972 it
exposes the patriarchal system focusing on father-daughter and brother-
sister relationships. The father in the story is a typical old-fashioned
figure who has a soft corner for his three sons despite the attempts of
his daughter to make him comfortable. Her efforts go in vain as he
does not reciprocate the same sense of warmth, and rather brazenly
showers affection on his sons. When he had been asked to pay four
thousand rupees over a dispute with his neighbour and when he was
admitted in hospital subsequently, she arranges for the amount. But
her brother scorns her saying that they would have filed a case in court.
He says he could pay, but would not, as she might go on giving money
to their father. On another occasion, her brother confronts her with the
question of what right she has got in matters related to their father’s
house. She thinks she could say: ‘Just as I have the right to look after
father when all of you left him, just as I have the right to support him
when he is in difficulty, I have this right too.’ A template of patriarchy
as much as its negation in its nascent form!
Mudiganti Sujata Reddy did enormous service to the Telangana
story as she brought to light many stories written by first generation
writers and came up with two anthologies, Telangana Toli Taram Kathalu
(2002) and Toli Nati Kathalu (2005), the latter in collaboration with
Sangishetty Srinivas. Some of the English translations of these stories
appeared in Muse India (online journal) and Telangana Harvest (2017).
Besides this pioneering work, Sujata Reddy wrote many stories on
the life and vocations in Telangana countryside. “9/11 Love Story” is
a marked departure from her corpus, a refreshing one at that. It is set
in the backdrop of migration and globalization. Sushma who is an
immigrant from India working in one of the offices in the WTC, New
York, not only saves the life of her boss, Art Cornwallis, in the 9/11
tragedy but also nurses him back to normalcy. How love blossoms
between the two is narrated endearingly in the story.
 Introduction / 29

“The Walls” by Shahjahana is another evocative story, this one

from a Muslim woman’s point of view. The woman-protagonist, with
the approval of her parents, decides to construct two rooms to be set
apart for her 93-year old grandmother who richly deserved air, light
and space at that ripe age. Although it was new for her, she takes up
the responsibility of overseeing the construction, an onerous job what
with the tantrums of masons and workers. Due to her single-minded
devotion the construction reaches concluding stage, but as irony
would have it, dadi breathes her last without stepping into the nest
she had built ‘looking for her dwelling in this vast universe filled
with air and light!’
Ampasayya Naveen is a noted novelist, short story writer and
an aesthete who is well-versed with world literatures and cinema.
As such, some of the techniques he is familiar with are introduced in
his novels and stories. “Murder,” included in this anthology is one
such experimental story. It deals with human folly, black magic,
coincidence and guilt in a complex tapestry. Guravaiah, a failure in
life, develops a grouse against his officer for frequently reprimanding
him for his laziness. As a vengeful measure, he prepares a doll at
home and tortures the figure with pins and completes the last rites.
Surprisingly the next day, the officer dies of heart attack in the office.
But the man’s guilt intensifies and he confides it in a colleague who
simply rubbishes his story. He eventually goes to the police station
and confesses his crime. They drive him away considering him mad
as they knew that the officer died of heart stroke. The ending of the
story, from a psychological point of view, raises interesting questions
about one’s sense of inadequacy.
B. S. Ramulu, a well known and much anthologized short story
writer is represented here with his story, “Education.” An engrossing
story, it charts the life of Gangadhari as he comes of age coursing
through many phases from the time he refuses to go to school. Away
from his home he spends some time under the tutelage of his teacher,
Latchaiah, guarding the cattle in the woods, joining a group singing
their songs, working as a construction labourer. He finds a guru and
visits many villages with him, a long and arduous journey. Not
satisfied, he travels to explore different ideologies of mutts, meets a
dalam of Naxalites on the way, then he goes in search of his first
guru. He finds the guru in the ashram but with a profound change in
30 / Astitva

his philosophical orientation as he is found now preaching the

Buddhist principles. Gangadhari along with other disciples starts a
school with the aim of exploring the interests and tastes of students.
They make all efforts to make it an ideal school. Life comes a full
circle for Gangadhari who refused to go to school in his childhood
but as fate would have it, finally establishing a model school before
his death. The coming of age of Gangadhari has all the ingredients of
an adventure story that traverses through many ideologies and
movements, places and persons finally finding his noble vocation.
In the anthology there are a few stories that deal with problems
of workers in coalmines and factories. P. Chand who had worked in
the Singareni Collieries chronicled their lives in a number of stories.
“The Dispossessed” is one such story that evokes pathos as the
villagers of Maredupally in the coal belt lose their lands eight years
ago for Open Cast wells and still wait for their compensation of lands
and jobs seemingly without end. Except for that village land, the
company has taken over all the fields and the fallow lands. The pain
is reflected in the words of Mallaiah who lost his son, Rajesam, in the
agitation for compensation: “With those wells coming up, our lives
will mingle with the dust. It happened just as he told us. They have
buried us even as we are alive.”
Adepu Laxmipathi, a noted short story writer–critic, has written
extensively on world literatures. In “Categorical Imperative” we find
techniques like flashback and going beyond the linear narrative. The
juxtaposition of personal and societal at one level and of the
immediate past with recent past and the protagonist’s childhood at
another level offers a fine tapestry. The story foregrounds a man’s
integrity that sets aside narrow considerations in matters related to
promotion in the Collieries office. The protagonist, Mouli,
recommends a person worthy of promotion in his confidential reports.
But, from the higher-ups he receives admonitions such as “Listen
carefully. While offering promotion to higher levels, unofficially at
least, one should take into account patriotism too!” The title’s
justification lies in the story’s flashback. The story raises some
important questions in the contemporary scenario where a man’s
identity in terms of birth, region, state, community takes precedence
over efficiency in assessing a person. The immediate issue maybe
one of promotion in an office, but the story is an eye-opener to those
 Introduction / 31

who suffer psychological blocks like caste/community/region/gender

at multiple levels of hierarchy and social echelons at large.
Ch. Madhu, in his story “Am I Dead,” deals with the problem of
workers from a new perspective. Ramu, one of the leaders of a strike
in the factory, abstains himself from the proceedings in the factory
for fear of his personal safety. The loss of fire in him is subtly conveyed
in the story by a woman, Pushpa, who he accidentally comes across.
The loss of physical vigour and the mental agony he suffers in her
bedroom coincides with the loss of moral and psychological strength
prompting him to wonder whether he was really alive. Another story
that deals with factory workers is Muktavaram Parthasarathy’s
“Fireflies” written in a satirical manner. It portrays the hierarchies,
privileged/underprivileged categories that exist even among the
workers unions. If they are large in number, strike is a powerful
weapon and they can get their demands conceded by the management.
But if they are few as it happens in the case of canteen workers in the
story, the majority who maintain it pay a deaf ear to their demand of
increasing nominal hike in their wages. Justice, the story seems to
suggest, depends on numbers.
In “Ordi (Half Wages)” Amballa Janardhan while portraying
the travails of beedi workers who work all day for the meagre amount
they get, also narrates the pitiable plight of aged women who get
half the wages from the contractors. The characters in the story come
vividly alive with their mannerisms and predilections in real life-
like situations that reflect the exploitation of beedi workers by
mediators and contractors. Vocational hazards are common in every
profession, but nowhere do they appear more perilous and life-
threatening than in the case of toddy tappers. A skilled story writer
that he is, Jathasree portrays the routine of a palm wine tapper,
Mallesham (“Every day, every tree, one has to climb three times to
change the pot at the cluster of palm fruit. If you fail even once, you
don’t get toddy. Without toddy there is no life.”) and the eventual
tragedy. His son wants to go to Kuwait and he has to find the means
for arranging fifty thousand rupees. He has heard that the widow of
a toddy tapper in the village got compensation of eighty thousand
rupees. He wonders, “Are such professions only for compensations?”
But ironically that day, as he slips and falls down from the tree, he
shouts: “Elder boy ... Kuwait ... Be careful ...” in a heartrending
32 / Astitva

manner. In Telugu there a quite a few stories written about the

disintegration of different occupations in post-gloablisation era
(Ailaiah 57). Nerella Srinivas story, “Katamayya” (2008) and Kuturu
Ramreddy’s “Vankataadu” (2008) are other stories about the life and
struggles of toddy-tappers. The process of a potter giving up his
vocation and taking to the new field of agriculture is depicted in
“Prayasa” (2007) by Siramsetty Kantha Rao. The miserable condition
of weavers is portrayed by Sabbani Lakshminarayana in his story,
“Badhyata” (2005) Kotla Vanajata in her story, “Samudram” (2008).
And Veldandi Sridhar in “Poddu Podupu” (2009).
In his rather long story “Opponents” Allam Rajaiah explores
the ‘insider’ in P.V. Narasimha Rao at the fag-end of his five year
term as the Prime Minister of India. As he undertakes a visit to
Thirupathi with the next Parliamentary elections in sight, as it
happened in reality, the narrator probes his psyche. At ease with all
political manipulations and maneuverings at Delhi level, the
protagonist is shown as not being comfortable with his own self. The
unprecedented security in the face of threats by Naxalites makes him
feel like a prisoner which he considers he always has been all through
his life. Born in a privileged family of landlords he was denied even
small pleasures that the children of the village indulged in. His
realisation that he was a prisoner of his identity made him
circumspect, introvert, take everything into his stride. It is interesting
to note that Allam Rajaiah, known for his chronicles of the oppressed,
has written this story of a leader who was fated to occupy the most
important position in the country at a vulnerable point of time in the
country’s history, and his multifarious conflicts, inner and outer.
The theme of oppression by landlords and village officials in
Telangana rural side, as has been mentioned, is a recurring one and
this is evidenced in many stories in the anthology by eminent writers
like Sadanand Sharada, Nandini Sidhareddy, Devaraju Maharaju,
Uppala Narasimham and Tummeti Raghothama Reddy. “The Jar” is
the pathetic story of a servant, Gowraiah, who is asked by his dora to
carry a jar of pickle to his son living in the town. The way he treats
the jar with fear and reverence like dora himself, the pains he takes to
walk many miles in the absence of buses, his difficulties in finding
the address of the chinna dora in the town only to be snubbed by him
 Introduction / 33

and his wife evoke empathy. That he leaves their house hungry makes
Sadanand Sharada’s story all the more poignant.
Of the few stories Nandini Sidhareddy has written,
“Chitrakannu” stands out. While exploring the village dynamics, the
story charts the class/caste confrontation that always ends with the
privileged on the winning side. In the story, a rich but miserly
Narsaiah bargains endlessly with Madigas in respect of their wages
for arranging the pyre at the burial ground to perform the last rites
for his wife. When alive, she was also thrifty but wanted her corpse
to be lit on a pyre rather than be buried. This is what she did for
others in the family only to save money. Everyone is exasperated by
the fierce exchange of words between the farmer and the Madigas.
When Narsaiah decides to collect the wood and arrange the pyre all
by himself, Madigas leave the place in disgust, worried all the same
whether what would happen to their livelihood if everyone followed
suit. But when Narsaiah and others take the bier to the funeral ground,
much to their surprise, do not find the pyre they had arranged
working through all night. Helpless, he takes the help of the Madigas
to perform the last rites. But on their return, the Madigas find their
huts on fire. An evocative story with power politics at the centre, it is
typical of rural Telangana ethos.
Devaraju Maharaju’s “It’s Not Yet Sunrise” is the story of an
eight year old boy, Poshaiah, who tends cattle in the forest, so more
acquainted with animals and woods than with the people in the
village. He is habituated to the frequent reprimands from his mother
and grandfather when he is late for his duties. He wants to go to
school like other boys in the village. One day, on cleaning the she-
buffaloes at the behest of a rich woman he earns twenty paisa. As his
mother didn’t get her wages that day, she forcibly takes the money
with which he wanted to buy slate pencils. Offering porridge to her
child, she says: “Education is only for those who have enough food
and clothes .... Is it possible for us ...?” In course of time he is reconciled
to the saying that education provided by life is more important than
the education one gets in school. One’s life is threatened unless there
is some note of consolation, somewhere!
In another long story, Uppala Narasimham makes a stud bull
stand for the intimidating figure of dora in a village who is known to
be authoritative, exploitative. He commands fear, and so does the
34 / Astitva

bull. People are afraid to walk by it. The way the story narrates the
kind of atrocities resorted to by dora and juxtaposes him with the
bull on the rampage in the village appears intimidating. On both
counts, there is no scope for complaint. The way Poshayya’s pleadings
go in vain as the new born calf is ‘owned’ by dora, as also the mute
struggle of the cow make it hold a mirror to the exploitation at one
level and the excruciating agony experienced by hapless masses at
another level. The stud bull and the cow in the story are projected as
equivalents of the exploitative dora and the meek Poshaiah.
If one of the offshoots of the peasant struggle in Telangana region
is the empowerment of Dalits and other downtrodden sections,
another resultant aspect is the decline of feudal landlordism in the
countryside. The doras, notorious for their exploitative methods, and
other rich landlords who perpetuated it, had no other option but to
flee their places of birth only to save their lives. It’s a different matter
that the rich landlords who feared the dalams migrated to nearby
towns as well as the city of Hyderabad effectively transforming
themselves into capitalists investing their riches on lands and
launching new businesses and industries. They left their lands and
egos in the villages biding their time to reclaim them. It is this phase
of parallel administration monitored by dalams in villages, and the
landlords ego taking a blow at the prospect of losing their lands that
is diligently captured by Tummeti Raghothama Reddy in his story,
“Funeral Feast.” The deflation of the bloated ego of the old man,
Narasimha Reddy in the story, is symptomatic of a crucial phase in
Telangana—the decline of dora-ism.
It is a strange phenomenon that contradictions abound in Indian
ethos. A glaring example is that in public discourse we disapprove of
corruption in all its manifestations, physical and moral, but in private
resort to the same in the most brazen fashion. In every office, at every
level, corruption is more a norm than an exception. In most cases, it
takes place with impunity. There are two stories in the anthology
that deal with this ‘universal theme’ of corruption using different
techniques. Boya Jangaiah is a revered second generation writer who
has written many stories about the oppressed sections. In his story,
“Power Game” he depicts the travails of a poor farmer who was
tormented by electricity department people for giving power supply
to his motor in his agricultural land. But ironically the same employees
 Introduction / 35

beseech him to save them from an enquiry committee. He is the one

to have the last laugh as he had already testified before the committee
about their misdeeds. The second story is by the young writer,
Bejjarapu Ravinder, who takes Oggu Katha as the pivot to unfold the
drama. In his story, “One-legged Siva,” the Revenue officials seek
bribe from the poor family of Mallaiah even to give their legitimate
patta passbook of their land. They make many rounds to the office to
get their papers. The story begins in a dramatic fashion with the old
man narrating Oggu Katha without a stop in front of the office. His
son Komaraiah makes the issue public to the journalists, also bringing
people from his village. Satisfaction is found in Mallaiah’s eyes only
when the officer comes out and greets him with folded arms! The
two stories provide instances of the victims scoring over the mighty,
emerging as winners in a manner of poetic justice at the end!
The age old adages, “Might is right,” “Survival of the fittest”
are recreated in the interesting parable, “Foraging” by Ayodhya
Reddy. The small ants, in their search for food, are overpowered by
large, domineering black ants which are, in turn, threatened by “five
snake-like fingers” of the “demon that was in the form of a human
being.” How the intervention of man has disturbed the ecological
balance including the foraging by the smallest creatures like ants is
effectively portrayed in the story. That man is the biggest threat to
environment is projected in another skillfully crafted story,
“Nemalinara” written by B. Muralidhar. The story drives home that
Nature has a way of correcting the ways of men. It opens on a dramatic
note with Narayanayya leaving a drama in which he is enacting in
the middle to give medicine to mute animals. He knows the plants
around the village and their medicinal secrets. He grows some of the
plants in his compound. He doesn’t take money for treating the
animals as he keeps telling people that his medicines would not work
that way. But when his own sons divide the house by felling the trees
including the Nemalinara he is aghast. But when the young son’s ox
falls ill the same tree is needed, and he searches the forest in vain. His
joy knows no bounds when the sprouts of the plant are found in
their own compound. The concluding note of the story, “Anytime, a
Narayanayya would be there to draw water from his well and provide
it to the plant nurturing and making it grow!” is a sure sign of hope
and cheer that humankind needs to own and celebrate!
36 / Astitva

Telangana state materialized primarily on account of the

aspirations and participation of people of all walks of life in the
movement, and the suicides of more than one thousand youths. Each
individual’s life is precious and the loss of a beloved member causes
so much heartburn to the family. One important feature of this struggle
is that the movement had been spearheaded by educated, enlightened,
and hence privileged sections but the participants in the struggle and
those who made the ultimate sacrifice belong to the dispossessed
sections, the dalits, tribals and bahujans. Raama Chandramouli, a
senior poet and fiction writer, depicts the anguish of a woman at the
loss of her son in his story, “Flames of Grief.” In a moving narrative
he effectively captures the agonizing moments of Subhadra as she
learns about the news of her son, Mogili, committing suicide on a
railway track and her life thereafter. In the past, she had undergone
the harrowing experience of losing her companion, Rajesham in
Dubai, in a tragic accident before her son’s sacrifice for the cause of
Telangana. She attends many ‘Mothers of Martyrs’ meetings
afterwards. But “Every meeting was a tortuous experience for the
mothers as the story of every mother was a sea of tears ...” It’s the
tears that proved to be more eloquent than any words or consolatory
statements.
Festivals belonging to smaller/local traditions and sub cultures
like Bonalu (Rice offering to Mother Goddess) and Batukamma (An
annual floral festival celebrated by the females of all ages in the region
on a large scale for nine days coinciding with the Devi Navaratri
celebrations in other parts of the country), Sammakka-Saaralakka jatara
are major festivals in Telangana besides other pan-Indian festivals.
Peddinti Ashok Kumar foregrounds Batukamma festival to
narrate the travails of cotton farmers. Normally Saddula Batukamma
is celebrated for nine days but in Emulada (Vemulawada) it is
observed for seven days only. Jyothi gives her sari and blouse to the
narrator who is a tailor for embroidery work and agrees to collect it
on the eve of the Saddulu. As the tailor-narrator goes to her place to
collect his money she requests him to accompany her to a nearby
village where he learns that her elder sister has committed suicide
having incurred losses in cotton cultivation. Much to his distress, he
hears from someone that the new sari came in handy to cover the
dead body.
 Introduction / 37

“Money Pouch” deals with the contemporary malaise in

hospitals, that of removing uterus without valid reason. Madhavi, an
Anganvadi teacher, pained by the advice of the doctor that surgery
has to be done for ‘Fibroid uterus’ for her good health, learns on a
household survey that many women in the village were victims of
uterus removal operations. She makes inquiries and most operations
come under the category of Arogyasree, a health scheme of the state
government. K. V. Narender exposes that not merely the corporate
hospitals in cities that are exploiting the innocent patients, even
smalltime hospitals are engaged in the business of moneymaking,
the gullible people being at the receiving end. Madhavi with the sheet
of statistics knocks on the doors of Lokayukta with the hope that
justice would be done.
In Telugu there are not many contemporary science fiction
writers except K. Sadasiva Rao who has many novels and short stories
to his credit in this genre. It is a pleasant surprise to find a sci-fi story
in the anthology, a well crafted one by Kasturi Muralikrishna tilted
“The Virtual World.” As one goes through the story one is reminded
of recent online games such as Blue Whale and PubG. A number of
deaths are attributed to these games in recent times as the players
identify with the characters online and become part of the game. The
spectator or a player becomes a character/participant and continues
to live it. In the story, Aengim, the protagonist, is an addict to a popular
online game in which an online beauty gives him an appointment,
but to his consternation he learns that she had given prior
appointments, and murders were taking place to enjoy her company.
Everything in the virtual world is magical, a world filled with virtual
persons, beauties and goondas, a world in which life is a mere child
play that has no worth. It’s a world full of horrible happenings.
“Would virtual world realise truth?” is a question for which humanity
has to find an answer, sooner the better.
Interesting and varied as these themes are in the thirty five stories
selected, it requires monumental effort on the part of translators to
capture and convey the nuances of Telangana idialect, its flavor,
cadence, and culture in the target language. There are eighteen
translators involved in this effort, and their labour of love is evident
on every page of the anthology. An intervention in two cultures that
translation is, there is every possibility that the work in target language
38 / Astitva

might fall flat on occasions. On the other, in some cases, the translation
might exceed expectations and place the original text at another level
altogether. It is a constant wrestle with words, a task that demands a
translator’s creative and critical faculties to come into full play. Each
faculty requires passionate dedication and translation being an
amalgam of both, calls for utmost rigour. Wondering whether it is
because of the ‘Phantom power of language or the creativity of the
translator,’ Mini Krishnan observes: “It is easy to believe that the
twilight zone between the original text and the translated text is a
space filled with the bumps and hollows of a silent performance.
Translators should therefore be given the status of performing
musicians: they are composers, performers, and improvisers all in
the service of not themselves but a reality to which they are striving
to give body and form. They delve deep into the text they have selected
and seek its truth led by the rhythm of the original something only
they can interpret and reinterpret. In a successful translation the
translator establishes an intense relationship with the text” (The Hindu,
3 April 2011, p. 2). But for that ‘intense relationship’ with every idiom
and expression in the text that a typical Telangana story demands,
the daunting task of translation could not have been accomplished
with such rigour and flourish as is manifested in this volume. We
place on record our gratitude to the translators for sparing their
precious time, energy and patience, for putting in their best efforts to
come up with these versions.
It is important to note that an enterprise of this nature and
magnitude requires many months of preparation for the selection of
stories, translators and for organising meetings, revision of
translations, editing and finalisation which require enormous effort
and resources that only an institution like Telangana Sahitya Akademi
could undertake!

K. Damodar Rao
Elanaaga
 MN
ASTITVA
Telugu Short Fiction
From Telangana
MN
40 / Astitva
 Eleven Bottle Gourds,
Twelve Village Officers

Suravaram Pratapa Reddy

One day, a farmer went to a village with eleven bottle gourds which
he wanted to sell. Many women gathered around and started
bargaining. Soon, the Mali Patel came to the farmer and said, “Who
gave you permission to sit here? Give me one bottle gourd without
saying a word.” He pulled one big bottle gourd from the farmer’s
basket and went away. The farmer started grumbling. As if adding
fuel to fire, the Police Patel of that village appeared on the scene and
ordered with a growl, “Bring him to me; I want to write his name in
the strangers’ list.” The Thalari who had accompanied Police Patel
came and took away one bottle gourd for himself and another for his
officer. Meanwhile, the Pedda Thalari came and said, “The other day,
a person came as a vegetable vendor like you and looted a Komati’s
house in the night. Come, we will tie you to a tree in the Chavidi.” He
also held a bottle gourd in his hand.
The farmer grumbled, “I am not a thief, nor a dora. I belong to
the neighbouring village and I keep coming here regularly. I already
lost three bottle gourds. Where from have you come, now?” The Pedda
Thalari stroked the farmer’s head with the bottle gourd and walked
away with it. Like this, village priest, Brahmin, Blacksmith, Carpenter,
eleven in all, came one after the other and took away a bottle gourd
each.
42 / Astitva

Wailing, the peasant took his gongadi and was about to get up.
In the meanwhile, the Karanam who was returning from his field
appeared and said, “Why are you weeping? Tell me. Has anybody
uttered anything against you? I am the Karnam of this village. I will
punish that person.”
The farmer hoped that justice would be done to him, for at least
one person was willing to come to his rescue. He narrated his story
to the Karnam and pleaded, “Ayya! You came like a god. Please see
that I am saved from this ordeal.” He covered the feet of Karnam
with his gongadi and touched his feet. Karnam kicked him, pulled
his gongadi and put it under his arm. He, then said, “Arey Luchcha,
You gave a bottle gourd to everyone who mattered but did not think
of me at all. Do you think I am inferior to all the others, the thalari,
carpenter, and the illiterate Mali Patel? You give my share from your
bottle gourds and then take your gongadi.” He warned the farmer
and left for home with the gongadi under his arm.
The farmer looked at Karnam and said, “You too are same? The
whole village looks the same. What kind of region is this? A rotten
one. How can a helpless man like me lead his life?” Muttering, he
walked behind the Patwari for a few yards pleading with him.
“Orey, if you put one more step forward, I will break your head.
Be careful!” warned the Karnam. The beleaguered peasant stopped
for some time and wept like a child. Some women advised him: “Whose
face you’ve seen in the morning! All the people in the village are like
this, great ones. Don’t ever come to this side.” The peasant started
walking towards his village immersed in deep thought, “Thuu! One
should be born as a police Patwari or else as a Thalari. It doesn’t matter
if one lived this kind of miserable life or died. I lost my bottle gourds
as well as my gongadi. The Karnam is the worst of the lot. That’s why
the elders said “ ‘even if one goes to the graveyard, the torture of Karnam
will continue.’ If I don’t take revenge now, am I a man?”
‘What can a poor man like me do? But I am not poorer than the
Thalari. I have at least a small piece of land. There is a golden armlet
on my wife’s body. I also own a bull. Even for the god, attack is a
good teacher. I’ll also plan something.’ Thinking so, he approached
his well in the field. He sat over the slab built around it. Still in deep
thought, suddenly an idea flashed in his mind. He got up at once and
entered his village.
 Eleven Bottle Gourds, Twelve Village Officers / 43

He rushed to his wife saying, “Osey, give your armlet, give it

please! You need not worry. I’ll buy many more by next Ugadi. If I
don’t, I am not Venkaiah.” He snatched it from her and then sold it to
Patwari for two hundred rupees. After collecting the money he went
to the city that was ten miles away from his village. He bought grand
looking apparels like sherwanis, pyjamas, belts and other needed
things. He hired four Arab jawans in this fashion, decorated them
with badges, himself leading the way. He disguised himself as their
Chief and went to the nearby city in a hired horse-driven cart.
He stopped at the crossroads of a town which was the main
business centre through which all the officers, ministers, and even
the Nawab would pass. He sat in a chair with a table in front of him
under a huge banyan tree on the bank of a well from which all the
women draw drinking water. Early in the morning, womenfolk came
to the well to draw drinking water. The Arab jawans threatened and
ordered them saying “Give one paisa for each pot of water.” Patel
and Patwari came to the place. The farmer said, “Arey, we received
the orders from the Sarkar” and showed it written in Urdu. The village
officers thought it was genuine.
The farmer collected a lot of money that way. Every day he
collected twenty rupees. Slowly, his income increased. “The banyan
tree tax” became a topic of debate for the people living around twenty
kilometres. Weeks, months and years passed by. One day the Subedar
halted there and erected some tents. When his servants went to fetch
water, the jawans of the farmer in disguise demanded money. With
empty pots they returned and informed the same to Subedar who
became angry. The Patel and Patwari who were present there told
him, “Huzoor! For the last ten years they had been collecting it
promptly. They have got Sarkar orders.” The Subedar believed them
and paid money for water.
One day The Diwan Bahadur stopped there with his entourage.
His servants also met the same fate near the banyan tree. When
informed, he thought, “Our Huzoor must have given orders,
otherwise they would not have guts to ask money from me,” and
paid the banyan tree water tax. There was no stopping the farmer
who was collecting the tax. With the powerful Subedar and Diwan
paying taxes to him, people around were amazed by the farmer’s
power. One day the Nawab stopped there at dusk on his way. The
44 / Astitva

farmer was in no mood to relent whoever it might be! They demanded

money from his servants. They complained it to the Nawab. He
thought, ‘Our Diwanji might have imposed this tax to fill the coffers.
Will discuss with him after going to the town. For now, he had to
abide by the Khanoon,’ and paid the water tax.
The peasant constructed a two-storied building. He owned half
of the land in the village. He cultivated lands with hundred bullocks.
He also gave loans to people who were fifty kilometres away. One
day, the Nawab called the Diwan and enquired about the collection
of water tax. He told, “Huzoor! I too wanted to submit to you on the
matter. I too paid the tax. I thought Huzoor had given orders to collect
the tax.” The Nawab said, “I had not given any orders, how could
that fellow collect tax for 15 years. Let that fellow be arrested and
brought before me.”
The peasant in disguise had been expecting such kind of arrest
warrant for the last many years. He went to Nawab and gave one
thousand ashrafees to him. The Nawab’s anger subsided and he asked
him who gave him the permission to collect money for the water.
The peasant said, “It is like the bottle gourd justice, who gave
permission to them?” Nawab asked him to explain it as he did not
fully understand it.
The peasant pleaded with him to forgive all his mistakes. The
Nawab agreed. The peasant told the entire story of his “11 bottle
gourds and 12 village officers” to him.
The Nawab laughed and said, “You are very intelligent. I will
forgive all your crimes. Stay in our court and strike the gong at night,
that’s the punishment.”
There was no income, no power. He had to keep vigil the whole
night. One day he forgot to ring the bell at 11 pm; instead he rang at
12 by mistake. The whole court was upset with his action. Nawab
used to visit a “Begum” every one hour after 8 in the night. Since he
did not ring the bell at 11, the Nawab did not visit the Begum who
was expecting him. Next day the Begum who was to be visited by
Nawab at 11 o’ clock called the peasant and told him that if he rings
the bell regularly at 11, she would give him fifty rupees. He accepted
it and thought that there was something in the bells. He cleverly
started avoiding ringing the bells giving a miss to 9 pm bell one day,
12 O’ clock bell the other day. The begum who lost out on the Nawab
 Eleven Bottle Gourds, Twelve Village Officers / 45

visit the previous night would call the peasant and gave him fifty
rupees per month. That way he started earning four hundred rupees
a month. The Nawab came to know about this after many years. He
appreciated the farmer and gifted the same village where he had
earlier collected water tax. See the magic of the bottle gourds.
Whenever such stories are heard, one is reminded of the proverbial
“eleven bottle gourds and twelve village officers.”

“Gyara Kaddu Bara Kotwal”

1930 Translated by Thota Srinivas
46 / Astitva

Affection in Ignorance,
Animosity in Awareness
Kaloji Narayana Rao

“The song is so melodious. Shall we stop, listen for some more time
and then go?”
“I too want to stay back and listen to it, but if we don’t go there
in time, Yama Raja will hand out a punishment without any mercy.
Know it?”
“That fear is always there. If we cross Vaitarani, Yamapuri is not
that far. If we walk fast, can’t we reach in time?”
“Ok, as you like it. But with these lives tied to our ropes how
shall we go and listen to the melodies of Gandharvas?”
“Let us leave them by the side of Vaitarani. They would wander
freely for some time. We don’t have the fear of their running away.
They will enjoy freedom, after how many years? They will also
remember us.”
“Ok, I don’t have any objection. But as we go and get immersed
in listening, do we remember that Yamapuri or these lives we are
carrying with our ropes?”
“I’ll remind you after a while. Now you accompany me leaving
your rope here along with mine.”
“Ok then, we shall go.”
 Affection in Ignorance, Animosity in Awareness / 47

2
“What’s this? So far I thought I was the only one in this place. But you
are here along with me! Do you have any idea where we are?”
“I’ve been thinking over it. This place is new to me too. I can’t
make out this place.”
“Where are you from, nayana?”
“Ayya! I am an Indian.”
“What, from India! Goodness! So you are my compatriot.”
“Great fortune. You too belong to that heaven on earth, India?”
“Yes, which region do you belong to?”
“Ayya! I am a Telangana man in Nizam state.”
“What!? What did you say! A Telangana man in the Nizam state?
You are not only a compatriot but also belong to the same region.
Then, what is the language used there?”
“What language do you want us to speak there? What we speak
is only pure Telugu.”
“What! Telugu ... Then you are a brother from Nizam Andhra?
That’s why there is that brotherly feeling in me as soon as I saw you.
How did you come here, Nayina!”
“Don’t know really. In the morning, in a squabble, a rod hit over
my head and I lost my consciousness. Didn’t know what happened
thereafter. Having woken up, I find myself here, in this place.”
“How strange! There was a disturbance in your village, in the
morning! In the scuffle that took place in my village an axe fell on my
head. I became unconscious then. I too remember nothing as to what
happened thereafter. I don’t know now where I am.”
“Okay, its fine. Then please tell me what happened in your
village. Later I will explain. The story appears pathetic. That there is
no mercy in the world, you will realize after listening to it. You will
also empathise with me and my fellow men.”
“My story is also like that, abbayi. In the world, dharma is being
destroyed by the day. Customs and traditions are being thrown into
flames. If what had happened in my village is narrated you will not
only be surprised but I suspect you may not believe it in the first
place. That’s why, it’s better if you begin narrating your story.”
“Yes, it is true. Humanity is not found in the world. How can I
narrate the trouble in our village, however will try to say something.
There is a temple in the village. It is an ancient one in our region.
48 / Astitva

Very well-known too. Every year festivities take place. This year
during the jatara there is a dispute between caste Hindus and
untouchables regarding the temple entry. Of the upper caste ones,
some took the side of harijans and offered them help in temple entry.
One or two Brahmins were also there among them. One week before
jatara commenced all the harijans were protesting ... Brahmins and
other Hindus were keeping guard around the temple with lathis. This
day harijans too gave up satyagraha and with lathis were prepared
for temple entry. What happened was a battle with lathis between
upper and lower caste Hindus.”
“What! You too got injured and fell unconscious during the
temple entry of harijans, blessed one! Blessed you are! In the heaven
you will attain Indra glory. Participated in the struggle for dharma.
Who is the evil one that broke your head? Does he escape hell? I am
also the valiant one who took part in that battle. So, we two belong to
the same village, nayina. Do you remember the rotten one who hit
you?”
“The mean, fat brahmin who doesn’t know any kind of labour
but thrived on our labour and filled his belly three times a day
exploiting us, he hit me hard with a lathi. I think he too received a
fitting punishment. I remember having seen our Venkadu hitting over
his head with an axe.”
“Ori, widow’s son! You have appeared here too? I thought in
the morning before you entered the temple, I could hit you hard so
that you would go to Yamapuri, but as that axe fell over my head,
you escaped. But where can you go now. I’ll stifle your neck, see!”
“So, you are that brahmin. If I hit you on your belly with a lathi
all the bakshams you had eaten yesterday would come out. Do you
think stifling my neck is as easy as kneading the food offered to
ancestors?
“Abba! What a punch! Almost dead! I’ll see your end!”
“Go and weep bapanayya! Even if fallen, you say yours is victory.
See, I will do what you said you would do to me.”
“Ayyo, I’m dead! Gone! Save me. I’m a brahmin, dying over
nothing.”
 Affection in Ignorance, Animosity in Awareness / 49

3
“Arey, now it’s enough, listening to songs, we hear some voices from
the river side. We took out lives from ropes and let them free. Must
be quarrelling here too out of habit.”
“Yes, these shrieks are from there only. Even here the same
Brahmin, Madiga dispute.”
“Let’s go then.”
“Let’s go”
“ ... ..”
“Ori, better these people’s arrogance is consumed by flames.
Out of pity we let their lives out of our clutches and let them wander
freely for a while and see how they are fighting!”
“It is hardly ten hours since these people are dead, how can
they let go their animosity?”
“Let the animosity be crushed. Even though dead, their mutual
hatred and caste differences have not left them. They will know after
the judgment in the Yamapuri.”
“What are you thinking still, I am ready to walk along carrying
the rope.”
“Let’s move. I am also tying the bapanayya into the fold of the
rope.”
“Must be quick. We don’t have much time.”
“Only words on your part, where is the movement?”
“Now. Let’s go.”

4
“What, this man has not only obstructed harijans from entering the
temple but also killed one of them hitting hard on his head?”
“Yes, maha prabho”
“Is it true, what our man is saying?”
“True. But protection of dharma”
“You keep shut your mouth. You need not teach what is dharma
or not to king of dharma. Orey, for ten days throw this man in a
swirling pool of fire, thereafter give him birth in the family of a pariah
in Cochin. Leads life cosily. Comes to know of dharma too.”
“Ayyo! Pool of fire! Birth of a madiga! Injustice! Terrible!”
“ ...”
“Who is this fellow?”
50 / Astitva

“The harijan who tried for the temple entry with a lathi and got
killed by the Brahmin here.”
“Orey, instead of following Mahatma’s non-violent method for
your entry into the temple why did you wield a lathi?”
“Maharaja! We tried peaceful methods for many years, but those
brahmins didn’t show any mercy, and so we resorted to force.”
“But it’s wrong. Orey, throw this man into the ice for two days.
He will become cool losing all his anger. On the third day send him
to take birth in a harijan family in Travancore.”
“Why the birth in Malayala region father, instead of Telugu
region?”
“So that there is no problem of temple entry. Otherwise you’ll
come to me breaking your head by a Brahmin.”
“God sent blessing.”

“Teliyaka Prema, Telisi Dvesham”

1943 Translated by K. Damodar Rao
 Justice

Potlapalli Ramarao

As if Harijans and their kin are meant only for bonded labour, the
jawan started shouting at Vetti madiga even before it was dawn.
Unlike the genteel employees who generally follow rules but
don’t perform their duties, the Vetti madiga hasn’t forgotten his role
in the village. It is anyhow inevitable for him to go to forest or hillock
for livelihood. With patience imbibed over the past many generations,
he slowly arrived at Panchayat office.
“Were you sleeping with your wife till now?”
“Do I have so much pleasure, Dora? It had vanished long ago.”
“You too should have vanished. Can government work stop?”
“When that moment comes, I’ll have to vanish anyhow. But till
then, can I escape from my work, dora?”
“That’s all right. But, big Dora will arrive today. We have not
started our work yet. Where is Karanam sleeping?”
Madiga left saying, “I will bring him, dora.” The jawan sat in the
front yard of office and began to let the thin rings of his beedi smoke
come out. He was pondering as to how he should instil fear of big dora
in Karanam and make him tremble with fright. He was immersed in
thinking about how he should feign rage. Meanwhile, Karnam arrived
and said “Oh, it seems you have got some sleep.” Startled, the jawan
came to his senses and looked piercingly at Kaarnam’s face.
52 / Astitva

Karnam said, “If you still feel sleepy, you may take a nap here.”
“What’s happening? Some problem is cropping up again here,
it seems.”
“What problem for you?”
“If not for me, it could be for anybody. What do you want to say
finally?”
“Hmm. Come to your senses like that. It seems you are still
drowsy. Rub off your eyes. Tahsildar will come and inspect your
section today. You still want to sleep? Send someone for calling the
Komati.”
Madiga left for Komati even before Karanam lifted his head.
Karanam lowered his head and began to write a list.
“What are you writing?”
“The same grocery items that I write every day. Should there be
a change today?”
“Yes, you are looking like a new person today. You also have a
horse with you.”
“What will I lose by writing?” said he, and wrote “Bengal gram,
Rice, Wheat, Ghee, Masala, Salt ...” He handed over the list to the
Komati who had arrived just then.
Komati perused the list and asked, “What should I do?”
“Why do you ask me? Ask him,” said Karanam.
“Everybody wants to gobble freely. How can one get these items
without paying money?”
“How have you been giving all these days?” thundered the
jawan.
“Do you want to devour as you have been doing all these days?”
“Complain to people above.”
“Who else is there above? They are the ones who are eating. O,
God!”
“Or else, file a suit in the court.”
“Is justice meted out by filing a suit just as getting commodities
immediately after giving a list?”
“What then? You want to delay?”
“Whatever things are there in my house, you take. I will show
my house to whoever comes from above.”
“What if there are wrong measuring scales and weights?”
“Yes, all the lies and deceit are there in Komati’s house only.”
 Justice / 53

“Your wish,” unable to argue with Komati, the jawan turned to

Karanam.
Karanam mumbled, “Nagayya, don’t say like that. Have you
become poor only today?”
“I don’t know. I could give for men, but for horses wherefrom
should I bring? Perhaps even the tastes of those who eat grass change
on seeing someone who can provide eatables to them.”
“Tomorrow, motors will come. What will you do then?” asked
the jawan.
“If they run on castor oil, we will somehow provide it.”
“No, you have to supply petrol for them.”
“You buy petrol and send,” Komati mumbled like every time
he does when any officer comes to the village, and he left for his shop
to give the provisions. As soon as the commodities have arrived, the
jawan began to holler “Fowl ... Fowl.” Even if an egg is needed when
officers come, they ravage villages. Villages have to bear the brunt of
higher ups visits, whether official or on private trips. Some money is
also withdrawn from the government treasury for fowls, goats, butter,
cream etc. However, it finds its way into some official’s pockets like
water sinking in a desert. Whose pockets, nobody knows.
Karanam started to recollect the names of people who have given
fowls earlier. He asked Madiga, “Whose turn is it now?”
“Padmasalis’ turn was over last time.”
“Then fetch from beggars.” Madiga went, turning his face down.
Every officer targets the beggars first. These beggars usually belong
to criminal tribes. Their inferior social status comes handy to officers
in many ways. Even the people, who now sell mats, dig wells and do
cultivation to eke out their living, have remained criminal tribes
because their forefathers had been burglars and bandits once. But the
employees who commit crimes to extort money from these beggars
are regarded as honest persons!
Madiga returned and told that all the beggars had gone to work.
Jawan’s face reddened. His wait for fowl has turned into fury. Jawan
lunged forward abusing Madiga. Madiga was scared to death. “What?
If they went for work, have their fowls too followed them?” he shouted
and slapped hard on his cheek. Madiga reeled under its impact and
giddiness took him over. He was about to fall but steadied himself
and tried to run homewards.
54 / Astitva

“Stop there. Else, I will kill you,” thundered the jawan. Madiga
halted at once, petrified. Jawan caught hold of Madiga’s hair and
asked, “Where have they gone? Tell me.”
“They are at their homes,” Madiga started trembling.
“Why are you saying then, that they went for work?”
Madiga accepted his fault and was about to fall on jawan’s feet.
“Will you go and return immediately with a fowl?”
“Yes, master,” Madiga nodded his head. His hair became ruffled.
Suppressing his inner outrage and pain, he ran towards beggars’ huts
like a mad fellow.
All the fowls were on garbage dumps. Madiga hurled a stick
blindly at a bird without thinking as to who it belonged to. A cock
fell with a shriek. An old woman who was guarding the huts listened
to the commotion, came running and fell on his feet.
Madiga said, “Is your rooster more valuable than a man’s life?”
He pushed her aside and disappeared.
Cooking was over. Farmers heard that Tahsildar was coming.
They all gathered at Panchayat office and waited for him. They wanted
to put forth their difficulties before him. The sun was about to set.
Yet, they waited anxiously without having food and without going
for work. Some had slept under ttree shade, asking others to wake
them when the Tahsildar arrived, while some sat dozing. Some others
started chatting with one another.
“This jawan is already snoring. What happens if Tahsildar comes
now?” said a farmer.
“It is too late already. Perhaps the jawan had eaten what was
cooked,” remarked another farmer.
“What will he serve if Tahsildar comes?”
“Tahsildar won’t come. That’s why the jawan has devoured the
cooked food.”
“So, does he want to make so many people weep for the sake of
his belly?”
“What can we do? We have to believe even if we have a doubt.
How many times did we not wait like this and snooze for days in the
sun?”
“I will go then. The grains have been lying in my field as they
are,” a farmer got up. Another farmer followed suit. Rest of the people
also left as they felt it is a common thing that keeps happening there.
 Justice / 55

The next day, jawan has again started his efforts to get food
prepared. “Where is the firewood?” he shouted at Madiga. Pointing
to the bundle of tinder which he had placed by the side of jawan last
night, Madiga replied “There it is.” “Hmm, government works should
be carried out this way. Who will trouble you if you work like this?
You people keep complaining about us. But when higher officers
come, why don’t you tell them that Komati doesn’t give commodities?
You weep when we beat you but you don’t cry even when you are
hungry. See, only those babies who cry will get milk. Go and fetch
Komati at once,” the jawan concluded his usual style of talking.
Madiga said, “All right” and left.
It was getting late. Komati said, “You made me incur a loss telling
unnecessarily that some higher official was coming. If we had kept
those items till today, wouldn’t they have been useful now?” Komati
declared his intention of not giving the commodities.
“Nagayya! Has anybody prevented him from coming yesterday?
See, it won’t be nice. All Madiga people are complaining about you.
If this word reaches our Dora ... ?” When jawan was saying these
words to Komati, all the farmers sitting there got up saying, “Dora
has come.” A robust and stately horse was speeding towards them.
All the farmers started moving aside. Karanam has set his turban
right. Jawan checked the position of his badge. In this melee, Komati
ran hurriedly to give the commodities. With froth in its mouth the
horse suddenly stopped in front of the Panchayat office. “Rey, Ali!
How dare you come here like dora! Come down, see how I will thrash
you,” the jawan pulled down Ali who works as a caretaker of horses.
“As long as I mount the horse of dora, I am a dora,” said Ali.
Karanam’s face went pale. And he felt sorry for setting his turban
right. He moved it to the earlier casual position, so that he could get
rid of his heart’s heaviness caused by the fear of that fellow. Ali gave
the horse to Madiga and said, “Wash the horse well before dora comes.
Else, he’ll give a beating to you thoroughly. Have you kept food and
water ready for the horse? I won’t bother about it. When dora comes,
I will push you to his front.”
“So, will dora come today?” Karanam asked.
“Where is the problem for him? He can come anytime he wants
to.”
56 / Astitva

“Then, I will be ...” said the cook, took the provisions that have
just come and became busy in cooking. The farmers who were desperate
thinking they may have to spend that day too waiting for dora were
enthused by the news brought by Ali. They eagerly waited for him
thinking just the way they are anxious about their own difficulties, the
higher official would be similarly anxious to solve their problems.
People have more faith in office buildings, dresses of officers,
bound books in almirahs, than in the appropriateness or otherwise
of governance. Those objects have the power and rectitude that is
absent in people like themselves, the farmers think. It is mainly the
helplessness and ignorance that lead to one’s power and others’
subordination. After a long wait similar to that for god, a car came at
last with a whirr. Saying “Move, move”, the jawan pushed the farmers
aside as if even their presence would cause a great harm to the officer.
The farmers stood huddling silently at a distance and wanted to go
soon after the officer’s words are over. The officer has called Karanam,
gave a paper and asked him to sign on it.
Karanam thought that if he reads the paper leisurely and
thoroughly it would be tantamount to doubting and slighting him.
So, he glanced at it cursorily and signed it with trembling hands.
However much outwardly he might have read it, his face began to
turn pale. No sooner did Karanam recover from surprise than the car
started. All the farmers who had been standing with folded hands
ran behind the car. They were afraid that the god who had come to
dole out boons to them was flying away, and their difficulties would
not be attended again. “What about our fate, Dora?” These words
came out from everyone’s mouth, but they were inaudible to him
due to the car’s sound. The car fled, raising a trail of dust. Karanam
felt as though a big onus has fallen on him and went to jawan hoping
he would share the burden.
“Jawan! Why has the officer taken signatures on the agreement?
It binds us to supply fowls and sheep? Who will come again?”
“Who should come? Don’t you know the actual thing, still?”
“What is it?”
“The wedding of Dora’s daughter has been fixed.”
“Wedding of Dora’s daughter!” exclaimed all the farmers who
had gathered around Karanam. Their faces turned pale.

“Nyayam”
1945 Translated by Elanaaga
 Golla Ramavva

P.V. Narasimha Rao

Due to the commotion, the streets wore a deserted look. Those, who
wanted to open the doors and peep out, felt a paralytic effect in their
hands. The only sounds they heard were chirping of the birds,
fluttering of wings, barking of dogs, sounds of hoofs, chewing the
cud, that’s all. But, the villagers, though wanted to yell, couldn’t even
murmur as though a divine wisdom had dawned on them. No one
had ever slept again in that fateful night. There were whispers,
gestures, helpless gazes, inaudible prayers. The mothers became
protective shields to their kids. They patted themselves and their kids,
and used other practices of warding off fear. It was a strange calamity,
a deadly dance of death, an unknown disaster.
***
It had been an hour. Darkness enveloped the village as usual. The
sound of the crickets was piercing the ears in unison. Though
everything else was as usual, no one could ever sleep again in the
village that night. Golla Ramavva was sitting in darkness, trembling
because of age and fear. A girl, aged fifteen, comforting in Ramavva’s
lap, asked, “Avva, what was that sound?”
“Why do you want to know, you bitch? Why do you ask endless
questions! You want to know about everything.”
58 / Astitva

The girl had never risked asking again! But, after a while
Ramavva started to mumble to herself, “What do you know girl, the
worst days back again! I don’t know how you are going to live in
future. The Turakas, Muslims are hellish. A few days ago they shot
dead four people. They might have killed someone again, don’t know
what’s going to happen.”
There was again silence. Both Ramavva and Mallamma lost
themselves in thoughts. They were totally shorn of sleep. Ramavva
was in her seventies and Mallamma, who had recently come of age,
had to spend their sleepless night.
Someone suddenly knocked the window, which was but a hole
with moth-eaten shutters meant for ventilation. That was the window
of their hut. They were startled. Without moving an inch, with bated
breath, they were curious to know whether it was the wind or a cat
that flapped the shutter. They heard the sound again, but this time
around they were sure someone was knocking the door. Scared, they
were not sure what to do. There was a knock once again, rather
strongly. As Ramavva started to get up, Mallamma grew fearful. “I
am frightened, avva,” the girl murmured.
“Just wait, let me find out if someone is out there,” Ramavva
got up decisively. She could walk up to the window in habitual
darkness. Opening the latch, “Who are you?” she asked.
Even before she could complete her question, someone passed
through the narrow window, and closed the shutters. Ramavva was
dumbfounded; at the other corner, Mallamma closed her eyes as
though waiting to be stabbed. Nothing was visible in the darkness.
Ramavva was reminded of the earlier incident. She thought it could
be either a police or a razakar. She thought her granddaughter, whom
she had brought up and married off, would invariably be raped. Even
by screaming, could she alert the neighbors? No! Who is not fond of
one’s own life? They too have grown up girls? No one questioned the
razakars when they raped a girl the other day. Who’ll come to her
rescue now?
Recalling the incident, Ramavva could visualize what was going
to happen to her granddaughter. She had resolved to protect
Mallamma from being raped. Did she rear her to be raped? She
remained standing straight like a pole, seeming as though paralyzed.
He was about two yards away from Ramavva. He walked a
couple of steps straight towards her even in darkness. She felt as
 Golla Ramavva / 59

though the sky had fallen on her. In another step, her life would come
to an end. With great difficulty, Ramavva could say “Ayya.”
Again he shut her mouth. She had prayed all the gods to protect
Mallamma. Meanwhile he whispered, “Don’t shout. I’m not a thief,
not a razakar, not a police. I won’t harm you. But don’t shout.”
“Wah, what a trickster! He is pleasing us with syrupy words
only to rape the poor girl! Wah! These demons can go to any extent!
Yes. First they always speak pleasing. If it doesn’t work, they adopt
other methods. That’s the sequence, isn’t it?” she thought to herself.
To be safe, Ramavva fell on his feet, “I’m like your servant! I’ll
carry your slippers. You can behead me if you like, but don’t harm
the girl. Treat her as your sister, I pray you!”
“Why don’t you believe me avva, I’m not such a person. I’m one
among you, a Telugu man,” he said.
He was speaking chaste Telugu. Ramavva had never heard any
Turaka speak chaste Telugu; they would speak broken Telugu. She
started to think seriously. For a moment, she felt secure. This is like a
miracle! This idea gave her strength and support. Though a stranger,
though suspicious, she decided to believe him. It was not conviction,
but a freedom from conviction. It was the only weapon of idea struck
in times of exigency. How could she afford to miss it?
Ramavva, who fell on his feet, slowly got up fondling his knees,
waist, chest, shoulders and face. He was wearing shorts, but no shirt.
His body was wedged with caltrops, thorns, and stuck with blades of
sedge, grass, bulrush. She felt these while fondling him as though
her palms were viewing with eyes. His skin was full of bruises. Her
palms felt the wetness of bleeding. There were traces of desiccated
blood. His body was hot with fever, face full of sweat. Gasping for
breath, the young man was moaning. Ramavva felt, he was a refugee
suddenly stumbled upon in exigency.
She got disturbed in mind. There was a perceivable change in
her attitude. Ramavva, who had prayed him to spare her
granddaughter, was now saying, “What’s this? What made you
become like this? Tell me, my son.”
“Avva, it’s a big story. First of all, let me hide somewhere. I’ll go
away after some time,” said the stranger.
“O, you’ll go? Certainly you’ll go, why not? In this condition,
you’ll go straight to the heaven!”
60 / Astitva

He had not uttered a word. Ramavva called out, “Oh Mallamma,

do you hear me, you bitch! Go and light the lamp, quick. Are you
asleep, you, useless girl!”
The young man said, “Please don’t light the lamp. The police
are searching for me, they’ll catch hold of me.”
“Enough don’t speak. Even before the police takes you away, it
appears the goddess of death will take you away,” reprimanded
Ramavva.
Mallamma lit the lamp. Ramavva spread a country blanket on
the floor. She looked at him; he was thin and slim. He seemed eighteen
with tender moustache; looked dignified. His body was flexible like
vine. His face was tender. Ramavva grew wonder struck.
“You look like an emperor, my son! Why are you in trouble now?
Sleep on that blanket. Why do you look shocked? Mallamma, you
bitch, go and boil some water. Come on, be quick. Have you? Okay,
come here, bring the lamp. Place the cot between the lamp and the
door. Cover my blanket on the cot, have you? Yes, exactly the same
way. Cover the lamp with something allowing a little light on him.
The rest of the hut must all be dark. That’s how it should be, yes,
exactly the same way. There’s a spark in you, girl! Now, yes sit beside
him. Remove the thorns off his body. O my goodness, feeling shy of
touching him? Hell with your shyness. Alas! He’s lying like a corpse!
Don’t you pity him, you daughter of a bitch? Hmm, that’s it, let him
not feel pain!” Ramavva interspersed scolding with instructions.
Mallamma executed Ramavva’s commands swiftly. While the
young man was in a semi-conscious state, Mallamma was removing
thorns one by one. He felt as though he was in a new universe. Ramavva
started again. “Have you removed all the thorns, you girl? You are
working so hard you, girl. You’ll go to heaven. Okay, balm his wounds
with a cloth dipped in hot water. Wipe off the stains of blood!”
Within moments, Mallamma’s nursing relieved him of pains.
Meantime Ramavva brought him something to eat. She murmured,
“Get up, my son. I got gatuka, maize, for you. Did you ever taste
gatuka, my dear? Can you ever imagine how tastefully I cook? Are
you scared of polluting your caste by eating my food? Whether you
are a Brahmin or anybody, save your life, first. Eat.”
The young man got up and sat. He smiled at Ramavva. He
savored it like anything. Ramavva’s words proved right in word and
 Golla Ramavva / 61

spirit. He could regain his life. His face blossomed, sparkle was clearly
manifest in his eyes. Ramavva got satisfied. While fondling him with
affection, she found a metal object in his shorts. Taking it out, “What’s
this?”
“It’s a revolver, avva!” said he.
“Why do you need it, my son? Did you want to kill us?” asked
Ramavva.
“No, my mother, it’s for killing your killers, I’ve killed two
policemen tonight. The same police who had earlier killed four of
your villagers.”
Ramavva’s facial features changed beyond description. Initially,
a bit of fear, later slight guts, and then a sense of enthusiasm, and
subsequently, pleasure of triumph—clearly noticeable on her face.
He was keenly observing her face. He regretted for having
revealed it to her. What’s she going to say? He felt he would be shown
the door. Who will allow shelter to someone who killed policemen?
After a while, Ramavva started to speak, “Only two? But, why
have you left out the rest of the two, my son! You’ve done only half
the work.”
The young man fumbled and got amazed. He buoyed in the
fictional sky of pride. “Give back the revolver, my mother, I’ll kill the
rest of the two,” he said.
Seizing back the revolver, Ramavva said, “Enough, whatever
you’ve done is enough. Reckless boy! Why do you want to antagonize
police, you nasty chap?”
The young man said, “I am a volunteer of the State Congress,
which is fighting the Nizam,” he sounded like making a speech on
political theory.
But, Ramavva intervened, “But where is fighting? The people
in the villages are themselves playing host to those Turaka policemen.
What do the poor get in the fight?”
“The Congress struggle is by the poor alone, my mother,” said
the young man.
“Whether you belong to Congress, or other party, why should
young people like you fight?”
The elders live in the city discussing with the King. They provide
the leadership.”
62 / Astitva

“Hey, I can’t understand all that. The elders while away the time
in negotiations, while the young ones are instigated against the police!
And the young ones carry guns on the shoulders only to turn their
wives widows!” Ramavva said in a vexed tone. She asked him to
sleep.
“You, Mallamma! Let’s both stay put sentries to him till morning.
If at all you doze off, look I will bang you, hmm,” she alerted
Mallamma.
***
It was getting late for milking. The buffaloes tethered outside were
longing for their calves. The calves were wailing. But the animals
were not being milked. The regular life chores of the village had at
once come to a standstill. It looked as though the deafening silence
reigned in the village since time immemorial.
Both Ramavva and Mallamma were keeping sentry. The young
man was fast asleep. The villagers were so scared that even a sound
of pin-drop would scare them; there was no sound of pin-drop
anyway. The young man, responsible for the dreadful incident of the
night, alone was sleeping and nobody else. What for, for whose sake,
why? Everyone knew it all. It was an old story, anyway.
Ramavva was thinking of the four innocent people, who were
shot dead earlier, but, it’s the turn of the now. No wonder if the police
set the village on fire. It would be better if all the villagers were killed
at once than the police entering houses, killing and raping, and the
neighbors not protesting. If it continues, everyone in the village would
fall victims. It’s better either to live or to die than to die the death of a
dog! Ramavva groaned while fondling the young man’s head, “Oh,
what a boy! One doesn’t know how many people will have to die like
this one.”
Suddenly she heard the sound of a vehicle, then the marching
sound of shoes all around the house. She heard scolding and abuses,
the sounds of whip in between. Someone was uttering, “O, don’t kill
me, I don’t know, I’m like your servant, please beat me not.” The
screams were heard unto the sky. People were being dragged into
the streets. The village, which was like a cemetery a while ago,
resembled Yamaloka, hell.
Mallamma shivered out of fear. The young man had at once
woken up. The village, which was in stupor, got startled. The young
 Golla Ramavva / 63

man took out his revolver, and loaded it. Ramavva’s condition was
indescribable. It was neither fear nor anguish; not sorrow at all. As
she heard the screams outside, she grew more emotional. The young
man got up quickly, and walked swiftly near the door. When he was
about to unlatch the door, Ramavva stopped him asking, “Where do
you want to go?”
The young man fumbled. The man who can live amidst bullets,
the hero who is capable of tackling even the demons, the courageous
lion that defies even a catastrophe, had now dithered when the old
lady in her seventies questioned him. His heart quivered, but, setting
his throat right, he said, “What do you mean, my dear mother?”
He continued, “The matter has to be settled forever here and
now. When the innocent people are being thrashed, should I hide
myself? How long can I do so? Moreover, you may have to suffer
because of me, let me go out, avva!”
Ramavva did not utter a word. She pulled him back; he followed
her silently. The din outside increased. The sounds of the shoes were
approaching the hut. Someone at a neighbor’s house was heard asking,
“Ramidhan girnee ki gudsee yahee hai,” (Is this the hut of Ramidhan’s
flour mill?).
The young man tried once again to out. But, Ramavva pulled
him back, snatched the revolver from him, put out the lamp. She called
out Mallamma, “Hey girl, bring a dhoti and bed sheet. Hey, boy, cover
the bed sheet over you. Quick, what happened? Why are you taking
so long? Mallamma, give him your bangles. The fellow is thin and
slim; your bangles will suit him on his arms. Hmm, that’s it. Hey girl,
hide this fellow’s trousers. Haa, now you look like a shepherd boy?
You must speak exactly like a golla man.
“Okay,” said the young man.
Since he was used to this practice, the boy could sport the get
up of a golla man with ease. When he was ready to escape, suddenly
there was a knock on the door repeatedly banging, “Darwajaki khol!
(open the door),” someone yelled from outside.
The sounds of shoes were heard to be taking position around the
house. What then? There’s no chance of escaping now. The young man
wanted to take back his revolver, but had no courage to snatch it from
Ramavva. Ramavva whispered, “Mallamma, set the cot in the corner,
and spread the country blanket on it. My boy, go and sleep on it, quick.”
64 / Astitva

The young man didn’t know what to do. He felt he was destined
to be caught. He was not sure sleeping on the cot would save him.
Having no other go, he slept on the cot. Again, they banged the doors,
“Do you open the door or not? Open quickly. Haramjadee! We’ll peel
off your skin! Open the door! Otherwise we’ll break the doors open.”
She yawned as though she had just woken up, made sounds of
body-warming. Ramavva began to mutter, “Who’s there you, fellows,
banging the door in the dead of the night, wretched bastards!”
“We’re police, here,” voice came from outside. But, Ramavva
didn’t seem bothered to listen to them. She murmured, “Hell with
the times, day in and day out, they have been vexing us,” and asked
the girl in hushed voice, “Hey girl, set my cot against the cot.”
She addressed the men outside, “Do you want to rob me? What’s
there to be robbed of this old widow? Rob the rich. Why do you bother
me? You seem to break the door. Why don’t you wait?”
“Mallamma, go, and lie down beside him, without a word of
resistance. Quick, run up,” she whispered to her.
“Now, break the doors, ho, you fellows. If you’ve no patience
till I come and open the door, break them, enter the house, and each
one of you can take away the jewels from this hut.”
“You chap, sleep, and move close to her laying your hand on
her. Let them not get a doubt when looked at you,” she asked
Mallamma.
“I’m so weak I can’t do anything, this bitch, Mallamma is not
yet awake, O Mallamma, O Mallamma! No use, they can’t get up,
and I can’t find the lamp in the dead of the night,” she intended to be
heard by the men outside. She continued, “When there’s so much of
bustle in the street, they’re snoring, what do I do with this unruly
daughter of a bitch? My son and daughter-in-law died leaving
Mallamma to my fate. If beaten, she shouts, and if not she can never
fall in line,” Ramavva cried.
People gathered outside spoke variedly. While one suggested
to leave her alone, another accused her of being smart. However
everyone decided that the hut had to be raided. The murmuring was
still going on. Ramavva said, “Wait, I am opening the door.”
“Thod devo re darwaja (break open the door),” when the restless
police waiting outside commanded, Ramavva unlatched the door.
Two policemen suddenly fell one over the other as they surged
 Golla Ramavva / 65

forward on opening the doors. Ramavva screamed aloud when they

fell down. When they got up, she pretended to have fallen down,
and started wailing,
“May you become dumb! Go and search the house yourselves,
my grandchildren are sleeping in the cot. I’m here in front of you,
there you have the earthen pots, platters and tumblers, tali around
the girl’s neck, armlets on the boy. Take away whatever you want to,
kill us, if you like to, you can kill me, kill him, shoot at her even
before she is widowed. Kill both of them at once. Take away whatever
you want to.”
Mallamma looked around rubbing her eyes. The young man
too got up, and sat on the cot yawning lazily. The policemen looked
at them. Ramavva continued, “What more do you want to do? Why
don’t you kill me with guns, how long do I live anyway?”
Pointing at the young man , the police asked, “Who’s he? Is he a
Congressman?”
Ramavva shouted, “Who he is! We’re not prostitutes to allow
anyone and everyone to sleep with our women. If we ask the same
question, how do you feel? Why do you insult us with such questions?
Why don’t you kill us all at once? I’ve never heard any one speak like
you. You have insulted me today; I must hang myself in shame. Ask
everyone in the village; you may find out if he is my granddaughter’s
husband or not. But, why do you insult us? We are not that kind of
people, my lord! Can an outsider escape from my hut? Don’t I hand
him over to you? Ask anyone about me!”
The police got surprised at the change in her, aggressive in the
beginning, and appeasing now. The police was clueless about what
to do.
“Go away, my lord, there’s no one over here. If I’m not true, I’ll
behead myself. I’ll not run away, I live in this village forever. You can
crosscheck my word with anyone.”
The police got up, and said, “Acha, I’ll come back after
conducting panchanama of the dead police. Let me trust you. You
should be here, or else I’ll shoot you, understand?”
The head police started to go. Ramavva sat on the cot with the
young man sitting on one side and Mallamma on the other side. The
young man said, “Avva, you’re not an ordinary woman, you are
Bharatmata! (Mother India)” said the young man.”
66 / Astitva

“You, young boy, giving me epithets? I’m Golla Ramavva, that’s

all. Now get going. I’ll take Mallamma to her in-laws place. The sun
is rising up, mmm, get lost.”
The young man had already learnt that the command of
Ramavva was irrevocable.

“Golla Ramavva”
1948 Translated by K. Purushotham
 Fire Flowers

Dasarathi Krishnamacharya

People are growing Paidi Thangedu plants in front of their houses.

How beautiful are their flowers with a light red hue! They look like
dancing angels with red saris, in front of the bungalows! Jagirdars
and the like in Hyderabad keep smoking hukkas in large halls behind
rows of Paidi Thangedu plants and spend time as in heaven. Theirs
is the cosiest life in the entire world. They have jagirs and lands in
districts or talukas that are far away. However difficult the lives of
people in those jagirs may be, lakhs of rupees reach the mansions
safely.
Jagirdar Akhtar Jung’s wife, Begum Sahiba had never come to
her jagir. However, as the change of seasons is inevitable she too had
to arrive at last. Her husband had died. The people of the jagir filed a
suit in court against her and won it. Tricolours that had never existed
in that region, fluttered on the heads of men and women. When so
many remarkable incidents took place, wouldn’t Begum Sahiba’s
arrival take place?
That evening, Begum came in a buggy and boarded in her
bungalow. The red tint of evening was visible through the window
on west side. There was a grove of Palash trees with red flowers on
the western horizon. Begum opened her veil and looked at the grove.
Its redness was denser than that of the Paidi Thangedu flowers in
68 / Astitva

front of her house. In Hyderabad, one can see the light red tint of the
nascent sun. In villages, how beautiful is the dawn! What a charming
colour in the rows of the Palash trees in villages! Their sprouts appear
as if they contain glowing fire. How beautiful is the forest with the
fire that doesn’t burn our hands even if we touch it! Begum was
awestruck as she had never seen fully bloomed Palash flowers earlier.
She was the sixth wife of the Nawab. She was very young. Yet, she
felt proud like a ripened old lady who had seen and experienced
everything. In Hyderabad, she enjoyed the luxury of mansions, radios,
expensive cars, soft and thick beds, lavish parties, costly dresses, paans,
attar, and lust of her aged husband, hundreds of maids, burquas and
curtains and so on. What other special things are there in this world
except the big city that shines flamboyantly with the money plundered
in sixteen districts!
But, when Begum saw the Palash trees which outstripped the
charming hues of Paidi Thangedu plants in front of the mansions, she
was wonderstruck. The villages that are different from cities are
unique, she thought. She made a servant fetch four baskets of Palash
flowers. She gave the name of ‘fire flowers’ to them and decided to
carry their seeds or saplings while going back to Hyderabad.
The next morning, reputable Hindu ladies of that village called
on ‘their jagirdarini’ – the Begum. Brahmin and Vysya ladies came in
attractive attires sporting kumkuma bottu on their foreheads. They
expressed their condolences and consoled her. They did not even
take a single sip of water in her house because Begum is a Muslim
woman!
In the evening, women from poor families came. They too were
given permission to enter the mansion. With torn attires, they were
wearing saris with patches; a smell of sweat was coming from their
bodies and hair. They came with smiles on their faces. Begum set her
eyes on Gowri who was one among them. She was so beautiful that if
she had been clad in good clothes, she would have been the most
gorgeous lady of the world!
A blouse with a knot in the front, a sari which could barely cover
her body, its hem that was repeatedly falling off her shoulder,
tumescent breasts, lustreless hair, skin with bright yellow complexion,
beautiful black eye-brows and eye-lashes, comely slender waist – with
all these, Gowri was looking gorgeous.
 Fire Flowers / 69

Begum was amazed when she saw Gowri. She again compared
the Palash flowers with Paidi Thangedu blooms. She then compared
herself with Gowri. The Palashes have won. Gowri has triumphed.
Gowri did not notice the costly dress of Begum. Nor did she have
respect for the mansion. Touching the smooth walls of the room, she
looked like a beautiful picture on a screen. Begum approached Gowri
and hugged her suddenly.
“Kithnee achchee hai” (How charming you are), said Begum.
Gowri could not understand what was said. In a bid to disentangle
herself from the hug of Begum, she tried to shrink her body. Begum
took Gowri into her bedroom hurriedly. The mirrors, cots, beds, saris
and costly objects present there, could not make Gowri astonished.
Begum quickly opened a box, took out a good sari and a blouse, and
asked Gowri to wear them. Gowri moved her head horizontally
indicating her denial. Begum forcibly removed Gowri’s sari. Gowri’s
naked body was reflected in the mirrors. It was visible in ten mirrors!
Begum hugged Gowri tightly. She kissed her lips; entwined Gowri’s
legs with her own ones. She pressed her lips hard on Gowri’s lips
erotically, smeared attar on her body and wrapped her in a good sari.
She tucked four twigs of Palash buds in her hair. The western sky
smiled in the chignon of Gowri. Gowri laughed aloud.
“All this wealth is ours. You plundered it,” said Gowri.
“What?” exclaimed Begum, in Urdu.
“I know how much you people have tormented us. Did you
allow us to hold Gandhi’s flag in our hands? You even have sent my
husband to jail.”
“Keep this dress for yourself. Come here again tomorrow.”
“These jagirs will be abolished. My husband is a senior congress
leader of this village. You are not,” said Gowri.
“Congress people are good. Razakars are wicked.” said Begum.
“You people are Razakars. You should be discarded.”
“In fact, Razakars are bad people. We should banish them. You
and we are one party,” remarked Begum with a loud laughter. She
started walking in the room.
Gowri didn’t turn up the next day. Begum could not get sleep.
Why didn’t Gowri come? Earlier, our men (Nawabs) committed
atrocities in jagirs without our (Begums) knowledge. All the people
are indignant about it. They are now furious at Zamindar’s wives or
70 / Astitva

their kin. How big, evil deeds they’ve committed indeed! They were
men. They enjoyed pleasures and died. Now, those who are alive
have to face the difficulty. While they savoured luxuries, now it is
people’s turn to face hardships. Or is it the turn of Begums? Begum
shuddered with fright. Thoughts started sprinkling poison in her
brain. How bad has the time turned now! Good times have slipped
from our hands. Further, they are revolting against us. Hindus were
always docile, but they have changed now. Everything is a result of
Allah’s magic, she felt. Begum could not fall asleep. Thinking about
the future would make her head burst, she thought. Palaces, pomp,
riches, delights cannot resurrect our splendour. People who lived like
thieves are all getting the glory of kings now. Somehow, I should
tame these people, entice them with promise of money and get my
work done. This is how her thoughts went on.
In the morning, as soon as she got up, Begum sent a servant to
fetch Gowri. When the latter went there, Gowri was milking a cow.
Her husband was talking to farmers about Congress party. When he
heard the servant, he came out and said “She will not come. You may
go now.” He hurled the sari given by Begum, on the servant who was
standing in the front yard.
Begum was very sad when she came to know about this incident.
She was scared when she had learnt about the big post of Gowri’s
husband in the Congress party. She was surprised too. There could be
some greatness even in shepherds becoming influential people, she
thought. These Congressmen have become more eminent than Nawabs!
The Palash flowers of the village have outwitted Paidi Thangedu
plants of Hyderabad. The beauty of Gowri has beaten that of Begum.
Oh, how much has the world changed! Everyone in the village is
now going only to Congressmen. Nobody comes to the bungalow of
jagirdar. It is rumoured, people in the village are of the opinion that
jagirdars have no right to visit their jagirs. It would be better if I yield
to them. If I pursue with Gowri, I can succeed to some extent. Her
husband might then soften a bit. Perhaps all this is fair. Wouldn’t the
people be incensed naturally by the atrocities committed by my
husband? Will the people remain quiet if someone enjoys comforts
by looting them! Congressmen are better to some extent. Theirs is a
quiet abhorrence. It is better to live by mingling with them. Resisting
them would make the situation still worse.
 Fire Flowers / 71

Begum reached Gowri’s home in the evening twilight. Gowri

was singing folk songs and simultaneously drawing water from the
well. The moonlight which was about to become dense was spreading
on the world. The eastern sky was washing its murky face with a
cake of soap. Innumerable stars appeared on the firmament. Cool air
started to come in. It was more pleasant than the wind that blows
into the bungalows in Hyderabad. Trees were shaking their heads in
the half-light. The flames of small lamps began to dance with the
touch of zephyrs.
“Gowri!” ... . Begum called. Wiping her wet body with a towel,
Gowri came out and said, “Who’s that?” She then recognised Begum
in the semi-darkness. Begum, all of a sudden, hugged Gowri. The
super thin sari of Begum got wet with the touch of Gowri’s wet body.
“How cold are you even in this summer!” said Begum. Gowri was
surprised at Begum’s arrival from quite far. She felt sympathy and
affection for her. She thought ‘Pity that she is a lady. Are women
responsible for every sin committed by their men? It’s pitiable that
she is a widow. She has been facing many hardships since her
husband’s death. She came to this small village though she had never
left Hyderabad before. Moreover, she loves me. Let bygones be
bygones. What danger is there now, with a snake whose fangs have
been removed?’
“Please come in,” said Gowri invitingly and took Begum inside.
Begum went in silently and sat on a cot. It was a small house with
mud walls and raised floor. A stringed cot and earthen pots were
there in the room. Yet prosperity, satisfaction, plenitude and innocence
were clearly visible on Gowri’s face. Sitting in that small house, Begum
felt as if she got rid of heaviness in her heart. She had been feeling the
torment of big buildings, affairs and headaches. She felt relieved here.
It was calm, simple, far from the hustle and bustle of the world.
“Shall I stay with you here?” asked Begum.
“You are a rich lady. How could you come here?” questioned
Gowri.
“I hope your husband will not object to my staying here,” said
Begum.
“This small hut is enough for us. We will manage with morsels
of simple food.”
“Why did you return my saris?”
72 / Astitva

“Will you have your meal here?” asked Gowri, in a language

that was half Urdu and half Telugu. Both felt satisfied with whatever
meaning they could infer. Begum did not leave the hut. Gowri did
not ask her to leave either. Chandram came, didn’t say anything.
Can we say there is no happiness in different kinds of ice-apples
and tubers of different kinds?
Begum’s kin said she had run away from home. City dwellers
too, have expressed the same view. Her elders said she had become
Chandram’s keep. Some others commented that Chandram had made
off with Begum.
It was three months ago that Begum stopped listening to radio.
Her ears stopped listening to the blames uttered by people. Gowri’s
words, Palash groves, songs in cool wind, tattered and patched saris,
blouses with front knots, lustreless hair – with all these, Begum looked
like Gowri’s sister. Begum mingled with Gowri’s people.
Chandram, Gowri and Begum came to Hyderabad to attend the
Congress meetings. Now, there is no need for Begum to be covered
in Burkha. She doesn’t need a car either. Nobody would glance at
Begum who roams on roads openly with half exposed breast and
tattered sari. How weird is this world!
Passing in front of her manor, Begum laughed aloud. The Paidi
Thangedu plants were pale red. In the villages, there are fire flowers,
beautiful Gowri and magnanimous Chandram. Only that is the real
world; rest is sham, thought Begum. She laughed again.
The Palash flowers in Gowri’s braid smiled.

“Nippu Poolu”
1949 Translated by Elanaaga
 The Kite

Vattikota Alwar Swamy

The doctor prescribed medicines for four months and advised me to

go home. He blessed me saying, “Nothing will happen to you; you
are now physically strong.” I got enough confidence as I thought the
problems in my system and the consequent diseases were rooted out
from my body. I felt ecstatic as my doctor must have applied some
kind of ambrosia, or some unknown rejuvenating balm on my body.
I returned home with a smiling face.
The doctor provided me with a list of things related to my regular
diet, some healthy practices, do’s and don’ts. In the list of conditions
prescribed by the doctor, the single important thing was drinking
250 milliliters of cow milk daily on empty stomach.
After returning home, I tried for about fifteen days to find cow
milk. My efforts proved that it’s highly impossible to get pure cow
milk these days. “How can you get pure milk these days, when even
people are being adulterated?” my friend Seetaiah said. At that time,
he was returning from the election polling booth in a disappointed
mood. He might have been vexed with the behavior of his friends
and acquaintances who had impersonated using enticing words on
the polling day. Must have been a tough task for him to expose their
foul play and reveal the truth all by himself. Finally, Seetaiah could
74 / Astitva

do nothing and was returning home with despair as he felt it was the
only way to control the turbulence that was raging in his mind.
I thought that his words clearly reflected my innocence in a
mirror. But still the anguish of not getting the cow milk haunted me.
I enquired with all the leading milk stores for cow milk. I even
requested the milk vendors whose turnover in the business runs in
thousands of rupees. I was fed up. But in respect of one thing I was
satisfied. The milk vendors without exception came to the level of
saying that it was highly difficult to get pure cow milk. They were in
such a position as to declare it openly without inhibitions. I felt happy
at the vendors’ fearlessness to sell the adulterated milk as pure milk
has taken a beating.
There was a small shop selling milk and curd in the street where
I pass through regularly while going to my office. I haven’t asked the
owner of that small stall for cow milk earlier even once as I was not
sure about its availability there. But one day, all of a sudden, I asked
the old man sitting there. “It is impossible to get pure cow milk. If we
insist on pure milk for purpose of medicines, the milk vendors may
agree to sell it, but it is hard to believe them,” he said haltingly in a
murmuring tone. At that moment, a young lady came from the next
room and said, “Why isn’t the milk available mama? Our Pentaiah
has three cows and they are giving milk too. He is mixing cow milk
in the buffalo milk that he is giving to us.” She came out of the room
and stood before me. With wide open eyes, she had been observing
me keenly.
“I have no idea, but I’ll ask him,” the old man assured me while
adjusting the charcoal in the hearth upon which the milk was boiling.
“How much milk do you want per day?” the lady asked me
with a little smile.
I got some consolation with her words, vexed as I was with my
seeming futile search for pure milk for a long time. Moreover the
way she was looking at me, and the way she was talking offered such
a sight that anybody would be fascinated by her. As a matter of fact,
she was very beautiful. She had an attractive personality, with wide
eyes, straight nose, thin cheeks, pomegranate-like teeth, and her
weight was in proportion to her height. She wore a very tight blouse
and a painted white sari which was shining. The latter has
compensated the absence of ornaments on her body. I forgot about
 The Kite / 75

asking for milk. My mind was disturbed by her presence. I could not
help looking at her like that for quite some time. The old man was
observing everything silently and pretending as if he was unaware
of the surroundings. He started mixing sugar in the milk. He was
smiling within himself silently. The old man must have been roaming
in his own wonderful memories of past, looking at my romantic
mental state.
Wasn’t I blessed by my doctor to recover from all kinds of
weaknesses and to become a ‘Vajrakaayudu’, a man with body as strong
as diamond? But at that moment I was confused as to whether I was
a symbol of weakness or strength. I didn’t dare to look at the lady
again.
“What?” the woman asked.
I lifted my head and looked at her. She questioned me by moving
her eyes and eye-brows. Regaining my stability I said, “I need only
half-a-liter a day.”
“One rupee ... per ...” she showed me her index finger
mischievously.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why is it only for once, you crazy woman!” the old man
laughed.
“Did I say only once, uncle? I said one litre,” she adjusted the
hem of her sari and tried to pretend innocence. “Is it ok for you?”
while asking she tried to embrace the frame of main door. She was
taking her tantalizing ways a step further. The strength, which I gained
by taking medicines now seemed to have become futile with her
provocative behavior and I became helpless at that moment.
Trying to control my quivering tongue and with a little stammer,
I said with bent head, “I’ll send a boy with money every day. Give
boiled milk only, oh old man.” I was very much afraid of looking at
her.
“You are telling only to the old man? Will he be in the shop
always? Only I will be in the shop all the time. Why don’t you drink
lukewarm milk here only?” She asked me as if she was my close
relative.
With that I started to fumble for words. I was unable to give an
answer to her question. I was seriously thinking to get out of the
situation somehow. Cow milk is very important for me. The milk
76 / Astitva

woman is attracting me like anything. Can I take advantage of the

situation?
‘Why am I behaving like a coward? I am a father of three children,
why this weakness now? She must have liked me as I am a handsome
man. Even if you avoid the situation, this is not going to help in any
way.’ A turbulence was raging in my mind. The symptoms of fever
started in the body. There was a buzzing sound in the ears. I could
recollect the advice of my friend Venkat Rao immediately: “We think
that some people commit some mistakes and involve in corrupt
practices. If we face similar situation, then only we will realize what
happens to us.” If Venkat Rao was there I would have washed his
feet with my tears, and sprinkle the drops on my head. I looked at
the woman and said awkwardly, “I will send the boy with money.
Give unadulterated milk” with bent head, I started for home seriously.
After walking for four yards, I looked back at the shop. To my
surprise, she was standing in front of the shop and was looking at me.
‘We have burnt great men to ashes. We are the reason for the
self immolation of Bhasmasura. Even Lord Shiva danced to our tunes.
We have transformed Vipranarayana, a Tamil Vaishnava saint into a
stray dog. There is not even a single man in this world who did not
succumb, when we cast our mesmerizing looks. Even Brahma, the
creator of the world is not an exception to this,’ All these and many
more purports are reflected in her eyes.
When I reached home, I was welcomed by my wife with a
smiling face resembling the milk lady. Looking at my wife, my dull
and withered face wore a new glow. I felt as if I was in a cool shade
after returning from the hot sun.
I was smiling to myself by sipping the coffee given by my wife.
She came with betel nuts, sat by me and said, “Why are you smiling
all by yourself?” by adjusting the buttons of my shirt.
I narrated the entire episode at the milk shop. “You went for
milk, you got it! Lucky, you are!” She said naughtily while handing
over the shirt from the almirah.
“Why do I need that cow milk?” I said carelessly.
“You ask your doctor. Human milk, if available is even better,”
taking the coffee cup, she slipped into the kitchen.
“So much tenacity! But if I fell into her amorous designs, would
you be the same?” I asked while turning the pages of a magazine.
 The Kite / 77

She entered the hall with a coffee glass. With a smile on her
face, sipping the coffee, she said, “Unless you have that resolve, how
long can I control you?” She slowly started telling about the women
in the neighborhood whose husbands had been involved in illicit
affairs.
“So, what other people are thinking about us?” I asked with my
looks still on the magazine.
“Whatever they think, don’t we know about each other? One is
protected by one’s morals ... Anyhow! Now tell me whether that girl
is a widow or a married woman,” putting the coffee glass aside she
appeared interested in continuing the gossip.
“I don’t know the details! Did I get a chance to observe her? I
was afraid of her looks and tricks,” folding the magazine I looked
through the window at the bazaar.
My wife came, sitting by me, looking at the bazaar, said “The
important thing is that you have got cow milk. You have also seen a
good looking lady. If eyes cherished it, stomach will also like it. If
you drink the milk, it would suit your body well too,” She looked at
me naughtily.
I felt elated at the greatness and self confidence of my wife. I felt
immensely happy to have such a life partner.
I continued to receive the milk regularly. Every day as I go to
office in the morning through the same route she observes me from
about 100 yards. In recent times, she must have observed me at least
one lakh times. But I didn’t bother to notice it.
After getting into the agreement for cow milk, my eyes and her
eyes met several times and immediately my friend Venkat Rao used
to appear before my eyes.
One day when we were going to a movie, I had shown that
woman to my wife. “Pity on her! She looks like a woman from a
respectable family. How did she enter into this mire?” My wife felt
bad about it. “Is it because fewer opportunities there in this world?”
she said again.
After three months, one evening I was going on the same path.
It was semi-dark around, when I crossed the milk shop for two yards
she said in a louder voice, “Why don’t you settle your accounts?” I
turned around. “I’m calling you only” she called me waving her
hands.
78 / Astitva

I thought I had to face again a testing time. I turned back and

went to the shop. “What accounts are you talking about? I’m sending
the amount regularly. Am I not?” I said looking directly into her eyes.
Thinking seriously, she bent her head and said, “We owe you
some amount.” Her body quivered. She exhaled a long sigh as if she
was tired.
It was my firm belief that it‘s always the men who make attempts
to attract women in order to have relationship with them. But her
attitude, fearlessness proved that my idea was wrong.
The people passing by the road were looking at us strangely.
They turned their face to see us again out of curiosity.
“Is the old man not in the house? Where did he go?” I asked her
looking inside the house.
“Yes! He is not in the house. He went to a nearby village. He
will return after a day or two,” she looked at him as if pleading mercy.
In that look there was clear indication, “Let us not waste this
opportunity.”
By lifting her face gracefully she said, “I kept the cream of milk
for you, why don’t you have it?”
I controlled my excitement and said, “I don’t need the cream of
milk, but are you sending unadulterated milk?” I tried to change the
topic.
“Why isn’t there any adulteration? There is, but ...” she lifted
her head naughtily and looked at me. “That adulteration will not do
any harm to your health. You will get more energy with it,” she
laughed heartily.
“What?” I asked her in wonder with folded eyebrows.
“Human milk, do you like it?” she asked me by bending her
neck naughtily. Without waiting for my answer she again said, “I am
mixing my milk only.” Looking at the floor like a newly-wed bride
she continued. “If you come at 8 o’clock in the night ...” she waited
for my answer holding her head down.
I was surprised, rather ashamed, to hear such words from the
mouth of a woman. I was shocked to know that her environment
rooted out her shyness and womanliness. My entire body was soaked
in sweat. I could remember the words of my wife. My friend Venkat
Rao appeared immediately in my mind.
 The Kite / 79

I could not say anything at that time. The same moment, she
was filled with shyness. She was looking at me and the floor again
and again.
My friend Mallesham was going on his way home; he looked at
me and stopped. “Why are you standing here?” he kept his hand on
my shoulder. He also observed the woman secretly. I didn’t reply to
his question but looked at him silently examining his feelings.
“Yes, I have some work here. I am buying cow milk in this shop.
Let’s go now!” We started for home and I looked back and said to her,
“You see, woman! I’ll be back soon!” she was looking at Mallesham
very angrily. “Dirty fellow! He played a spoilsport coming at the
precise moment!” her eye-brows were revealing her feelings.
Mallesham already knew many details about that woman. He
narrated everything about her in detail. I shared with Mallesham,
the experience that I had with that woman. I decided not to keep the
woman as a kite any more. Mallesham promised to help and support
my idea.
Mallesham and I went directly to my home and narrated all the
incidents to my wife. We have also disclosed our decision.
“You always face such issues. It’s Ok. You may proceed. It’s
winter. Don’t go late in the night.” My wife granted her permission
to the proposal.
I instructed Mallesham to follow me secretly. I reached the milk
shop at 8 o’clock. The woman decorated herself gracefully and was
waiting for me.
“My uncle has returned from the village just now. I said that I
have some work outside. I’m ready to come to any place you mention,”
she said in a friendly tone.
“Ok. Let’s make a move!”
“You go first and I’ll follow you!”
I walked in front, followed by that woman at a distance and we
both were followed by Mallesham. We all reached the public gardens
after sometime. Mallesham sat at a distance but within the vicinity.
Actually I requested Mallesham to accompany me in this mission.
We sat opposite to each other in the public gardens under a dim
light near the tree. She was trying to talk to me. But she was unable to
say anything. She was feeling shy like a decent woman of good nature.
“Are you married?” I asked her seriously.
“Yes, three times!”
80 / Astitva

I was shocked. Tears rolled in her eyes.

“How are you related to the old man? How can he be your
uncle?”
“There should be some relation or the other, so I’m addressing
him as ‘uncle’” she said with a sad tone.
“How is he related to you?”
She fixed her tear-filled eyes on my eyes and said, “How am I
related to him?” she asked me the question in reverse order.
“That is not the matter. How you were introduced to him? From
where were you brought here by him, that’s what I wanted to know.”
“He brought me here on the pretext of getting me married.”
“Hu! For the fourth time!”
“No marriage. No divorce. All of them brought me here on the
pretext of marriage,” She wiped her eyes!
My head was filled with giddiness. “Why are you weeping?”
She did not give me the answer immediately.
“Don’t I have the desire to lead the life with a husband and
children? Being afraid of the society, my uncle took away my one
and only small baby. I don’t know where my baby is now.” She
narrated the story like a small girl and sobbed continuously.
Tears rolled in my eyes. ‘How dare the dying old man do that!’
I uttered these words to myself.
‘For the children who were attacked by atom bombs in
Hiroshima, their mothers, the children and their mothers who sold
out their character during the drought, the families who became
homeless due to cyclones and earthquakes this old man is
responsible’, I thought like that.
“Why don’t you marry and settle at a particular place?”
controlling all my senses I suggested to her.
“Are you also married?”
“Yes, why did you invite me at 8 o’clock in the night?”
“What happens, if you, men get married?” she wanted to
continue further, but stopped and looked at me strangely.
“You see! If you tell me the address of your village, I’ll take you
there and make all the arrangements for the rest of your life.”
“How can I go to my village?”
“Then, are you ready to marry anyone here?”
“My uncle is not accepting for marriage these days.”
 The Kite / 81

“Yes, how can he accept? His business may be affected if you

are married!”
The woman appeared threatened and said, “It seems you know
all about me!”
“After knowing about you, a kind of perseverance has grown in
me. I don’t want to leave you like a sacrifice to the town. I tell you
like your son, as I have been drinking your milk. You are equal to my
mother. If you are really interested to marry again, your uncle or
someone will never dare to object to your marriage. You don’t need
to be afraid of anyone. If you come with me, you will be protected in
a safe place. You will be married to a gentleman. What do you say?”
“The people who had arranged marriage earlier and those who
married me also said the same thing.”
I was unable to make her believe about my commitment! Silence
pervaded for some time.
“What is your intention in giving me your milk?” I asked.
“I thought that it would be better to give you my milk than
squeeze and pour out on the land unnecessarily ... I was not interested
to waste my milk anyhow!” Tears rolled from her eyes.
“Don’t you think that it is wrong to have amorous designs on
the person who drank your milk?”
“What is happening according to my desires? Do you think I
am happy to live like this?” she asked me the question seriously.
I was confused and could not get a plan to make her believe
about my commitment. I was dumbstruck. I sat for a while silently.
“How long do we sit like this?” she said by looking at the floor.
“What can I do now? Will you come with me?”
“Where? To your house?” She asked with fear in her tone.
“Yes, to my house only. You may not believe me, but my wife
has faith in me.”
That woman looked at the floor with dissent. It’s getting darker.
I stood up unable to find a solution. She also stood up sighing. As I
walked ahead, I met Mallesham. The woman was mortally afraid
looking at Mallesham.
“Don’t be afraid of him. He is my friend only,” I said.
Still she was looking at me in fear.
“What did she say?” Mallesham asked.
82 / Astitva

“She does not believe me because of her past experiences,” I

said.
“If we hand over her to the same old man, no point in it? Our
efforts will go in vain,” Mallesham said.
“You can still think about your future. This is for your good
only. Believe us, if we wanted to do any harm, do we plead like this?”
I said in a persuasive tone.
“I have seen those who talked in a better way than yours.”
We walked further taking step by step slowly. That woman also
followed us by thinking in different ways. We entered the town. It is
calm now. We approached our house. My wife had been waiting for
me looking through the window.
“That is my house. The woman looking through the window is
my wife. If you want, you can also speak to her,” I said.
“Does your wife know all these things?” she asked me with fear
in her tone.
“Yes, what is the secret in it? Will women matters be secrets to
women?” We have entered the house. She followed us in.
“At last you have convinced and brought her here! Pity on her!
It will be alright. Please come and sit here!” My wife invited her.
She bent her head and tried to wipe off her tears and sat on a
chair.
“Pity! Those who came near her used her body and deceived
her. That is why she does not believe us! You also tell her,” I said to
my wife.
“Yes, you men are ordinary people? It is difficult for women to
decide whom to believe and whom not,” my wife sat on the chair
next to the woman to console her. “I can assure you that my husband
is dependable,” my wife patted on her back.
“You know thoroughly about me! Hope you don’t have any
doubt on me,” Mallesham said to my wife with a smile.
“You have surpassed your guru!” my wife said.
“Is he the person?” the woman looked at Mallesham form corner
of her eyes.
We all had a dinner together.
“What Mallesham garu, you should not go back on your word.
My husband keeps his promise and at the same time her life will also
be benefited. She might have experienced many troubles in her life.
 The Kite / 83

At least now, If she comes out of them, it will be good,” my wife

expressed her feelings.
“It is always better to think everything beforehand. If we give a
word, can we take it back!” Looking at the woman he replied to my
wife.
“Then your marriage is confirmed!” My wife said.
That woman rushed suddenly and hugged me. Her breasts
which are full of milk soaked my shirt instantly.
“Pity!” said my wife, and tears rolled down her eyes.

“Galipatam”
1952 Translated by Palakurthy Dinakar
84 / Astitva

Two Prisoners

Vallapureddy Buchareddy

“As per lineage the sun is progenitor of our race. I am one of the
kings in the dynasty. My parents brought me up very fondly. When I
became an adult they chose a beautiful girl for me to marry and
crowned me. People were very happy during their regime. The words
they spoke at their last moments still reverberate in my ears. They
said, ‘Son! We are the kings of Surya dynasty; don’t behave in a manner
that would bring bad name to our dynasty. Keep up our reputation.’”
“As long as the status quo was maintained and the comforts
and taxes were continued, no appreciation of my parents was heard.
I reduced the comforts and increased taxes. Next day onwards people
began to say that the bygone king was benevolent.
“I inherited this stratagem from my father. It brings glory to the
deceased. I still remember that my father used this to gain fame to
my grandfather. I put it into practice. This trickery is being continued
in our dynasty as a legacy. As far as I know we didn’t behave wrongly,
so there would be no damage to our honor.
“I never wanted to work for selfish motives. I take up any ordeal
for the sake of others only. I have no desire to attain fame during my
reign. It is the responsibility of my children. As the son of my father
I performed my duty. Then, my sons will have to earn fame for me to
acquire peace to my soul. These things belong to future.
 Two Prisoners / 85

“During my regime I accomplished great many things. In my

grandfather’s time poets created works picturising the beauties of
nature and depicted stories of divine powers in which their
imagination was in full play. Artistes enjoyed unlimited freedom. That
was possible as my grandfather belonged to the old era.
“My father in his time realised the naked truth that no one was
above the king. In his view king is creation and creation is King. If so
why the poets should create false stories based on fictitious themes.
Keeping this in mind he diverted the attention of poets towards a
different mode. He ordered the poets to write poems only about him.
A poet, however, may choose other subjects to manifest his insanity.
But to gain reputation as poet proper he needs to write poems only
on the activities of the king. Only the king is poetic subject. One who
fails to follow this could recite his poetry only to the walls and dim
witted ones. In spite of the instructions some nonsensical poets defied
the orders and blindly followed their own instincts. Artistes in other
fields too followed this trend.
“But during my tenure I never gave scope to such unwarranted
things. As far as I am concerned, the old attributes of my grandfather
hanging on to my father completely vanished. I strictly ordered the
poets to utilize their poetic prowess only for my glorification. I
banished those who defied my decree. I gifted the birth place of Lord
Sri Krishna to those adamant people who were bent upon instigating
a revolution. Not only for poets. Even for singers, dancers, painters,
sculptors, and all those experts in sixty four arts, I meted out the
same treatment. Every note should carry rhythm of my fame, in every
painting I must appear in grandeur with each bodily part adding to
the overall resplendence.
“Every statue must carry the curves of my body. Each posture
of the dance should reflect my capabilities. I warned the people to
worship the king every day. All this is not for my sake. This is meant
for the people. For inculcating devotion in people for their king. When
they reflect devotion to king in their voice, their songs of praise of
my forefathers will reach the God. The doors of salvation will be
opened for them.
“Unable to understand my ideals, a few insensible, worthless
people tried to instigate riots here and there. Those poets incompetent
to write poems in metrical, conventional style began to attempt
writing poetry in the name of romantic and progressive strains to
86 / Astitva

hold people in their control. As mastering conventional poetry was

beyond their reach, the artistes wrote some lines and labelled them
as romantic and progressive poetry so as to provoke the poor against
kingship. This way, they attempted to create some dacoits wrapped
in the mask of ‘socialist people organization’ and unleashed it on
gullible people. Without considering whether it was right or wrong
people blindly followed it like sheep. He had decreed that limited
meal be served to each with the intention of making the people healthy
and free from indigestion. Without understanding its import, an
insensate man shouted, “We want plentiful food” at the top of his
voice from a corner.
“Noticing the miscreants’ roguery, a king exploited the situation
by invading my country. On account of some leaders who set the
propaganda machine rolling against the king and discouraged the
loyalty of people to me, no one was ready to wage a war. The non-
cooperation of people resulted in my defeat. The enemy king
imprisoned me here. Still, I am waiting for a favorable time. The time
will identify my virtues and release me at any time, I strongly believe.”
Thus he concluded his tale.
Listening to the story of the King of Surya race, the old prisoner
looked into his face without any expression for a while and then kept
scratching the floor with down cast eyes.
The first prisoner had been ‘enjoying the luxury’ of prison for a
few years. He stopped speaking from the first day of his
imprisonment. He was unkempt, with disheveled hair, and long beard
and moustaches. Yet, his face was gleaming with radiant glow.
First, he did not speak to the prisoner who was put in prison the
day before. But, as another human being joined him and as there was
abundant time to speak, he thought it unbearable to maintain silence.
In addition, he doubted whether he had forgotten his language as he
was forced to spend a long time in lonely confinement. He wanted to
test himself, so adjusted his throat and asked him with great effort
“Who are you? Why are you brought here?” As soon as the first
prisoner asked him like that the new entrant elaborated his story, as
though it was the only chance.
While the new prisoner was speaking, the old prisoner sat in
silence, occasionally looking at the teller. He noticed the egotism in the
words and facial expressions of the new prisoner. He neither expressed
any opinion about the discourse nor showed any sympathy for him.
 Two Prisoners / 87

That day went off silently. The king who had narrated his story
developed a curiosity to explore the facts about the other prisoner.
The next day at a convenient time the new prisoner questioned the
old prisoner, “Who are you? Why are you undergoing
imprisonment?” He was very conscious of his kingly status, so called
the first prisoner impolitely.
The first prisoner who knew the attitude of the king, narrated
important events and details of his life, his antecedents sarcastically
in proportion to the discourse delivered by the new prisoner.
“Great question! I may not be able to answer your question, yet
it is proper for me to inform, even in brief, as you asked for it:
“No one has discovered the birth of our dynasty. If I say that
our family line evolved with the beginning of creation, it may not be
a lie! It grew from strength to strength continuously to this date.
“Ours is the lineage of Nishshreeka. It can be firmly said based
on research that the lineage of the sun and the moon depended on
the branches fabricated by brahmins. But, our Nishshreeka race is far
off from such concoction.
“I am a king of Nishshreeka dynasty. I am the head of the
kingdom of hunger. In my kingdom there are infinite number of kings.
They all agree with my ideals, aspirations and will be ready to come
with me at all times in any given situation. They don’t retrace once I
gesticulate them to sacrifice their lives even.
“We never interfere in worldly matters like fame, denigration,
deliverance and devotion. We forget the past, think of the present
and look into future. Our duty is restless toil. We only enjoy a
thousandth part of it. Some unknown people enjoy the rest. We don’t
exhibit malice even towards those who exploit our labour, enjoy three
meals a day without even moving their feet. We are satisfied with the
thought that some of our brothers are living at our expense. But, this
is not our incapacity.
“We created every wonder in the world. We built the Taj Mahal.
We discovered the Kohinoor. Not one or two, but for all those
considered significant in the world, we are the forerunners. Yet, some
carved their names in boastful manner. We never obstructed. It doesn’t
matter whose name is there. We don’t crave for fame. All we need is
the welfare of the people.
88 / Astitva

“We never had sound sleep. We never had bellyful food, and
clothes covering full body. We never lamented over this. We went on
laying foundations for mansions for the comfort of people. We
followed this as our dharma.
“We never dictated terms to artistes. They treaded the path they
liked. We felt confining the art within boundaries was a treachery
against god. Whether it was prose or poem we accepted the
importance of freedom of expression.
“Whatever was painted naturally we accepted it as art. In fact,
for the language of the heart, there is no articulation. On that account,
we don’t say it is meaningless. We feel that the lines and colours are
unnecessary for the expressions imprinted in the hearts permanently.
We don’t fail to appreciate the imagination dancing at the blue edges
of a black cloud. On the whole, those who wanted utility, uniqueness
and softness in art reflected our lives in their art. We never asked for
them. They were never tired of ‘enjoying’ the Nishshreeka comforts.
“In those times, one fellow held his head high saying that he
was the king of all. When there were so many kings among us we
never bothered about this headstrong king. We never became angry.
Some among us accepted his sovereignty. We came to know later
that he had created false hopes in them. Whoever he may be, king or
king of kings, we accept his kingship if he is harmless. So we said,
“Yes, you are our king.” There was one more reason for accepting his
kingship. Some of his tricks acted as intoxicants on us. He promised
us he would construct a path to heaven for us with his expertise. Our
faces brightened with new hopes. We followed each other in saying
‘Yes’ to him. He solicited for luxury. We gave it. He ordered us all to
be at his service. We agreed to follow all his reasonable commands.
His influence got entrenched. Some days rolled by.
“Meanwhile, he strengthened his authority by bribing his
followers. Indulging in luxuries, he caused difficulties to others. I
discussed with my fellow men as what is to be done to oppose the
recklessly behaving monarch. We wanted to awaken the people who
were in slumber without being aware of the changes taking place.
Poets became harbingers of change. Listening to morning songs,
releasing themselves from chains of sleep the people set out to punish
the demon. But, using brute force he imprisoned many and killed
others. I had an inclination to meet this monarch personally and ask
him what he was up to. But, I could not get an opportunity to meet
 Two Prisoners / 89

him. I did not know in which fort he stayed. His soldiers threw me
out alleging that I was responsible for the upheaval in the country.
They tied me in iron chains and confined me here. I heard that the
monarch, after removing the thorn in his path laughed cunningly.
“As I was imprisoned all my sympathizers rebelled. Those who
followed him blindly realized their fault. I heard it someone saying
so. Now, I understand that the revolution of my fellowmen is gaining
momentum by the day. I could visualize the revolution led by my
clansmen. I strongly believe that their success is imminent.”
The first prisoner after narrating his story looked into the face
of the king sitting in front of him. The king looked dumbstruck with
astonishment. As their lives treaded entirely different paths, they did
not speak to each other the whole day.
Not only that day, their silence lasted forever. The new prisoner
could not understand that the old prisoner was the leader of the
revolution and it was at his behest that he had been confined to prison.
Similarly, the Nishshreeka dynasty man did not understand that the
new prisoner was the king who had imprisoned him. But the first
prisoner thought that he was imprisoned by a king who was similar
to the second prisoner. The second prisoner thought that he had
imprisoned a person with the same ideals as Nishshreeka man.
Both of them realized that affiliation between them was
impossible. Both of them thought what they had followed was justice,
and hence they would be set free one day. Of them, one is brightness
and the other, darkness. One is associated with progress, the other
with downfall. One’s characteristic is permanence, the other’s is
momentariness.
The wheel of time rolled on. Days, months and years passed.
One day an enraged mob, raising slogans, entered the fort like an
ocean in spate. Nobody could obstruct them. They unlocked the
prison, garlanded the first prisoner, carried him out of prison on their
shoulders, proclaiming victory to the working class. The door of the
prison was closed again. The inept king could not understand what
was happening. The king of Surya dynasty remained bewildered
looking through the iron bars.

“Two Prisoners”
1954 Translated by Chintapatla Sudarshan
90 / Astitva

Deathless

Cherabanda Raju

Qasim was in front of the steering without being aware of his shaking
hands. Despite his many visits in the past, those places always make
him feel like a stranger. The unmetalled road was uneven with many
potholes. The jeep sometimes bumped as if the steering wheel
slithered off. Red dust rose to the sky like thick fog. He had already
wiped off the dust on the mirror five to six times. The cold was also
severe. Strange fear began to unnerve him. The smell of diesel was
revolting. If he exhibited shiver or hunger, punishment would be a
certainty. He was driving the jeep carefully.
DSP Reddy sat beside him like a statue, with his mustaches like
bats, his hand on the pistol. The stink of his cigar smoke was
nauseating. His watchful eyes were piercing through the dust.
By his side sat a boy of approximately fourteen years in knickers
and a shirt. With a flashing smile and thin lips he was recalling some
tunes. On his other side, sat another inspector with a machine gun.
Rambabu sat firmly like a bloomed wild flower in between two
crags.
Rambabu smiled to himself looking at the other inspector
watching out constantly with an aimed gun.
“Sir, this is plain land, no need to fear so much” he said.
“You shut up, fool!” Machine gun Shivalingam roared.
 Deathless / 91

With loaded guns six police men were inside, fear gripping them,
shivering either due to cold or fright, sitting huddled close together.
There was a hamlet at the distance of a mile or two. Farmers
who were engaged in their work in the fields lifted their heads for
the jeep sound. Fingers of the police instantly touched the triggers.
There was commotion in the jeep even if a shepherd appeared with a
pole, or if children moved with friends, or if workers passed by with
sickles.
A passerby coming towards them lifted his hand to cover himself
from the Sun and stopped watching the jeep.
The jeep was at a furlong distance.
The passerby paused a while, looked back, and continued his
walk.
“Move on,” DSP Reddy ordered.
‘Sir,’ Qasim increased the speed.
The passerby felt suffocated by the dust.
When he opened the eyes, he could not trace the jeep.
It looked like a big village. One or two tile roofed houses, but
the remaining ones are thatched houses. It was midday, not a single
person was seen. Jeep was speeding raising the dust. Qasim sweated
even in the cold while turning the steering in small lanes. Despite his
efforts, the speed gradually reduced. The DSP glared at him pointedly.
At a turning suddenly shouts were heard, “See, Rambabu there!”
Children who were playing Kabaddi dispersed at once.
Rambabu raised his cuffed hands, laughing.
The children raised their hands and signalled something.
Thick dust between the jeep and the hamlet. The two Inspectors
in front discussed in English and sent Rambabu to the back of the
jeep.
“Sir, why are you scared so much?” Rambabu asked going inside.
“The boy’s looks resemble arrows”
“Eyes are beautiful like stars”
“See the eyebrows as if black ink slipped over.”
“The moustaches are tender.”
“Laughing exactly like my son.”
“Not even the size of a finger, he too joined the squad!”
“What does it matter when he is ready to kill us. A foe is a foe,
my dear!”
92 / Astitva

“My child didn’t think of such service to the country”

The Police began to think variously. Everybody knew that there
was no freedom in their vocation. The word of the higher authorities
is final. Any resistance is met with punishment. Defiance invites
dismissal.
Rambabu was observing each one of them.
Not even single police seemed to have a flesh of a kilogram on
his body. Must be very long since they had a sound sleep! Eyes sank
deep inside. How could those sugarcane-like hands carry the rifles!
The veins swelled up and appeared like long threads. No glow on
any of the faces. Tears welled up in Rambabu’s eyes.
“Dear police, you all belong to the poor category,” Rambabu
said emotionally.
Police looked at him astonished, as if a light surrounded them,
as if their hunger will be satiated.
Constable Rammurthy felt as if a thousand voices uttered the
same at once.
“Babu,” Rammurthy addressed as if he was cautioning his son
who committed a mistake.
“Two not one, what are you doing?” a rebuke from the front.
“Stop the sounds!” the Head Constable showed his anger.
“You are not just numbers, you also have names.”
A hand closed the young one’s mouth and pushed him back.
But immediately, for no reason, it caressed fondly on his curly hair.
It appeared everyone was keen on listening to Rambabu.
Mercy and empathy were palpable in their looks.
Rammurthy knew the kind of voice and performance,
disposition and intelligence Rambabu had. He had never seen or heard
about such a boy till now. The boy knows literature, music, political
theories. Besides, he had immense knowledge of the worldly ways.
No one can forget him in life if one gets into contact with him.
Three years ago he went to Governorpet centre at Vijayawada
on duty and saw his performance. To this day his opinion has not
changed.
Rammurthy vividly remembers the boy’s burra katha. Hopping
as a deer, dancing, playing on tambourine, Rambabu possessed that
gliding brightness. His mercurial presence, his laughter, and the
sayings were still etched in his memory.
 Deathless / 93

‘If only he could sing a song,’ Rammurthy fondly hoped.

His son at home proved fit for nothing, didn’t go to school, and
ever since he lost his mother began to wander aimlessly around as a
miscreant. Rammurthy never married again. Inadequate salary. Many
nights he had to go on duty and could not make his wife happy. Never
had enough money to buy medicines, could not get leave while on
duty. His wife died after prolonged illness. Maybe, death made her
comfortable. But his son, alive, does not know how to live, how to
earn his livelihood. Why should he need another marriage?
Rammurthy consoled himself.
His wife, when alive, used to argue vehemently with him. She
said that the police job creates only demons and pleaded with him to
leave it. But without it he had to pull a rickshaw. With advancing
age, it was not possible for him. He used to follow instructions of
lathi charge during strikes half-heartedly. Threw glass bottles. Fired
bullets on students. Heart turned into a stone. Like many policemen
he too toiled like a machine. Led life like a bull. But for livelihood,
but for being a puppet in the hands of the government, he never
thought that he was serving the country.
For that matter, the first patriot should be a policeman. But the
police job had no civility about it and after he had seen DSP Nagireddy
he came to know how rich, educated people come to this department
to further their interests, how cruelly they treat their subordinates.
Sometimes he wanted to commit suicide shooting himself with
his gun. Sometimes he wanted to become a dacoit.
New problems every time, restless running. After Srikakulam,
the belief was firmly established that life is but a struggle. There is no
count to the injustices of the police in the name of self-defence.
Constables are not human beings in the opinion of Inspectors. When
will there be relief from self-deceit and from these pretentious jobs?
With many such sighs, Rammurthy completed ten years in service.
After watching Rambabu, different ideas had taken shape in
him. It appeared as though death like life bloomed again. ‘This young
fellow is my son,’ the thought had given him zeal and strength, ability
to endure.
“Yes, my child, policemen are really poor. If we raise our guns
we become beasts. If not, we remain useless,” Rammurthy controlled
his words on the tip of his tongue.
94 / Astitva

A volley of thoughts in his mind to console and provide support

to Rambabu.
The jeep travelled some distance in the forest and came to a
sudden halt.
Everyone stood up taking positions.
The DSP and SI Sivalingam got down. Qasim was also ready
with his rifle. As usual they made Rambabu stay in the middle. In
front was SI and behind them, DSP Reddy.
Rambabu’s handcuffs made a tinkling sound. The elbows,
constantly pressed against, caused pain.
The sound of shoes as though the forest coughed.
Journey through the thick forest.
Rambabu went on talking all the way: Human nature, real
freedom, contemporary situation in the country, political affiliations,
points of meeting and departure, revolutionary flames blazing across
the world, struggles, exploitative classes, deceptions in courts, Indians
divided on basis of class, as if the boy knew everything. He was talking
fluently at that young age with witty anecdotes. Rambabu followed
the police.
A rifle was pressed against his back. But there was no sign of
fear in him at all.
“I am a traitor. A fourteen year old boy is a traitor. The air I
breathe helps the traitors. The land I was born and brought up is not
mine. My stories and songs were heard by lakhs of people. Those
who heard will pick them up. They’ll propagate the essence and truth
of my lyrics. You may eliminate me but what can you do to my lyrics?
You are in key positions in the government machinery. We are on
people’s side. Whether we win or lose, it’s for the history to prove.
“But what would your soul say if you stand on the side of the
enemy that it didn’t like, approve of? The system that you want to
sustain, indirectly murders you. Think over it,” Rambabu continued,
pausing in the middle. The import of what all Rambabu said was
understood by everyone.
Probably the destination was reached, the inspectors stopped.
The police stood according to a plan.
SI Sivalingam with borrowed affection said, “Orey, you are still
a boy. Knowingly or unknowingly you’re talking of many things. What
do you think you are?”
 Deathless / 95

“Age is not needed for the organization sir, there is no

discrimination of men and women, young and old. Our education is
not merely confined to your framework of justice. It is universal. You
should learn from us, not the other way round, sir!”
“Look Rambabu, if you want to go home, we will drop you safely
at your place. Without spending even a paisa government will provide
scholarship for your education. Don’t let your parents feel the pain
of losing you. I am pained to see you like this,” the SI said.
Rambabu chuckled, “Sir, thanks for your sympathy. I already
expressed my view and what my path is. That’s my decision. You
decide for yourself, sir.” said.
DSP said, “So, that’s all you say?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell us about the dens, hiding places of your leaders.”
Rambabu laughed.
“Places sir? Do you have guts to go there? Once you might have.
But not now. Everyman, every step, the soil under every step became
such a place. If you are capable, you can decide it. This is what all I
can say.”
“You are talking too much”
“If we have any boundaries, then comes the question of too much
talk. Anyone who is fond of complete independence, risking his life,
will speak like this.
“Let any page be turned in history, the same truth manifests.
You are not the government. Those who make the guns constitute
the government. Your body does not belong to the government. The
power that made you wear khaki knickers is the government. Your
courage of firing at people is not the government. In the name of
duty, the machinery that threatens you either to shoot or perish is the
government. The houses and colonies you reside in are not the
government. Those who own thousands of acres, control capital
posing as gentlemen, are the government.”
“You shut up,” DSP Reddy roared, enraged.
“Two twenty, shoot him!”
Rambabu laughed again. “Sir, you can kill me, but not justice.
Not my principles. Ok, carry on with your work.” He closed his eyes.
Rammurthy put aside his rifle saying, “No, sir!”
“One ninety-nine”
“No, sir!”
96 / Astitva

“Two hundred!”
“No, sir!”
One after the other, all policemen put down their rifles.
The Inspectors looked at each other, surprised.
Soon, the DSP’s pistol fired.
The sky glistened turning red.
Having completed the work, the jeep turned back.
Before they could cross the forest, the jeep stopped for want of
water in the jeep’s radiator. They began to discuss how to get water
in the forest.
Finally, Rammurthy said to the DSP in scared voice: “Sir, while
going I saw a stream across that narrow pathway.”
“Then, one ninety nine, go with Rammurthy” said SI Sivalingam.
“No sir, I’ll not, I am afraid to go there.”
Except Rammurthy everyone expressed fear.
“I’ll settle your matter once we reach the station,” DSP Reddy
combing his mustaches started with Rammurthy.
Both of them continued crossing thickets and potholes.
A storm was raging in Rammurthy’s mind. Rambabu’s words
were reverberating in the entire forest.
“Are you scared, Rammurthy?” asked DSP Reddy.
“No, sir!”
Their walk continued.
Rammurthy’s mind resembled a river in revolt cutting the
barriers. Every moment Rambabu’s laughter flashed in front of his
eyes. It appeared as though the body of Rambabu rolling in the pool
of blood stretched his hands.
He mustered courage. Lifting his rifle he shot at DSP Reddy
and snatching his pistol he ran towards Rambabu’s dead body.
After two days a news item appeared, “In an encounter two
Naxalites were killed. One of them is a fourteen year old boy, it was
officially announced. One rifle, two hand grenades and Maoist
literature was seized. No policeman was injured.“

“Chiranjeevi”
1971 Translated by Swatee Sripada
 The Right

Madireddy Sulochana

“Annayya! You too!”

Devayani looked surprised. The agitated look contained the
distress of the famous emperor Julius Caesar as he had uttered “You
too, Brutus?”
“Yes! Don’t interfere in issues in which you have no right,” said
Ramu.
“Listen, Annayya! ...” she was about to say something.
“I don’t want to hear any details or explanations,” he said.
Devayani’s husband, Parashuram, who was till then sitting hidden
behind the newspaper, got up in a huff.
“Are you done, or any more insult is due?” he said angrily.
Devayani tried her best to prevent tears from rolling down her
cheeks. She remembered Parvati of the Dakshayagna. “Can anyone
born as a girl escape the fate of Satidevi?”
Devayani got up slowly and was coming out when her sister-
in-law laughed softly.
“These disputes and reconciliations will always be there. Have
some coffee and go,” she said. It was like pinching one’s bottom and
then singing a lullaby.
“I am full, not even half an inch space is there. We will come
again, vadina!” she said leaving, and sat on the scooter behind
98 / Astitva

Parashuram. He showed all his anger on the scooter. They reached

home. Parashuram proved true to his name by dragging Devayani
by her arms into the bedroom.
“One should have a sense of self-respect and dignity. You are so
fond of your natal home, and go on saying: ‘My father is alone! My
father is a hard working man! Shouldn’t his daughters-in-law look
after him? We too are taking care of my parents. My sisters
occasionally visit us and go away. Stupid! You worked like a donkey
as though serving is your right. In fact, you are arrogant because your
job and earning ...” he went out angrily. Devayani did not even cry.
When the others insulted her, Parashuram’s comforting talk would
make her cry. But today, in whose company would she seek comfort?
Devayani was the youngest of Sripathi Rao’s four children, the
first three being sons. Both Sripathi Rao and his wife were of the
opinion that daughters are born to rob and sons would bring name
to the family. In any other house, Devayani, born after three sons,
would have been brought up dotingly. But in this house, she was
considered a burden.
“Lakshmi!” If this girl had been a boy, we would not have needed
another person to carry us to the crematorium,” he used to say.
Devayani gradually understood certain things as she grew up. How
could one’s own parents show such discrimination?
Harikrishna, Muralikrishna, and Ramakrishna’s demands would
be met in minutes. If Devayani asked for anything, father would read
out the list of expenses and mother would ask, “How can you compare
yourself with the sons”?
After that, Devayani never ever asked for anything. Devayani
secured a first division in her tenth class.
Despite taking tuitions and working hard day and night, her
brothers passed with a higher second and second division. Devayani
thought she would be highly appreciated for securing a first division.
But Devayani was dumbfounded when she heard her parents
talking, “Girls do not have anything to do, so they get first class. It is
unnecessary to further educate her. Satyavathi says she will get
Devayani married to her son. That boy is bent upon not taking dowry.”
Satyavathamma was Sripathi Rao’s maternal aunt’s daughter.
He was fond of her. Parashuram was her son, had completed LME
and was working in Bharat Heavy Electricals. People considered his
ideas crazy.
 The Right / 99

Devayani’s marriage with him took place without any dowry. It

was his madness that encouraged Devayani to complete her MA. She
is now working as a junior lecturer. She has two children. Recalling
how she had suffered, she was careful not to discriminate between
her children. Hari, Murali and Ramu had moved away. Hari was in
Delhi, Murali in Iran and Ramu had settled down in the USA. Her
mother Lakshmidevi died just after Devayani had got married.
Devayani has great sympathy for her father who had lost his wife.
But, on his part, he is never tired of praising his sons. He derives
great pleasure bragging about their achievements.
“Why do you keep serving a man who cares two hoots for you?”
says Parashuram.
“Love has no form. It cannot be measured,” she used to counter
him!
She used to visit her father frequently and take care of all his
needs. One day when she came, Sripathi Rao looked angry.
“Look amma, the neighbours are claiming ownership of these
40 square yards of land. Nothing is more foolish than buying old
properties,” he said.
“But we have constructed rooms there, nanna, haven’t we?”
“You are right amma, when I told them the same, they fixed a
price for it, Rs. 100 per square yard. How will I arrange for it ...” he
said dejectedly.
She didn’t know what to do. Four thousand rupees. In the
evening, she received a telephone call while she was still in college. It
was the family doctor.
“Devi! Told him not to get into all these worries. He doesn’t
listen. This old man’s madness is increasing. I said, let it go, it’s not
worth more than your health, but he doesn’t listen ...” he said angrily.
“What’s your advice, doctor garu?”
“Do something. Tell him that your brothers will send the money.
All four of you are well-settled. Can’t he relax?” he said with irritation
and put down the phone.
Straight from college, she went to her father. The neighbours
were sitting with him. “Look Rao garu, it will take months for your
sons to come down. Give us the money or else ...” Devayani
interrupted them before they could complete the sentence.
“Why such talk! Here’s the cheque.” She wrote a cheque for four
thousand rupees. They gave a receipt and left.
100 / Astitva

“Nanna, the money is not more important than your reputation!

I was saving for a pair of diamond ear studs. I will buy them six
months later,” she said consolingly.
The next day, Devayani was very happy when the doctor
informed her that her father’s condition improved. She felt happy as
she had done a useful thing. She thought her brothers would certainly
appreciate her.
When Hari heard about it, he scolded his father very badly.
“Is the neighbour the only man here, nanna? We would have
happily made rounds of the court for ten years,” he said. After that
he never raised the issue of the money. After the son had left, the
father said irritated, “He thinks going to court is like going to cinema.
I will ask Murali to give you the money. Perhaps you acted in haste.”
“What are you saying nanna? Wouldn’t it have been a headache
for you?” she said. Murali came from Iran two months later. One day
the father told him about the matter.
“Nanna! You spent it on the house. Repay the debt from the
rent you get. Don’t bother me with unnecessary stuff,” he got up and
went away.
Devayani overheard Murali’s wife Komala saying, “If not for
showing off, who asked her to give?”
People have lost common sense! Wonder ... another six months
passed. Sripathi Rao fell sick two more times. On both the occasions,
Devayani took leave and stayed with her father.
But he is not content. Constantly, he thinks that if his sons had
been there they would have taken him to well-known doctors.
Whenever Parashuram hears those words, he glares harshly at
Devayani. But he could not say anything to her or argue with her.
Some people care for their own kin while preventing the husband’s
relatives from coming home, whereas Devayani takes care of her
father-in-law just as she does for her father.
Ramu came to see his father. Four thousand rupees is not big
sum for him, but he needs a large heart to give that amount.
He came to Devayani’s place for lunch. While leaving, he gave
her a wrist watch that he had brought.
“Look Devi! Nanna told me that you gave four thousand rupees.
But, I don’t appreciate it. We should have filed a case in the court.”
“Nanna doesn’t have the stamina annayya! Ask the doctor about
nanna’s condition.”
 The Right / 101

“Let it go ... if I pay once, you will keep giving nanna for the
needless expenses that he will incur. I will not give you.”
“That’s alright, annayya.”
He left. Sripathi Rao was upset.”It’s ok, nanna! I am your
daughter! What’s wrong now? Your health is more important than
anything,” said Devayani.
After that she completely forgot about it. Parashuram would
now and then pass sarcastic comments.
“Such foolish love! Whenever anybody comes here, my eldest
son keeps sending me my favorite Calcutta sweets through that
person.”
“Look at this nail cutter, our Ramu sent it.”
“My son Murali seems to be very thrifty, picchi sanyasi! But as
long as he stays here, he buys ten rupees worth fruit every day,” the
father goes on repeating like a stuck gramophone record.
“Even by mistake, your father never says ‘my daughter.’ Why
do you hang on to such a father?” asks Parashuram.
“I don’t do to it because he should appreciate me. Everyone finds
happiness in one’s own way. Your mother never stops singing the
praises of your youngest brother like the Ramayana keertanas ...”
“Abbabba, that’s enough,” Parashuram would say.
Though she would say so to her husband for the sake of
argument, it keeps pinching her. Humans have these weaknesses.
She yearned to overcome and rise above all this.
Meanwhile, a doctor came down from Kerala for treating
infertility cases. He was the brother of Devayani’s colleague.
“Devi! You have a big hall in your house. My brother can stay
there comfortably for ten days,” said her colleague.
“My house? The small verandah cannot accommodate patients.”
“By your house I mean your father’s house,” she said.
“He stays all alone, I will ask him,” said Devayani. On her
colleague’s repeated requests, Devayani came to her father.
“Nanna! I have a friend named Kannamma Pothen. Her brother
treats childless couples. Five times in a week, he travels outside. This
time he has come to Hyderabad. The hall in our house is big enough
...” she was saying. “That’s fine, amma. Go ahead. Will I roll around
in the whole house?” he said, laughing.
Devayani informed Kannamma who felt very happy. Devayani
was under the impression that touring doctors would come alone.
102 / Astitva

But the doctor arrived along with a retinue of ten, twelve people.
He also brought along his equipment. Minor surgeries would also be
performed for uterus problems.
Unexpectedly, Harikrishna arrived from Delhi. He gave his
father an earful.
“Is this a charity house?”
“No respect for grown up sons!”
Sripathi Rao didn’t have the liberty with Hari as he had with
Murali. “Eh, I don’t know anything. Ammayi handled everything.
She didn’t ask me,” said Sripathi Rao.
When Harikrishna confronted Devayani about it, she was taken
aback. “Cha, I let the doctor in only after nanna agreed to it, annayya,”
she said.
“Now I don’t like it. Get it vacated immediately. Is this a public
house?” he said.
“What’s this nanna? Why did you say so to annayya? Didn’t I
ask you?”
“You asked me but when he asked me point blank, I shuddered.
Oh! Why doesn’t death come to me ...” Father said helplessly. Devayani
was perplexed.
“Nanna, is it polite to ask them to leave now? It’s already six
days. Only four more days, if we are patient ...”
“If I say this is all Malayali ruckus, you will get angry. Look at
their furore, the sick people swarming about, their commotion ... chi
... chi ...”
“The patients are childless. They are not sick, nor do they have
infectious diseases,” Devayani tried to convince him.
She was angry with herself. She went to Kannamma and told
her bluntly.
“On public demand they are staying for a couple of days more.
How can you ask them to leave so suddenly?”
“I know Kannamma. But, I imagined only your brother would
come. Didn’t think he would come with his retinue,” she said.
“Even I don’t have any idea, Devayani ...”
Devayani went through hell for a week. “Ask the doctor to
vacate,” her father would telephone her.
“Your father is reproaching us. We are tolerating him considering
his age,” they would telephone her.
 The Right / 103

There wasn’t a single moment when she did not wonder how
she had unnecessarily brought it on herself.
News arrived that the doctor had vacated the house. Devayani
went there. “They poured water on the walls, the plaster came off.
Abbabba, they have spoiled the backyard,” Sripathi Rao complained.
She got it repaired to the extent possible. Next day in college,
Kannamma Pothen’s face resembled that of a male cat which had
swallowed a basket full of fish.
“We get deceived by people’s appearances. They talk so sweetly.
Though they are educated, they are not cultured. If they had
cooperated, we would have paid a rent. Why should we pay any rent
after such harsh words?” she said.
Devayani breathed a big sigh of relief as if a great burden had
been taken off her head. She vowed to herself that she would never
get involved in such things in future.
That evening she took some fruit for her father.
“Do you know what everyone is saying, ammayi? They are
saying this doctor has paid a rent of two hundred rupees per day.”
“Who has he paid it to..?” she looked sharply. She felt as if there
was no place for her to hide. If her father who knew that she was not
money-minded and how careful she was in money matters said it,
what did it imply? Did he mean that she had taken the rent? Devayani
felt there was no one in the world who she could call her own. She
could well imagine the reaction of her husband, if she shared it with
him.
Even before three months had passed, Sripathi Rao called his
sons and divided whatever little property he had, among the three of
them.
“Did they give you any dowry or gifts? Won’t they give you
anything? Won’t they give you at least your mother’s jewelry?”
reminded Devayani’s mother-in-law and sister-in-law.
“When there is no attachment, how do money and jewellery
matter?” she felt listless. As a matter of formality, she went to meet
her brothers and invited them to her house.
All three of them together asked her point blank.
“What right do you have to give the house to the hospital?”
they asked.
“Annayya!” She expressed her anguish.
104 / Astitva

If they could speak so irresponsibly, she too could do so. She

could as well say, ‘just as I have the right to look after father when all
of you left him, just as I have the right to support father when he is in
difficulty, I have this right too.’
But the person who really mattered was biased. When they
confronted her about it, he should have intervened.
If only he had said, “Hey! The house was vacant; she gave it for
a few days. Like you all, wasn’t she born in this house?” then there
would have been no answer. Actually it was father who had given
them the scope to say so. Children who are scorned by their parents
are looked down by relatives and society. She knew this truth very
well.
Devayani was dejected. But she knew her tears would not melt
any one. She knew her brothers very well. If it’s for them, even an
ant-bite was painful. But for others, a scorpion-bite too was a matter
for derision. “Ok, all right, you have cried enough,” they would say.
Any small dispute among them, they go on talking about it for
hours together. They behave as if the house is on fire.
“That’s enough!” she feels like saying. But she is a responsible
teacher. She can’t be so selfish. True, what they asked is true. It should
be tit for tat. It was foolish on her part to love those who despised,
ridiculed and neglected her. It was stupid not to have fought for her
right.
Devayani just sat for a long time. Though this small incident
caused her mental distress, her brothers, by talking about the “right”
had relieved her of responsibility towards father.
“God, I am not used to doing pooja. If you really exist, please
free me from all the bonds of love and affection,” she prayed folding
her palms together.

“Hakku”
1972 Translated by Parimala Kulkarni
 Murder

Naveen

Guravaiah has made a doll. It turned out to be ugly with its small
eyes, thin long limbs and bloated tummy.
Catching hold of it, he tossed the doll both ways. He laughed
heartily and felt contented. He prepared it with pieces of rags and
wrapped it with colourful papers. Later, opening his table drawer he
took out a few pins and began to tack them on the doll one after the
other. He felt elated as he was involved in that work. ‘Daily, with
your needle-like reprimands, memos you have been torturing me
like anything. You think I am weak, helpless, now you see. He nailed
another pin into the doll. He continued it until he exhausted all the
pins.
He later hurled the doll over the floor. ‘Ahaha, see how the fellow
is writhing in pain, son of a ... good thing that has happened. Killing
me daily with torture, teasing. I’ll give it back to him by the same
token, killing by torturing. Didn’t you think I am helpless enough to
take revenge ... ?” He chatted with the doll for a while.
Again, he hurtled the doll on the floor. Then, smothered and
kicked it. After a while, he stopped. He enacted checking the pulse of
it. Swiftly rising, “That fellow is dead. Our officer is no more. He
could not bear the pain, so his heart failed. Now, his last rites have to
be performed ...” he said quickly to himself.
106 / Astitva

He poured kerosene over the doll. Then, took it to the backyard.

He gathered a few dry twigs, arranged a pyre and poured kerosene
over it. He placed the doll over the pyre and lit a matchstick. There
was a huge flame and he stood watching it. Suddenly Guravaiah
started wailing. ‘Poor fellow, our officer is gone. I’ve killed him. Since
he was finding fault with me for not working properly I’ve killed
him. How his wife and children will wail ... ’
He continued wailing until the flame was exhausted. It was
twelve at midnight. After many days, he had a sound sleep.

2
Guravaiah was working as a clerk in the Revenue Office in the town.
Since his childhood, he was considered a dim-witted boy. Always
with a face of sleepiness he was not interested in doing anything.
Soon after four months of his birth, his mother died. Thinking it as
bad omen, people used to dislike him.
Guravaiah’s father was engaged in his family occupation of
carpentry. His earnings were barely sufficient to make both ends meet.
He thought it would be better to send his son to school than engage
him in the same profession. He dreamt of his son doing some job.
But Guravaiah could not learn even alphabet until he was seven or
eight. He used to go to school and doze off in a corner. Many times
his father gave him severe thrashing. Unable to bear that torture, he
wished for the death of his father: “If my father is gone, these beatings
would not be there,” he used to think. By the time he reached the age
of ten when he was studying second class, his father suddenly died.
When he came to know of it, he felt happy in his heart. He believed,
’As I desired it many times, he died.’
Guravaiah’s uncle took him into his custody, took him to their
place and admitted him in the school there. Spending one or two
years in each class, he somehow completed his matriculation. It was
his uncle who, with great difficulty, got him this job and also married
off his daughter to Guravaiah.
Guravaiah has nothing to do in his office. His routine was to
switch on the fan, and placing his head on the table he used to doze
off. When someone cautioned that it was time to go, he used to go
home. He was ignorant of his section and files concerned with it.
When those files were needed, his colleagues used to come and do
 Murder / 107

his work. Luckily, two or three of his bosses were genial towards him
at the beginning of his career. They used to sign the papers brought
before them. The section Superintendent of Guravaiah tried to instill
work culture in him. But after knowing that it would not be possible
even for Hitlers and Stalins he stalled his efforts.
Unfortunately for Guravaiah, a new officer, Mr. Krishnamurthy,
took charge recently. He was a taskmaster who could make even a
boulder to work. Not an ordinary officer. He didn’t tolerate
inefficiency or laziness at all.
Krishnamurthy was six feet tall and had an imposing personality.
He had small eyes that sharply judged others, wide forehead, and a
face that always looked solemn. The staff of the office used to shiver
at his sight.
Everything should be completed quickly. Files have to be moved
real fast. Those who come to the office on some work should not be
kept waiting. There was no scope for bribery and corruption in his
office. Krishnamurthy followed these very scrupulously. In fact, he
mentioned all these to his staff when he had taken charge of the office.
“I’ll give you the comforts you need ... But you’ve to work sincerely.
Don’t delay the work unnecessarily, and don’t evade your duties. Once
you complete your job, can happily go home and spend time with
your family. I’ll not ask you to work overtime any day. I like efficiency.
I don’t tolerate inaction and lethargy in this office,” he said in a meeting.
From the day he had taken charge, the shape of the office
changed completely. It was as if one thousand watt electric bulb was
switched on in pitch darkness.
Krishnamurthy met each employee in the office. He encouraged
them to work. He had a charisma to influence everyone with his
inspiring words.
Krishnamurthy was a taskmaster, but not without heart,
everyone agreed in the office. He used to treat them with affection
and enquire their problems and family matters. If possible, he used
to help them. But if anybody was found wanting in work, he didn’t
tolerate.
He used to come to the office on time and leave soon after office
hours. He was not in the habit of going out during office hours.
“New officer has taken charge. At least now, mend your ways
and don’t sleep in the office,” advised Guravaiah’s colleagues. But he
108 / Astitva

didn’t change his ways. One day Krishnamurthy observed him

sleeping in his chair and asked him to come to his chamber.
“If I find you again sleeping there, I’ll make sure there is no
need to sleep in this office – you can comfortably sleep at your home,”
he warned.
There is no expression in the sleepy face of Guravaiah.
“Have you understood?” asked Krishnamurthy.
He turned his face across conveying that he didn’t.
“I mean I’ll give you ousting orders. By the way, bring your
section files here. I’ll look into them once,” Krishnamurthy ordered.
Guravaiah shuddered. He was ignorant of what files were there
with him and why. As if sleepwalking he reached his table, picked
up his files and showed them to the officer.
“Whoever has given you this job, I haven’t seen so inefficient an
employee so far. Looks like you are not aware of the alphabet of your
work. How are you continuing in this section?” he reprimanded.
Krishnamurthy called for the Superintendent immediately. He
informed his boss what exactly was happening.
“Whenever there is urgent work we used to look after it. He is
ignorant of his duties,” he replied.
“It will not be allowed to continue hereafter. Change his section
immediately. Let him be placed in that dispatch section,”
Krishnamurthy said.
Guravaiah was transferred to the dispatch section. There was
no change in him. There were no friends to him as such. So, he could
not confide in anything with anyone.
After the change in his section, difficulties for Guravaiah
increased. Piles of letters were there to be dispatched and he could
not manage to send them on a daily basis. There was inordinate delay
on his part. Letters that should have been posted four days ago would
be posted that day. Meanwhile, one day Krishnamurthy visited that
section and witnessed piles of letters gathered there. He was furious
at him.
Guravaiah recently tried to control his habit of sleeping. Also
trying to do things a bit effectively. But it was proving to be difficult
for him to dispatch bundles of letters every day.
He was caught again by Krishnamurthy. This time he didn’t utter
anything. He suspended Guravaiah for one week.
 Murder / 109

There was some kind of agitation in the mind of Guravaiah. He

was reminded of the blows he had received at the hands of his father.
He secretly wished for the officer’s death as he had done in the case
of his father. Meanwhile, another incident took place.
Krishnamurthy prepared a special report on the famine
conditions following scanty rainfall in his district that year to be sent
to the government. Marking a note that it had to be sent urgently he
sent it to the dispatch section. Guravaiah didn’t notice it. It was thrown
somewhere beneath the stacks of letters – it remained like that for a
week.
“We haven’t received from you the report on the famine situation
in your district. Send it immediately,” was the reminder
Krishnamurthy received from higher-ups. Krishnamurthy summoned
Guravaiah and enquired about the letter. He said he was not aware
of it.
Krishnamurthy himself went to the section and could locate the
report in the waste paper bundles. His anger knew no bounds.
“Rogue, idiot, inefficient fool. Go, and don’t show your morose
face to me,” he shouted at him. Guravaiah didn’t utter a word. This
time Krishnamurthy suspended him for fifteen days.
With every passing day, the idea ‘it would be better if his boss is
dead’ got strengthened in Guravaiah. If he didn’t die, he would have
to plan for it. He used to chalk out many plans in his mind for the
murder of his officer. At last, he liked one idea. Also seemed practical.
He implemented the plan that day.
Making a figure in the shape of his officer, torturing and then
murdering, performing last rites – this was the plan he liked and
implemented that day.
He felt great relief in his heart. He was not getting good sleep of
late. But that day he slept contentedly. He also had a dream. He was
arrested by the police and taken to jail. “Aren’t you the one who killed
Krishnamurthy” they interrogated. “Yes, true,” he informed. He was
also taken to the court. The Judge asked him “Have you killed
Krishnamurthy?” He affirmed saying “yes.” He was sentenced to
death by hanging.
110 / Astitva

3
Next day, Guravaiah was frightened to go to office. Will the police
catch hold of him? Will he be imprisoned? But he consoled himself
thinking that nobody would know it by then.
He reached the office diffidently.
Krishnamurthy came to the office exactly at ten thirty. Guravaiah
thought that he was not seeing real Krishnamurthy. He must be a
ghost. As far as he knew, he had killed Krishnamurthy the previous
night.
He heard a big commotion in the office.
“What happened?” Guravaiah asked the office attender.
“Our officer suffered heart stroke, sir,” he informed.
Guravaiah moved slowly. All of them were rushing into the
chamber of the officer. It was packed with employees. Guravaiah also
joined them.
Officer Krihnamurthy was suffering intensely. He was writhing
in pain as if someone was stabbing his heart with needles. Guravaiah’s
eyes sparkled with satisfaction. He felt happy as if he had seen the
scene earlier, and what was bound to happen, was happening.
Meanwhile, a doctor came in.
He examined Krishnamurthy’s condition and advised to admit
him in a hospital urgently. But before he was taken to the hospital, he
breathed his last.
All the staff members wailed like children. The entire office was
filled with grief as though a boy has lost his father.
There was no such emotion in Guravaiah. There may be a little
dampness in a boulder, but there were no feelings in him.
Guraviah had a doubt. These people so far didn’t know that he
had killed the officer. But if they knew, he thought, they would torture
him there itself.
Krishnamurhty’s dead body was sent in a car to their house.
Closing the office, all employees rushed after the car to
Krishnamurthy’s house. Guravaiah also reached the place.
Krishnamurthy’s wife became unconscious as soon as she heard
the news. His three sons and two daughters wept uncontrollably
falling over the body of their father.
Krishnmurthy’s wife must be thirty. But she looked still younger.
After she recovered, she wailed and it was heart-wrenching to those
 Murder / 111

around. Seeing her and the children, Guravaiah was also moved. He
felt pity for them. Must have committed a mistake. Krishnamurthy
was always gentle and efficient, those who knew praised. He was
really a nice gentleman. Since he was inefficient, Krishnamurthy had
given him punishment. For that, should he murder him?
Guravaiah was there with all others who stayed until the last
rites. He reached his home late in the night. He suspected that the
police would come searching for him sooner. It looked as if he was
waiting for them. Whenever the door creaked, when he heard a big
sound, or when he heard the horn of jeep outside, he began to shudder.
‘There ... they are coming. They’ll arrest me. Then he’ll be
hanged. Must he be on the run?’ May not be any use even if he ran
away. Wherever he is he’ll be chased and captured. Hanged. No other
way. If he died, there was no one to wail for him. It was long time ago
that his wife had left him. She went her own way scolding him and
saying it was not possible to live with such a stupid one. He came to
know recently that she eloped with someone. He had no children,
nobody to feel for him. There were so many who had wept that day
on the death of Krishnamurthy, but no one would weep for him.
Poor fellow, Krishnamurthy, should have lived long enough. So
many people loved him. A large family dependent on him became
rudderless. His wife, so young, became a widow. Guravaiah thought
he had committed a heinous crime. If he dies, there would be no loss
to anybody. But the death of Krishnamurthy caused so much grief
and loss. Unpardonable crime, he had committed.
Guravaiah who always used to sleep now could not sleep at
nights. Every moment he was expecting something to happen. He
started to wake up on hearing even a small sound. Sound of steps in
neighbour’s house, window doors flapping, jeep sound on the street,
were enough to make think that it was time to go. “They are coming
... have to go,” thinking so, he used to dress up and get ready at odd
hours. Then, finding nobody coming for him, he used to get
disappointed. ‘No, they must not have found out yet. These police
are inefficient. Such a small thing, should they take so much time?’
he thought.
One week passed.
Guravaiah became leaner day by day. He lost taste for food. He
didn’t want to do anything.
112 / Astitva

One day he conversed with Satyanarayana, his colleague in the

office who sat next to him. “I’ll reveal you a secret. Will you come
outside?”
Satyanarayana looked strangely at Guravaiah. For two years they
were sitting side by side but never talked to each other. He was
surprised to hear Guravaiah asking him to come out to tell a secret.
“Let’s go,” Satyanarayana got up.
Both of them sat in a corner in office canteen.
Normally people were scarce in canteen at that time. They
ordered for tea. “Please tell,” he asked.
Guravaiah began to shiver profusely.
With sleeplessness for many days, his eyes had sunk deep. His
hair was dishevelled. The ugly looking Guravaiah with his black skin
colour and bloated lips was looking more untidy and unkempt that
day. He caught hold of the hand of Satyanarayana and whispered to
him.
“Sir, it was I who killed our officer, Krishnamurthy. I murdered
him.”
For a moment Satyanarayana looked agape at Guravaiah. He
could not understand what he was speaking.
“I know you don’t believe it. But, it’s true, I killed our officer.
Nobody knows it. I did it secretly. Even the police are ignorant of it,”
he said.
“Mr. Guravaiah! Have you become mad? Are you aware of what
you are talking?” Satyanarayana asked.
“What madness? Why do you doubt me?” asked Guravaiah.
“Our officer was not killed by anyone. It was a natural death.
He died of heart problem that he had been suffering for a long time.
What this thing of you killing him? Better don’t inform this nonsense
to anybody. They will admit you in a mental hospital. Take care,”
saying Satyanarayana left after completing his tea.
Guravaiah sat like that for a while. Poor fellow, Satyanarayana!
Like others, he too was fooled. Believing that the officer died of heart
attack! Mad, all these people are, not believing him.
The unrest piling up in Guravaiah reached huge proportions
and began to consume him like forest fire. As though someone was
continuously piercing his heart with a thousand needles. As though
a number of volcanoes were bursting inside his mind, there was
 Murder / 113

turmoil. Confusion ... If he closed his eyes, he was getting visions of

the hanging rope ... in myriad forms and colours. Water, sleep, food
became total strangers. Something was happening. Somebody would
come, take him to somewhere and relieve him of this pain
permanently, he waited for a long time and now he looked exhausted.
Fifteen days passed.
One day he suddenly woke up at midnight and started walking
to the police station as if in sleepwalk.
“What do you want?” asked the constable on duty.
“I want to talk to the Sub Inspector,” said Guravaiah.
He was taken to the SI. “Tell me,” he asked.
Guravaiah’s face was frightening. It looked as though he would
fall anytime.
“Sir, at least you have to believe me. Don’t laugh away and treat
me as a mad fellow!” he requested folding his palms.
Making him to sit in the chair, the SI asked him to inform the
matter first.
“I murdered a man, sir. If you don’t arrest me now, I can’t live.”
The SI was jolted from his drowsiness. Sitting upright in his
chair, he asked, “What? Say it again!”
“Sir, I ... I killed our officer Krishnamurthy. All these days, I
evaded arrest. But I thought it would be better to surrender to the
police. That’s why I came here.”
“Where did the murder take place?”
“Here ... in this town.”
“No such incidents were reported in this town recently.”
“Why? Didn’t I murder our Revenue officer Krishnamurthy
fifteen days ago?”
“You mean Revenue officer Krishnamurthy? Of course, he died
of heart stroke.”
“There you are mistaken, sir. I killed him with my own hands. I
poured kerosene over him and lit fire. Pity ... horrible death it was.
Nobody knows this. All of them thought that he had died of heart
attack. You are a police officer, and you are not aware of this. Strange.”
“Hey, what do you do? What is your profession?”
“A clerk in the Revenue office ...”
“But are you mentally all right? Is your mind working properly?
Or is it all for fun?”
114 / Astitva

“Why sir, why do you say that?”

“If you brag like this, I’ll admit you in a mental asylum. Is this a
police station, or your house, what do you think? Now, you can go.
Hey, constable, take him out,” said the SI.
Guravaiah came out of the police station.
After two or three days the SI was shocked to see the corpse of
Guravaiah who committed suicide by hanging. The SI and
Satyanarayana, Guravaiah’s colleague, thought if they had taken him
more seriously and found out what was wrong with him, that incident
would not have happened.

“Hatya”
1973 Translated by K. Damodar Rao
 Am I Dead?

Ch. Madhu

‘Am I dead’ – Ramu was pondering over.

While walking along the road, while taking meal, that night with
his wife in bed ... the same thought kept coming to him.
‘Am I dead?’
He tested his heart. It was beating.
He is alive. He drew his wife closer to him.
What is the use?
No satisfaction. Not for him. For her. Not every day. Today itself.
What is this, strangely?
‘Am I dead? ... ’
Ramu was not getting sleep.
2
The reason for such thoughts was Ramu’s past.
A few days ago.
The police opened fire. On whom? On the people who had
hurled stones. They were mill workers. They had hurled stones not
on the police but on the mill. Yet the police opened fire.
Ramu didn’t know about the firing.
People dispersed when the police made a lathi-charge. But some
leaders did not leave the stage. Ramu, one among the leaders, had
run away. From the people. That is, from the midst of workers.
116 / Astitva

The issue of bonus led the workers to go on strike. All the

workers together elected five members as their leaders to guide the
strike. Ramu was one among them.
Whatever it was -
They decided not to call off the strike until their demands were
fulfilled. They decided not to retrace even a step.
After a five-day strike -
They took out a huge procession. The procession in which all
the workers had participated passed through the main streets and
stopped in front of the mill. Behind the workers were the police men
... still behind mill-owners ... goondas ...
Speeches were in progress.
Ramu delivered a speech.
Next,
Venu too was making a speech.
Stones ... Stones ... Stones were being thrown on the mill. From
amidst the workers, from the middle of the peaceful meeting.
Venu said, “Don’t pelt the stones.” He was a leader.
Srinu said, “No, stop it ...”
Yet, stones were being hurled from the middle of the workers.
Ramu stepped down. He was afraid that the stones might fall
on him ...
Stones ... Stones ... Stones ...
The police threatened through mikes. Yet stones were falling on
the mill.
The police made a lathi-charge. Srinu and Venu, who were
leading the strike, were surprised. The strikers had promised that
they would not resort to violence.
Then, why this pelting?
Perhaps, they didn’t know that the goondas hired by the mill-
owners had pelted the stones.
The workers dispersed.
While doing so, they pelted stones at the police.
The workers were running away.
Ramu was afraid. He was a leader. He should not run away. He
knew it. He was frightened. Yet, he ran away. He was knocking at the
door of a nearby house.
 Am I dead? / 117

3
Pushpa who had suspected that riots would break out after the
workers procession, closed the door from inside. On hearing a knock
at the door she opened the door.
A fast-breathing young man. He entered in suddenly and closed
the door.
She thought if she had seen him somewhere earlier. No chance.
Why did he close the door?
“What’s this outrage?” Pushpa almost cried.
“Police ... Police ... They are beating up all. That’s why I’ve shut
the door,” he said looking into her eyes.
‘It seems I have seen this woman earlier. Who could she be?’
What would happen if someone comes here and knocks at the
door? He felt fear inside.
“Did the agitation turn riotous?”
“The police made a lathi-charge.”
“Why?”
“The workers hurled the stones.”
“Why have the workers hurled the stones?”
“Why? I don’t know.”
“Are you one of them?”
He looked at her who was shooting questions. A round face ...
red complexion ... black mark on the forehead ... beautiful though
she was not in prime of youth. An embroidered red sari with white
flower prints on it. Red blouse ...
She lowered her eyes on seeing him who was looking into her
eyes.
“I’m one of the leaders heading the strike.”
“Are the leaders themselves afraid?”
Ramu felt ashamed.
“No ... no ... it’s an agitation? The police did not make lathi charge
without cause.” He broke the sentence without completing like cutting
the thread of a garland. But she understood the thread was broken
and she tied it around her chignon.
“I will open the door.”
“No, no. The police will come.”
Pushpa thought that he was scared. But he was a leader. Why
was he afraid?
118 / Astitva

Pushpa went inside. ‘Have seen somewhere ... where?’ The same
thought was in both of them.
Ramu sat on the chair. Fear. He received two blows on the legs.
He examined them by touching. A little blood. He took out a cigarette
from his pocket and lit it.
Ramu was full of fear ... how many people were beaten ... how
many people were arrested? ... If they arrested him ...
Fear ...
How beautiful she is!
Is not there anybody in the house? No children? Might have
gone to school.
As he was about to put the cigarette ash on the bleeding wounds
while smoking.
“What’s this?” said Pushpa, came with a cup of coffee.
“Lathi blows.”
“Were they severe?”
“A little.”
“Why do you put ashes on the wounds? Iodine is there. First,
have coffee.”
He drank coffee.
He applied the iodine given by her.
He observed the entire room very keenly. It was beautiful.
Beautiful calendars were there. There were a small table and four
chairs. And there was an almirah filled with books.
“Do you read books voraciously?”
“Yes, I read novels.”
After sometime.
“Why did you go on strike?”
“This year they denied bonus. Even the labour officer tried to
convince. Yet they refused. That’s why this strike” %
“Didn’t the government pay a heed to your demand?” %
“No.”
“Why then?”
“That is not government fault” he wanted to continue.
He was seeing her. She was very beautiful.
“Shall I open the door?”
“Is there nobody in the house?”
“No.”
 Am I dead? / 119

“Where did your husband and children go?”

“My husband is a teacher, he has gone to school.”
“Children?”
“No.” She bent her head. A streak of sadness had covered her
face.
She must be above thirty. Got no children. That was why, she
looked beautiful.
Opening the door Pushpa went out.
Ramu smoked one more cigarette. Was afraid after opening the
door.
After sometime, “You go away, two men have died, it seems. It’s
good for you to go there because you’re a leader,” Pushpa said coming
inside.
Not interested in going out. The police ... owners’ goondas ... jail ...
‘If I stay here I can sit seeing her beauty.’
But–
If she considers him a timid man!
“Thanks,” said he and went away.

4
Ramu, who came out, was anxious to know about the people who
were dead. He wanted to perform funeral rites for the dead. He
wanted to stage a protest against the police and the goondas for killing
wanted to think about the consequences. He was a member of the
committee appointed especially for the strike. He was one among
the thousands of representatives of the workers.
But he was afraid of the owners’ goondas that they would kick
him and the police would arrest him. .
Have to go home.
If the police come home?
Fear!
Ramu went to his sister’s house in the same town.

5
Ramu went to his home after nine in the night. His wife asked him:
“Are the blows severe?” He replied. Seeing them, she heaved a sigh
and said, “Somebody came and informed that there would be a
meeting tonight. Asked you to attend it.”
120 / Astitva

Ramu said nothing. He was afraid of the meeting.

Ramu sat before the meal wondering whether to attend the
meeting or not. It was very difficult to swallow food when a conflict
was going on inside.
He stood up without taking meal completely.
“Do you want to go?”
He said nothing.
“It seems two were dead!”
“Yes”, said as if he knew it.
“What will be done hereafter?”
“I think they’ll continue the strike.”
“Will they offer bonus?”
“If we continue the strike they may give bonus. Otherwise they
may even remove some workers from their jobs.”
“Then, go to the meeting!”
Ramu, who sat on the chair, was afraid of the meeting. If he
attends the meeting! ... The goondas hired by the owners might kick
him ... the police would keep him in the lockup ... they might even
remove him from the job if the strike fails ... but is it justified to skip
it in the middle of the strike as he is one of the leaders? No. It is not
just ... this fear is not good. He should get rid of this fear. Why did he
become like Apoorva babu in Sharathchandra’s Bharathi?
Was Rachakonda Vishwanathaa Sastry’s Alpajeevi meant for
people like him? Must be Swami Vivekananda who said that we need
courage for achieving anything ... why the fear in him who knew all
these things?
Should he go or not?
If the goondas beat him up while going and coming!
Fear to attend the meeting. Didn’t Nikhileshwar say “fear fills
water in the veins?” Didn’t Siva Reddy in his poem in Raktham Suryudu
say, “Fear pinches hope, pours timidity and tramples the mind in the
dark pond?”
Why was he really so scared?
He took a piece of paper and wrote thrice that ‘timidity should
be destroyed.’ Later he tore the paper into pieces.
He wrote ‘Courage is Zindabad’ thrice, four times, five times.
He put the piece of paper in his pocket. Came out saying that he
would go to the meeting.
 Am I dead? / 121

Lights went off after he walked some distance ... fear ... he turned
back in the darkness.
“Haven’t you gone?”
“No. Lights went off. It was very dark.”
He rested on bed.
Not a trace of sleep. Taking out the piece of paper from his pocket
he tore it.
He did not get sleep.
His wife was beside him.
“Are the blows severe? Don’t you get sleep?” She drew him close
to her. He came home exhausted. Fear of some thoughts.
Desired to get something from his wife.
Husband’s thoughts were somewhere. Fear encircled him
Wife was kindling fire, but milk was not boiling. Dissatisfaction
in her.
To boil, it was not milk, only water!

6
It dawned.
Next.
Bhaskar, who had taken lead in the strike, came to talk to Ramu
at around 9 in the morning. He asked Ramu why he hadn’t come to
the meeting the previous day. Ramu replied that his health failed
suddenly. But the news told by Bhaskar had hit straight on Ramu’s
heart. One of the two persons killed in the firing was his friend.
Because of Ramu only he came to attend the meeting. He was the one
who had learnt the ways of struggle from him only.
Ramu was scared after Bhaskar had gone away.
He would have been dead if he were there yesterday.
How kind she was the day before!
How beautiful she was!
The deceased friend of Ramu moved in his mind. He smoked
cigarette after cigarette. His mind was disturbed. It appears they
would continue the strike. Fear prevailed over his mind. It would
have been good if they had come to an agreement.
Feeling unwell and overwhelmed with fear he went to a hotel
and had a quarter of whiskey.
122 / Astitva

There was no peace of mind ... deceased friend ... strike ... Obstinate
mill owners ... and their goondas ... government not interfering ...
‘She was very beautiful. She saved me yesterday. Must express
gratitude. I saw her somewhere where?’
He went to her.
“You? Come in. Please sit down” she said.
“I think, your husband has gone to school.”
“Yes. Are you continuing the strike?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks. You saved me yesterday.”
“Why! It happened by mere chance.”
“I will go.”
“Please sit down! Take coffee!”
he went into the kitchen to make coffee and came out.
I think I’ve seen you somewhere,” said Ramu looking into her
eyes.
Don’t you remember where you saw me?”
It is not coming to my mind.”
The door was shut by itself due to gusty winds.
Pushpa, getting up, opened the doors. She spruced up herself
attractively. She was wearing a blue sari with white flower prints on
it. A blue coloured blouse, a black kumkum spot on the forehead. A
black braid with white jasmine flowers in it. Ramu thought she was
very beautiful.
“On the bus,” she said.
“Where?”
“You sat beside me in the bus.”
Ramu remembered. Yes. I sat beside her on that day. He was a
bit afraid then. It was she who gave place by her side in the bus. But
he misbehaved with her. He pressed on her legs. He deliberately
touched her and pressed her with his legs and hands. She did not say
anything. The same lady is here now.
“Will you please forgive me for I misbehaved with you on that
day?”
“Why pardon?” she said giving him the coffee. “You behaved
naturally like all others, that’s it. If you had not behaved that way I
would have been definitely surprised” she laughed.
“Yet, it was my misconduct madam. Wasn’t it?” said he sipping
the coffee.
 Am I dead? / 123

“I don’t know about the misconduct. But what satisfaction you’ve

got by doing like that I don’t understand,” she said.
Ramu was ashamed of himself.
“It is quite trivial. Leave it”
“Don’t call me madam. My name is Pushpa.”

7
Ramu thought all the night about Pushpa’s words. He couldn’t
understand
Really, Ramu did not understand Pushpa.

8
Pushpa, who asked Ramu about ‘satisfaction’, had also asked her
husband the same in the night, “Are we living with satisfaction?”
“Why?” he asked.
“Life without children”
“What can we do?”
“Consult the doctor once more for tests!”
“Already got tested, didn’t I?”
“By a specialist doctor in Hyderabad,” she said.
“Somehow, our fate is like this!”
Pushpa did not want to continue further. ‘I asked Ramu about
satisfaction. But what satisfaction was there for her to continue
married life with her husband?’ Her heart asked insistently.
People say only motherhood gives real contentment.

9
Five days elapsed.
Strike had been continuing.
Ramu was intentionally going in front of Pushpa’s house on the
evening of the fifth day.
She called him.
“Why are you going away without coming inside?” she said.
“Going to a movie”
“Alone?”
“Yes. No one is with me.”
“Shall I come?” said she laughing.
“Your husband?”
124 / Astitva

“He went to a village on some work.”

“Will you really come?” A belief that she won’t come and a hope
that it would be good if she comes ... .
“Shouldn’t I come?”
“Come!”
Locking the door they started for the cinema.
They met Bhaskar on the way.
“Ramu! Do you know what had happened today? The mill
owners’ goondas beat Satyam,” said Bhaskar.
“Oh!”
“You’re one of the leaders of the strike. But you quit all the
relations.”
“No.”
“There is a meeting at ten today. Will you come?”
“Yes, I will come.”
“Are you fearing, Ramu?”
“No.” his voice wavered.
“See you!” Bhaskar had gone away.
Pushpa, who was coming behind them, had heard the word
‘meeting’. “No cinema, go to the meeting” she said. “The meeting is
at 12 o’ clock in the night.” He lied to her. Ramu was afraid of the
meeting. He feared that the owners’ goondas might beat him while
going or returning.
After coming home from the cinema.
“Pushpa, one word,” Ramu said sliding in the chair.
She shook her head as if asking him to tell her.
“I love you.”
“Love! It’s surprising.”
“Why surprising? It’s truth”
“Is it love or lust?”
Ramu was taken aback.
“Ramu, one word. I don’t know whether it is love or anything.
There is dissatisfaction both in you and me. Let’s get rid of it. I want
to become a mother. That’s why my consent ...” she said bending her
head. Ramu’s heart filled with joy.
“Won’t you go to the meeting?”
Ramu was afraid. ‘The meeting is at twelve in the night?’
Pushpa liked Ramu for he was leading the workers strike, also
that he was gentleman-like.
 Am I dead? / 125

After dinner Pushpa made bedding side by side for both of them.
He was afraid.
“If your husband comes?”
“I’m telling you he won’t come till the next two days.”
Taking all the jasmine flowers from her braid she spread them
on the bed.
He drew Pushpa very close to him.
Something had occurred in his mind. If her husband comes? He
would be caught red handed, he would beat her, would kill him. ‘If
he drives her away from his house, she will go with him. Can he
bear?’
Fear.
His enthusiasm died down.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Half an hour.
No sound from Ramu.
Pushpa drew him close to her.
No movement from Ramu.
“What has happened?”
“I’m afraid, what if your husband comes?”
“You are a mad pot. He won’t come.”
Pushpa drew him closer to her.
Ramu became a doll.
She removed her blouse.
No movement in the doll.
Ramu watched while she was undressing. But fear. If her
husband comes? The unknown form of her husband hovered before
his eyes and started frightening him.
Thoughts were moving around her husband and body, around
her.
Fire was not smouldering in the body that was centre for
thoughts.
“What is this Ramu?” she asked impatiently.
She stood nakedly before him.
The clock, in the adjoining room, had struck twelve. Fire was
not beginning to rage. They were not pieces of wood to burn.
Mere ashes.
126 / Astitva

She wore all her clothes again: bodice, blouse, petticoat and sari.
“Now you can go away” saying, she stood and opened the door.
Anger in her was hissing. Dissatisfaction overwhelmed her. She
was very angry for his timidity.
“I didn’t think you are such a timid fellow,” she said to Ramu
who was standing outside the door.
“Sorry. Another time.”
“Another time? ... No, not. I don’t want motherhood through
you. If I get children by you they will be born as timid children. Why
should I get timid children born to me? Even if I don’t beget children,
it won’t make any difference to me.
She closed the door.
He felt like rolling over a boulder of shamefulness.
He was walking with a heavy heart and grief. Bhaskar was
coming in the opposite direction.
“Why didn’t you come to the meeting?”
Ramu said nothing.
“Fear, isn’t it?” said Bhaskar.
Ramu did not open his mouth.
“You’re one of the five who led the strike. But you’re afraid.”
Ramu could not utter a word.
“Two workers died. We will think that you too have died,”
Bhaskar said and went away.
“Am I dead?” pondering, Ramu stopped.

“Nenu Chachipoyana?”
1977 Translated by Algati Thirupathi Reddy
 The Jar

Sadanand Sharada

“Gouriga! Orey Gouriga!” called dora; no, in fact he shouted.

“Coming, banchen!”
A pair of legs carrying the skeleton, on which the body was dried
up, walked in.
“What banchen?” asked the head above the ribcage.
The head that said ‘What banchen’ plus the skeleton was
Gouraiah!
But now that skeleton plus the head which said, ‘What banchen!’
was no longer ‘Gouraiah.’ It became Gourigadu.
Gourigadu stood before dora.
Dora sat before Gouraiah.
Dora sat before Gouraiah commandingly.
Gouraiah stood before him shivering.
The earth carried the burden of Dora and his chair.
The same earth carried Gouraiah’s legs too.
Robes and ornaments on dora’s body, sufficient for ten people.
Gouraiah looked like a man who donated his everything to
people. Around his waist, just tattered rags.
The distance between the legs of the chair carrying dora, and
the legs which were carrying Gouraiah, was not more than the
difference between their ages.
128 / Astitva

Old age, like good nature, was not visible in dora.

Gouraiah was looking like a man carrying dora’s old age also.
“Gouriga! ... You have to go to the city tomorrow in the
morning,” said dora.
“Yes, banchen! Should I go to Chinna babu?” said Gouraiah
taking the headband off from his head and holding it in his hands.
“Yes. Your dorasani will give you a jar containing mango pickle.
Give it to Chinna babu.”
“Ok. I will give it ...”
“Don’t say ok. You must carry it very carefully. Otherwise, your
body will get severe thrashing. Understood?” Dora said expressing
how valuable the mango pickle jar was more than a man’s life.
“I will carry it with utmost care, dora,” said Gouraiah exhibiting
his loyalty and subordination.
When dora had asked him to go to the city, images of trailer
buses, double-decker buses, motor vehicles, touring talkies and huge
mansions moved before Gouraiah’s eyes. The last time when he had
gone to the city was when dora took him along with him about ten
years ago. Never again did he go afterwards. Who was there for him
in the city? Nobody was there. No work too. ‘How difficult it is to go
to the city! One should be blessed to go there!’ Gouraiah used to think.
If anyone said that he was going to the city, Gouraiah used to
think that that person would travel by long buses, double-decker
buses and go to the very big bungalows.
He too will be going to the city tomorrow. Grain harvested by
him has been reaching the city for the last forty or fifty years. But
Gouraiah visited the city only once till then.
Gouraiah was feeling happy.
There was another reason for his happiness. When he had gone
to the city last time ten years ago, he was given the leftover tea.
“Abba! Ambrosia is this!” thought Gouraiah.
Gouraiah felt happy as he was going to relish that once again.
Gouraiah’s hut did not go sleep that night.
“O, Ayya! Bring me something for me,” said the little girl again
and again.
“Ok, I will bring something for you, my daughter!” said
Gouraiah hugging her.
In the morning, he wore the shirt that was safely preserved at
the bottom of the wooden box and went to the dora’s manor.
 The Jar / 129

“Have you come Gouriga?” said Dora seeing Gouraiah standing

before him with folded hands.
“Yes, I have come, banchen.”
Dorasani showing the pickle jar said, “Orey! Handle it carefully.”
“Yes, Ammagaru, I will hold it very carefully - Chinna babu
likes mango pickle so much. Then, won’t I carry it with extreme care?”
said Gouraiah while taking it into his hands.
“Take these two rupees for bus fare. For the return journey, take
from Chinna babu. Otherwise come home walking,” said Dora with
a look that signified Gouraiah was born just for begging.
“This is the address slip. When you get down at the bus depot,
show this to someone. You will be directed to the house,” said Dora.
Nodding his head to everything, Gouraiah started carrying the
jar.
Bus does not come to that village. How can it come? Is it a human
being to come there through the thorny bushes and stones?
It needs a smooth road. Thorns and stones should not be there
on the road, though it doesn’t bleed when something pricks it. If it
likes, it will come. Only when proper persons ask for it, when proper
persons send it.
There is no road to that village.
‘If a road is laid to the village, it’ll be easy for villagers to go to
the city. If so, won’t these villagers become unduly haughty? Will
people like Gouraiah come to their fields to work then? They will
prefer to go to city for work’ such is the thought of doras. The answers
they gave to the outside world were different. They needed farm
labourers like Gouraiah to work in their agricultural fields. Their
sweat was investment for them!
Gouraiah was not thinking all this.
He was thinking that bus would not come to their village as
there was no road.
But to be able to question ‘why there is no road to their village?’
Gouraiah needed many more births!
Gouraiah was carrying the jar on his shoulder.
Instead, it can be said that the jar was sitting on Gouraiah’s
shoulder.
It takes two to three mile walk to reach the road on which buses
ply.
130 / Astitva

Gouraiah stopped for a while.

If the jar had a mouth, it would have asked authoritatively like
dora, dora’s wife, dora’s son, dora’s daughter-in-law, dora’s daughter,
dora’s son-in-law, “Orey Gouriga, what has happened?”
A thorn pricked Gouraiah’s barefoot.
He took off the towel that was his headgear, kept it on the ground
along with the jar, sat and pulled off the thorn using force. Blood
came out by drops when he squeezed the wound. After wiping off
the blood, he kept the jar again on his shoulder and started walking.
After walking some distance, a stream appeared.
Perhaps it didn’t know that dora’s jar or the jar resembling dora
arrived there. It was flowing at full force.
He waded through the stream very slowly. Gouraiah finally
reached the other side of the stream. First, he placed the jar carefully
on the bank. Then he tried to balance himself over the bank.
He slipped ... there were mud spots all over his shirt and dhoti.
Besides, the pain in the feet was hurting him.
Perhaps the nature too, along with humans, would get pleasure
by troubling the poor.
In spite of that, Gouraiah gave utmost importance to the jar.
Though his clothes were completely mud stained and his soles were
paining, he kept on walking carrying the jar on his shoulder.
Like the bride in a palanquin the jar was moving, sitting pretty
with grandeur on Gouraiah’s shoulder.
Reached the road.
By that time several legs reached the place walking. Several loads
came there sitting on people’s shoulders. Several needs have been
waiting for buses. A few people were looking angrily at the oncoming
loads and people.
Both sides of the road were very busy with hustle and bustle.
But the road is neat and beautiful like a carpet laid for a Maharaja.
Now and then vehicles were moving fast from either direction.
Those buses were not stopping as though people waiting there had
contagious diseases.
Hearing the sound of bus every half an hour or one hour, hopes
bloomed in the people sitting on either side of the road, lifting off the
loads onto their shoulders, their eyes glimmering ... meanwhile the
bus that comes there leaves without stopping, throwing dust in their
 The Jar / 131

eyes. This happened several times. It appeared that the people who
were driving them had perfected throwing dust into people’s eyes.
Along with all other people, Gouraiah also has been eagerly
waiting for the bus. Not even a single bus was stopping there. By
then it was midday.
‘It’s been a long time since I have not boarded a bus,’ thought
Gouraiah. He was very happy as he would be traveling by bus that
day. But is it a small thing to travel in a bus! Though people are paying
money for it and buses are plying in the service of people, these were
not meant for everyone. All people are not so privileged as to get into
them.
‘Oh! The bus matter has come to this? So many hours wasted,
waiting. How to reach the city? Could have reached the city by this
time even if walked. He was willing to stand, if not sit, in the bus but
none was halting there. ‘The population has increased in the Kaliyuga!
What shall I do? Shall I walk? The clouds are fast spreading over the
sky,’ thought Gouraiah.
Meanwhile a bus came there. There were people who were
getting down there. The bus stopped a little distance away, though
not a stage, as if rebuking the people in a language that was not
understood by the people.
People surrounded the bus like beggars around an almsgiver.
Everyone was pushing another, jostling, shouting, trampling while
trying to board the bus.
“Oye! Old man! How can you board the bus? The jar will be
broken. Get down,” said someone.
“Ammo, my jar!” thought Gouraiah holding the jar firmly. In
that melee, someone pulled off the towel worn round his head. It fell
on the shoulder of another person who was getting into the bus.
Meanwhile the conductor closed the door. The bus left leaving black
smoke and the people behind. Gouraiah, one of the defeated people,
stood there looking at the direction in which the bus had gone.
Now there is no towel over his head.
By this time it might have been trampled by somebody in the
bus.
But still the jar is safe on his shoulder.
Gouraiah was not angry. He doesn’t get anger. One of the things
which people like Gouraiah doesn’t have is anger.
132 / Astitva

‘Now there is no use in waiting here for the bus. I will go there
walking. What do I lose if I don’t get into the bus when I have legs
given by God? I buy something for the little girl with the two rupees
given by dora,” thought Gouraiah walking along the road stooping
his head.
The jar has bent Gouraiah’s head, sat on his shoulder and started
its journey along the road.
Gouraiah’s grandfather worked at dora’s grandfather, Gouraiah’s
father worked at dora’s father, not at, but under dora. Gouraiah has
been working under Dora. He carried dora’s sons and daughters more
than his own sons and daughters. He lifted up their grain sacs. He
carried their luggage. Now he is carrying the pickle jar.
Rain drops started falling with big sound. Soon it became a
shower.
Gouraiah was anxious that the jar might get drenched. Took off
his shirt quickly and wrapped it around the jar. The sky was laughing
at him sympathetically. His body, normally wet with sweat was now
being touched by the rain. The chilly weather was biting his bones.
For a while, he stood under a tree. His thoughts were on the jar.
“Does rain water go in? Will the pickle be spoiled?” With
concern he was checking whether the ‘shirt’ wrapped around the jar’s
body was tight or not. He was unnecessarily getting worried, as there
was no scope for water to drip in the jar. Dorasani tightly wrapped a
cloth around its mouth.
In spite of that Gouraiah had his own apprehensions. “Oh God!
Rain should stop. Rain should stop. Banchen!” started praying. It
was not for his own sake though he was getting drenched. He was
more worried about the jar getting wet because the pickle in it might
get spoilt.
If it were possible, Gouraiah could have peeled off his skin and
wrapped it around the jar. But at least that could not be separated
from his body.
The rain has stopped a little.
Gouraiah started walking along the road again.
Walking still. Several buses, cars and scooters going past him.
It was evening. In the distance, the electric lights of the city were
blinking like the hopes of a poor man.
 The Jar / 133

Gouraiah was walking with determination. Reached the suburbs

of the city. Seeing a four road junction at a place there, his legs stopped.
Perplexed he was as to which road he should take. As long as it was
a single road there was no need to think about it.
Now, which way to go? He remembered the slip given by dora.
He groped for the slip in the pockets of his shirt that was wrapped
around the jar. He found the slip.
“Thank God!” Gouraiah said to himself.
Later he suddenly remembered, ‘There must be two rupees in
the pocket.’ He
once again searched the pocket. But it was not there. He could
find the slip but not the rupees.
“Ayyo! What happened! Thought of buying something for the
little girl,” he thought.
The two rupees might have fallen somewhere, his thought of
buying something for his little girl was also lost there itself.
He abandoned that idea and moved further and asked a passer-
by, “Ayya, how to reach the bus depot?”
He didn’t respond. He went away without looking at the face of
Gouraiah.
Pity! Gouraiah stood there for a while, perplexed.
Stopped someone going that way requesting, “Ayya, please stop
banchen”.
“What do you want?” asked the person furiously behaving like
dora’s brother.
Without listening to what Gouraiah was asking “I don’t have
change. Go away.” saying this he went away.
Gouraiah was astonished.
‘These cars, trailer buses, big bungalows appear quite appealing,
but why these people are looking different!’ said to himself.
Tried to move ahead. “Ayya, I salute you. Please tell me how to
reach the bus depot,” Gouraiah asked another person.
“Idhar se seeda jaav” (Go straight from here) replied that person
showing him a road. Gouraiah could not understand that language,
but took the road signaled by him.
After walking further, he found another intersection. ‘Cars,
buses, double decker buses, bicycles, dug dug motor vehicles, crowds,
noise, cacophony, what a noise? The city has changed a lot. What is
134 / Astitva

that in the middle? It is glowing and stopping. These people are

stopping and those are going. I don’t know how to go to the bus
depot. I am told that the Chinna Babu’ house is near the bus depot,’
thought Gouraiah standing a little distance away from the cross roads.
There were a few young men standing aside. He went there and asked
them “How to reach the bus depot, banchen?”
They stared at Gouraiah once from top to toe. Then it could be
said that a portrait of “Gouraiah” looked like this-
Eyes sunken, body dried upon skeleton, shirt in armpit, jar on
his shoulder, cotton dhoti raised onto knees, stains of mud everywhere
on his dhoti ...
“Arey – Gaam wala” (a rustic fellow), said a young man.
“Hey! Look how this gaam wala is?” said another, heckling.
They were unaware of the fact that the energy they needed for
laughing was a result of the food produced by that ‘gaamwala.’
Gouraiah was at a loss to grasp why they were laughing
derisively.
Looked at them pleadingly.
Those future leaders of the nation went on laughing arrogantly.
The backbone of the nation stood before them pitiably. “Have
to go to the bus depot. Just tell me how to go there, banchen,”
Gouraiah asked again.
“You want to go to the bus depot. Give me that jar and I will tell
you,” said a young man. His hair was combed neatly. He was wearing
a costly dress.
“What is there in that jar bey?” asked a young man coming
nearby.
“I will tell you if you give me your shirt,” a young boy who had
a bracelet on his wrist snatched Gouraiah’s shirt – perhaps he might
have worn that bracelet only to do such great deeds with
determination.
Another young man grabbed the shirt from the hand adorned
with the bracelet and hurled it onto the road.
“Ayyo! Why are you doing like this? I am just asking you the
way –” saying this, Gouraiah tried to take his shirt back.
One wheel of a bicycle has hit his leg.
“What is this in the middle of the road? Can’t you see?” asked
the man who was lifting the bicycle.
 The Jar / 135

“No banchen. My shirt was thrown here. Taking it,” said

Gouraiah piteously.
“It’s all right. Move aside,” the person who said this was taken
away by the bicycle from there.
After the bicycle has taken away that man, one of the young
men from the group asked Gouraiah as if he didn’t know anything.
“Where do you have to go, Patel”?
“Bus depot ...” said Gouraiah looking at them in trepidation as
if they would do some nasty thing again.
“Going to Bus depot ... Look. There is a road this side. Go straight
along that road. You will reach the bus depot.”
“Go straight, don’t leave the road,” said both the bracelet and
clean head.
Gouraiah started walking with a bent head in the direction
shown by the young men.
Walk ... Walk ... Since morning relentless walk – feeling severe
pain in his feet
His body started shivering.
He felt feverish. Hungry too. Did not take food since morning.
He walked for a long distance. Continued his walk gathering
all his strength. Carrying the jar. There was no sign of bus depot even
after such a long distance! Gouraiah felt fatigued after walking
continuously. When he was unable to walk further, he asked a person,
“How much distance have I to go to reach the bus depot?” He looked
at Gouraiah in surprise and said, “Where is the bus depot here? Turn
back and go straight. You’ll find crossroads. Go along the left side
road. Bus depot is near from there.”
Gouraiah started walking back again towards the path from
where he had come. Now he couldn’t see the cars, motors, bungalows
etc. Again he came near the crossroads. There the group of young
men laughed at him jeeringly. They have got a lot of amusement
without paying a paisa. “Have you seen the depot, Patel?” asked one
of them. Gouraiah looked at them painfully. He was about to weep.
He is a countryman. Seventy percent of the people in our country are
from villages. If all these villagers roar in unison, won’t these clean
heads be blown off and bracelets be cut off?
Without giving a reply, not caring their words, Gouraiah with his
head bent started walking along the road that leads to the bus depot.
136 / Astitva

As soon as he reached the bus depot, he showed the address

slip to a person. In that slip, only ‘Chandra Shekhar, Gowliguda ... ’
was visible. The house number, as it got wet, was not clearly seen.
“This is Gowliguda, but how can you find the house without the
house number?” asked the man. “Banchen! I am like your slave. Only,
you have to tell me. Otherwise how can I find the house?” requested
Gouraiah.
“Who is this Chandra Shekhar?” questioned that man. “Dora!
He is our Chinna babu” replied Gouraiah innocently. “No. No. It is
not that I am asking, - what does he do?” asked that man again. “That
is, in some office ...” replied Gouraiah.
“If you don’t know even that also, how can you find his house?”
“Then what shall I do banchen?” “Ask in the neighbourhood”
saying this, the man gave the slip back to Gouraiah and went his way.
After searching for the house for an hour, Gouraiah could find the
house finally. There were some unknown people sitting in the front
room of the house. Among them, Gouraiah identified Chandra
Shekhar, (Chinna Dora) and stood outside. Chinna Dora came out
seeing Gouraiah.
Gouraiah greeted him happily. But Chinna Dora with a frowning
face called his servant and said, “Take him aside and ask what he
wants.” He went inside.
Before anyone had questioned him “Who is he?” Chandra
Shekhar resumed the discussion with his friends in the room saying,
“some beggar.”
A skeleton and the head which always says “What banchen” is
not even Gourigadu now. Only a beggar. It was that beggar who has
walked twenty miles carrying their pickle jar. It was that beggar who
cultivated crops and provided them with grain bags. It was those
grain bags that gave them wealth and luxuries. It was those bags that
were offering food to the cities and helping the factories.
The servant accompanied Gouraiah to the backyard. Chinna
dorasani, the wife of Chinna dora came there. Greeting her, he said,
“Ammagaru, I am Gouraiah. Dorasani has sent me here to give you
this mango pickle jar.” Gouraiah put down the jar from his shoulder.
“Put that inside,” ordered Chinna Dorasani to the city servant. “How
are my father-in-law and mother-in-law?” she asked.
“They are all fine. They always remember you and Chinna babu
all the time,” said Gouraiah standing there with folded hands. Then
 The Jar / 137

she didn’t speak any further. She didn’t ask him to stay or go. She
went inside.
Fifteen minutes elapsed. Half an hour. One hour!
Gouraiah stood there in the same posture. No one was there to
ask him either to stay or go.
The jar, which arrived on his shoulder, went inside and rested
comfortably in warmth. But Gouraiah stood outside in cold like the
bearer of the palanquin. He was extremely hungry. His legs were
aching severely. Walked ceaselessly. Experiencing pain in his
shoulders. His body became cold and darkness filled his eyes. He
was shivering for the cold.
She came outside on some work and looking at him said, “Why
are you still here..? Haven’t you gone? The bus will have left if you are
still here. Who will take care of the chores at the village? Go by the last
bus.” The daughter-in-law of dora, wife of Chinna dora, Chinna
Dorasani. Gouraiah became speechless. He did not have even a paisa
in his hands. No energy. Feeling hungry. Shivering body in cold.
“I’ll go banchen!” he moved two feet forward. But, where would
he go? He didn’t have fares to go by the last bus. Better to sleep on
some veranda that night and go on foot the next day. His feet stopped
carrying his body after two steps! Darkness before his eyes. Whole
body was shivering.
With a lot of hesitation, Gouraiah asked, “Amma! I am feeling
hungry. Banchen! Will you give me a few morsels of food?”
Gouraiah who walked twenty miles carrying their pickle jar,
he who brought the pickle jar safely wrapping it with his shirt when
it was raining, and who grew crops for them every year, asked just a
mouthful of food.
“Food! There is no food. Go. Already guests have come to our
house,” saying Chinna dorasani closed the door on Gouraiah’s face
with a thud.
It looked like it was going to rain again.
The sky thundered furiously looking at the class of people
behind the doors.

“Jaadi”
1977 Translated by Gannu Nataraja Shekhar and
N. Ramesh Chandra Srikanth
138 / Astitva

Chitrakannu

Nandini Sidhareddy

A thin cloud of smoke was rising from the midst of cow dung cakes.
Narsaiah went to city with Vodde Muttadu and was bargaining
with Sohanlal Sethji to sell his pigs.
Parusharamulu sold most of his land in bits over the last few
years. Only an acre and a half remained; He sold away that too,
recently. He was looking at Ella Goud on the palm tree and was ready
with a folded leaf for drinking toddy.
Nagarajam sent the pupils home and was playing ‘syndicate’ in
the school itself with teacher colleagues while smoking a cigarette.
Exactly at the same moment, Balavva who is the mother of the
above three persons stopped breathing.
A wonder it was, for, no sooner did Lacchavva pour the sap of
sacred Basil in Balavva’s mouth than the latter’s gasping came to an
end all of a sudden. Startled by the loud crying of Lacchavva, the
neighbours came running soon.
Balavva was lying in the hay as an inanimate body. As the cool
breeze blew the hay made an eerie sound but Balavva remained like
a piece of wood.
***
When it was seven in the night, Narsaiah came to a decision. His
mother implored him many times: “After my death, do not bury, but
 Chitrakannu / 139

cremate me. You may even use my gold to meet the extra expenditure
incurred.” So saying, she had even obtained his promise to that effect.
Narsaiah sent Muthadu for Madigas to chop wood and beat
drums.
At the same moment four elderly persons reached the place
hearing the news. Two leaders of Madigas came too. They both had
no shirts. They were only wearing waist clothes and towels as
headbands. “How much do you expect?” Narsaiah asked in a miserly
manner though he knew he should not. In fact, he knows he should
even pay a little bigger amount.
“Give eighty rupees for the two works” said the man with big
moustaches. Parusharamulu stood leaning against the wall but said
nothing. “I will pay twenty rupees,” Narsaiah said. “What do you
say?” he asked immediately.
“No, what our fellow asked is already less. Anything less than
eighty, we don’t agree,” said the man with red headband.
“Why will you agree? You Madigas have become bigheaded.
You are even declining an offer of twenty rupees. Your mother ... !”
while speaking, spittle spluttered out of Narsaiah’s mouth. The police
patel who was one of the elderly persons too said nothing.
“Twenty? Thoo! Even Tenugodu gave fifty. This is worse than
that. Your family line itself is so mean,” the man with moustaches
was raging.
“Do you spit like that! Have I become so cheap in your opinion?
Ok, I’ll pay thirty. Done?”
The mob cursed Narsaiah’s miserliness for bargaining with
Madigas.
Exasperated, the police patel got some liquor brought and began
to drink it. Maskoori standing beside him was pouring the hooch in
a glass. They both kept silent.
Now the Sarpanch remained.
Trying to convince Madigas he said “Accept for fifty.”
The red filleted man turned to Sarpanch and began to explain
the whole thing.
“No Patela, why does he want to pay just thirty or fifty? Is he of
a lower caste or casteless? He has plenty of money. Let it go. For people
like you, we do it for fifty or sixty, seeing your face. Why? Because we
eat as much as we get from you. Did we eat a morsel of something that
140 / Astitva

belonged to him? We feel happy if we are not plundered. He performed

many marriages. Did he offer any little at any marriage? Many harvests
he reaped. He got many crop yields. Did he give anything, at any time,
when we visited the thrashing floor? Fearing that money has to be
paid, they made their own chappals. They twined the ropes themselves.
What benefit have we got? Tenuga people help us, Kummara people
help us. But, of what use is he to us? When we went to his house for
buttermilk, his wife had said she would give the buttermilk only on
payment. Be it so. Did she give buttermilk on payment? No, she poured
just water. When we recollect all these incidents, we seethe with fury
and blood surges into our eyes. He plundered us in many ways. Patela,
fearing expenditure every time they buried the dead bodies; never
cremated them. What is the use of such living in the village? The
existence of such people is a mere waste ...”
There was no limit to the accusations being hurled by him.
Narsaiah was filled with anger he had never experienced. He
exploded on the Madigas like a balloon ruptured with a big sound.
“You bastards, what’s all this? What are you saying ... thrash
you. No shame? Nee yavva, why should I give you? Are you my
begotten ones?”
Neither party was willing to pay attention to the pacifying words
of the elders.
The big-moustached one and the one with the red headband
were scolding Narsaiah separately.
Parusharamulu was leaning against the wall and dozing. “You
say, we should be born to you, no? If you utter it again, we give you a
sound beating. You the son of Tenuka ... if you have money, make
procession having it on your head but how come that word came to
your mouth – you had eaten our labour. You exploited us by lending
money at high interest rate. You came up in life deceiving people.
Did we say you were born to us?”
Lachavva got up from near the corpse.
She too wanted to join the ongoing exchange of words.
Lachavva and Narsaiah were on one side.
The big moustached one and the man with red turban were on
the other side.
They were exchanging obscene words. The mediators remained
silent.
 Chitrakannu / 141

Narsaiah rushed towards them threatening to beat them up. The

elder people stopped and held him back.
Narsaiah was again making attempts to rush towards them
knowing well that the elderly people would stop him.
The argument became violent. Exchange of words was heating
up.
Then entered Nagarajam.
Understanding that the situation there was not good, he started
running towards the corpse wailing (for some, it appeared as if a
donkey was braying), “O mother, my mother, why did you go like
that, O Avva.”
All the people surrounding the corpse, now gathered at the place
of bickering.
Setting aside the matter of eighty rupees demanded by Madigas,
Narsaiah’s stand of giving not more than fifty, the two parties indulged
in a brawl, a free for all.
The elders sitting there intervened but to no avail.
Certainly a strange case.
The four elders were at their wits end as how to solve the case.
Of the four, there were Sarpanch and the Police Patel too. They were
pouring the arrack from the bottle into the glasses and consuming it
without a sense of shame in the presence of so many of people.
Lachavva succeeded in providing an answer to the ongoing
squabble that elders failed to give.
She informed Narsaiah in a voice that could be heard by all.
“Why should we engage them at all? We have trees, also hands
given by God. Why don’t we do it ourselves, chopping the wood and
arrange the pyre? Let us move, Why paying them eighty? It will take
a short while if we do it. Let us go.” Narsaiah was much pleased at
what Lachavva had said. He felt sorry he could not get such a great
idea.
“Aa! The Kapu bidda is saying, get it that way. It will add to
your dignity. Miserly people, why do you need us at all?” saying
both the Madigas went away.
The four elders, the crowd gathered could not but help going
away from the place with their ears closed. All of them muttered
something at the idea given by Lachavva: “What’s the use of plentiful
riches? One must have good intentions,” “Corpses are better than
these people.”
142 / Astitva

All the people have left.

There remained the dead body.
Nagarajam, still weeping over the dead body.
Parusharamulu, leaning against the wall, was dozing.
The daughter, continually weeping beside her mother were left
there.
It was not yet midnight.
Narsaiah, Lachavva, Shankarreddy, Vodde Muthadu together
started with their axes.
All the Madigas went to receive their elders coming in
frustration.
On learning what has happened, they were walking towards
their huts immersed in thinking.
“If this becomes an example in future, the villagers will complete
formalities on their own on occasions of death ...” said one of them. It
came like a caution to all of them.
“If this continues, we would not get even a leaf cup in times to
come. We are dying for food now, what will happen if this is also
gone?” the moustached one summed up.
Like leaves fluttering for strong winds they were shaken, and
gazed at one another.
By day break Narsaiah and others had arranged the pyre and
returned home. After fastening the bier, they called for Thammali
Dappu.
The four elders did not turn up. The people too didn’t feel like
attending the funeral.
Parusharamulu stood with a pot in one hand and a blistering
stick in other hand to perform last rites.
The sun was slowly coming out.
On the third side of the bier was Shankarreddy, so on the fourth
side ... ?
Women should not carry it. “How then?” Narsaiah gazed
around. There was none in the vicinity except Vodde Muthadu.
He could not help having Vodde Muthadu on the fourth side!
The drum was beating.
From near the head smoke was coming out of the cow dung
cakes.
 Chitrakannu / 143

The bier was raised.

The daughter’s weeping compensated the absence of Sannai.
Above the bier carrying Balavva’s corpse white clouds were
floating.
Ballavva dreamt some unusual dreams in her life. Strange things.
All of them were about her death.
She desired to give birth to at least four sons, so that her bier
could be borne by her sons from four sides!
She felt sad when a girl baby was born for the first time.
Gradually she consoled herself with the thought that this girl
would be there to cry when she died.
She gave birth to three sons thereafter and she felt elated.
Meanwhile a tragedy took place. Her husband passed away.
She scolded her husband everyday till her death for dying
without giving her the fourth son.
The bier was moving silently.
People were standing along the streets and watching it proceed.
Nobody bothered to follow it.
Balavva had great liking for gold and money. She was passionate
enough to think that it would have been better if only all the money
and gold on the earth had been with her. She reserved her affection
only for her daughter because she would cry, and the youngest son
because he would lit the pyre after her death. In fact, how could she
accumulate money if she sat showering love? Unless money is
amassed, how could her ‘death’ be performed well? With this idea
she did not even allow her husband to spend a few minutes with her
sons.
When Balavva came to live with her husband, Nagamallaiah
had one acre of land and a small building.
By the time Nagamallaiah died of cancer after suffering for six
months, Balavva owned twenty tolas of gold, eighty acres of land,
two vegetable farms and loan documents of the village people at hand.
To avoid wasteful expenditure, she did not cremate her
husband’s corpse. It was buried by her sons. But on her part, she
desired that her corpse must be cremated after her death.
That is why gold ... money.
From between tightly fastened fibre strands the white shroud
was fluttering for the wind. Like the dream with which Balavva died
144 / Astitva

The procession was moving in silence.

The daughter stopped crying just five yards away from the
village. They put down the bier some distance from the pyre.
They performed Dimpudu kallem ceremony. Thammali himself
performed rituals and sprinkled the water.
They said ear-rings should be removed from Balavva’s body.
Narsaiah pulled them forcibly. The earlobes split open silently.
“The ear-rings are my share, according to custom,” the daughter
said.
“We are incurring the expenditure. They belong to us,” said
Lachavva.
There was exchange of words between the two.
Parusharamulu and Nagarajam argued in favour of their sister,
so Narsaiah had no alternative other than handing over the ear-rings
to her.
The bier was again raised.
Thammali Dappu sounded again. The procession was moving
forward.
Parusharamulu was surprised. Thammali too.
The four bier bearers and the following two women ... there
was astonishment in all their eyes.
The corpse bearing Narsaiah himself turned into a corpse.
That pyre-
The pyre arranged by them with so much labour –
The pyre that was arranged without a wink of sleep last night -
Not known what had happened, there was but ashes there.
It stood as witness to the burnt out pyre before the arrival of the
corpse for which it was arranged.
Narsaiah’s eyes filled with tears as those of Lachavva.
They laid down the bier.
Narsaiah became furious like the sun.
As the streaks of fire flashed in the eyes, his teeth clacked as
though the trees were felled.
“Bastards, will teach them a lesson ...” it was not known what
was there in his mind but Narsaiah turned back ferociously.
Narsaiah was rushing towards Madigas like an earth quake.
 Chitrakannu / 145

Standing under the tamarind tree, he looked around. There was

silence. At a distance, near a hut four or five people were sitting. Like
a tank firing, he moved towards them.
“Rajaalu,” after a pause “I will pay as much you demand but
come fast,” he spoke without bitterness as if he cooled under the
shade of tamarind tree.
They did not utter a word. They called others, joined together
with axes. Madigas felt happy that Narsaiah had yielded.
They were chopping the tamarind wood.
Very briskly, moving like branches swaying to the wind, they
were working with alacrity. The enthusiasm of having climbed the
hill made them work so briskly.
Women sat around the bier.
Though not a woman, Nagarajam sat among the women near
the corpse.
Parusharam went some distance away and sitting under a palm
tree looking blankly in some direction.
Narsaiah and Muthadu were talking something near the Manga
bush.
Within no time, they had arranged the pyre.
All of them gathered at the pyre.
But Muthadu did not go. He seemed to have gone somewhere.
It appeared all Madiga men were there.
The bier was raised.
Balavva was lifted from the bier and was laid on the pyre.
They were arranging pieces of wood over the corpse.
While placing the heavy logs over Balavva, Madigas felt as if
they were taking long suppressed revenge on her.
Parusharamulu walked around the pyre with percolated pot and
lit the pyre with the torch in his left hand. The flames rose up as the
big moustached man sprinkled kerosene on the glowing fire.
For some reason the Madigas were looking excited.
Balavva’s body was burnt to a large extent.
Narsaiah and others went towards the well for taking a bath as
custom demanded.
Vodde Muthadu came smoking a beedi, asked for Narsaiah and
went towards the well.
Savouring the satisfaction of their lives Madigas turned towards
the village.
146 / Astitva

Some of their children came to them crying and shouting.

“What happened,” asked the red turbaned man. Along with him
two others asked the same question.
“Flames ...” the boys could not say other than this, gasping and
crying.
No, to relate what has happened their innocence could not open
their mouths.
The moustached one and others ran frightened. Old men were
agitated.
There was anxiety in the running eyes.
The eyes that had witnessed the huts in front, halted.
The eyes were aghast.
A pyre for each one of them appeared burning.

“Chitrakannu”
1979 Translated by Adi Ramesh and
Jaiwanth Rao
 It’s Not Yet Sunrise

Devaraju Maharaju

“Oh, stupid fellow! Why haven’t you got up yet?” on hearing mother’s
harsh voice Poshigadu opened his eyes. His mother had been asking
him to get up for a long time. He could hear his mother’s voice, the
sound of her filling golem, the earthen vat, the bleating of sheep going
in front of the hut and the cawing of crows at the jaalaati banda. But he
didn’t feel like getting up due to his drowsiness and laziness. Getting
up, driving the cattle to the fields and wandering in the sun for
daylong ... same routine. He was vexed with it. There is neither novelty
nor zeal in his work. That’s why he didn’t want to get up. He had to
get up on hearing the harsh call of his mother who shouted
impatiently. Unable to roll up the worn out mat due to the lack of
skill, he ran towards the dung-hill at the back of the hut. Yenkulu, the
boy of fisherman community with fishing hooks was seen going along
with his father when he was urinating. He wanted to call Yenkulu,
but the animals of dora were seen moving at a distance. Immediately
he smelled danger. He felt a ‘dhak’, beating of drum in his heart.
Turning back all of a sudden, he took some water into his cup of
hands from golem, washed his mouth and eyes in a hurry and entered
the hut. Pushing up his loose shorts, he came out of the hut like a
stone in a catapult with his bludgeon.
“Look here, Poshiga!” on hearing his mother’s call, he stopped
and turned back. His mother brought an aluminium bowl wrapped
148 / Astitva

in an old cloth and said, “Why don’t you take this last night food?”
Not looking at his mother clearly, he took the bowl into his hands
and ran at the same speed. He still felt beating of a drum in his heart.
He feared that his grandfather may thrash him if he was late to work.
Poshaiah, addressed as ‘Poshiga’ by everyone, completed eight
years. He was dark in complexion and lean in physique. He was more
acquainted with forest and animals in the forest than the people in
the village. He was also familiar with the fields. Until a few years
ago, if anybody asked him where his father was, he would say that
his father had gone to God, by turning his eyes strangely. The eyes of
the people who asked the question used to get moist. He seemed to
have understood something in course of time. He would become
serious if anyone asked about his father. When his mother breaks
down at the thoughts of her husband, he feels disturbed. His mother
used to hurl curses at the doras and patels while shedding tears. He
was unable to understand all those things. He was not in a position
to know what harm they had done to his father. Once when he had
asked his mother about it she drew him on to her lap and cried loudly,
cuddling his head. Poshaiah had been frightened.
The beating of drum in his heart intensified. Thinking that he
would be certainly beaten up by his grandfather, he started running
towards the river, breathless. His grandfather was talking to someone
there. He was saluting someone bending very low. He didn’t see the
man ever before whom his grandfather was talking to. He was cute,
round and fair complexioned. He was much younger to his
grandfather. He didn’t understand why his grandfather was saluting
that young man. Grandfather felt his presence. He was frightened
when grandfather had seen him. He may not escape from his angry
rebukes, he shuddered. Perhaps his mind was distracted by some
thoughts, his grandfather didn’t scold. The old man said, “Do you
sleep till the sunrise, you stupid fellow?” and continued, “Look, Even
chinna dora, the young landlord who lives in the city has got up so
early,” showing the chinna dora to Poshaiah. “Now, go at once and
fetch the she-buffaloes of the yellow bungalow people,” ordered the
old man. Poshaiah rushed towards the village. After sometime,
standing in front of the yellow bungalow he said, “Amma, I came
here to drive the she-buffaloes to the fields.” The boy of the yellow
bungalow came out of his house. He was neatly dressed in a school
 It’s Not Yet Sunrise / 149

uniform. His hair was neatly combed. He looked cute in white socks
and black shoes. Poshaiah stood gazing at the boy and desired to
become like him. He wanted to go to school to study ... Though the
boy of the bungalow was younger to him, he should not be called by
his name. He was to be addressed as ‘chinnayya garu’, a little landlord.
“Look, my daddy has given me this to write with,” said the boy
with a naughty smile showing a long thing. Poshigadu did not
understand what it was. “What is that? Won’t you show it to me?” he
asked in a pleading tone.
“No, I won’t give it to you – my mother told me not to give it to
anybody.”
“This is a ball-pen. It has to be pressed in order to write,” said
the boy and wrote something on the wall. Blue lines really appeared
on the wall. Poshaiah’s eyes gleamed.
“What did you write there?”
“I wrote there, four twenty. You are a 420,” the bungalow boy
laughed loudly. Poshaiah did not understand what the boy was
saying. ‘I would have understood if I had gone to school,’ he thought.
He wanted to see that pen once. He stood at a level lower than the
pial on which the boy was standing.
“I want to see it only once ... “ Poshaiah said. “No,” said the
boy tightening his lips, hiding the pen in his hands and nodding his
head sideways. With the prop of a stick Poshaiah got on to the pial to
see the pen closely. The boy, who didn’t expect this kind of response
from Poshaiah, rushed inside the house crying, ‘mummy’.
“What, what happened Seenu?” the landlady came running out
of the house. Seenu pointed at Poshaiah. “Orey! Poshiga are you
intimidating the babu ... It is wrong on your part, isn’t it? ... Come
around to the cattle shed. After providing kudithi to the she-buffaloes
you can take them to the fields.”
“I did not threaten him amma, he said it’s a pen! I just wanted to
look at it, that’s it.”
“You’re an illiterate. Why do you need them? Go, go to the cattle
shed.” Poshaiah felt that the land lady was rebuking him without
giving that impression. ‘Can I get good clothes and pens if I study in
the school?’ with these thoughts Poshigadu went into the cattle shed.
While removing the ropes from the necks of she-buffaloes, the
landlady came and said, “Clean them well at the pond and I’ll give
150 / Astitva

you some money in the evening.” Poshaiah said, ‘Yes.’ She was
followed by Srinivas, who said with a sulky face, “Mummy, I don’t
want go to school”
“Why, what happened?”
“Why didn’t daddy write an essay on children’s year when I
asked him? No, I don’t want to go ...” said the boy again with the
same sulky face ... Poshaiah didn’t understand what was children’s
year and what was an essay. He looked at them surprisingly. The
landlady took Seenu inside the house. Poshigadu went away along
with she-buffaloes through the street. His grandfather was not seen
when he reached the rivulet. He was seen going towards the grazing
land after crossing the river. Poshaiah drove she-buffaloes. He found
his grandfather smoking a cigar sitting on the stone when he reached
the grazing land.
“Are you coming now? Where have you gone? ... you waste fellow
... you son of a whore,” his grandfather scolded him while puffing out
the beedi smoke twice. “Go there and drive the cows back immediately,”
ordered the grandfather. Poshigadu returned in two minutes. He has a
doubt in his mind which did not let him stay calm.
“Thatha–”
“Yes,” smoke emitted from his nostrils and mouth.
“Who was that boy that you were talking to at the stream?”
“You, useless fellow – Will you call him a boy?”
“You will lose your sight. Our chinna dora. Working under him,
you call him a boy, you son of a widow. Is it not a mistake? He is the
younger son of our dora. He stays in the town. They are all well
educated.”
“He is smarter than our dora, isn’t he?” Poshaiah nursed the
illusion and hope that if he were to study well he would also be smart,
attractive and fair complexioned!
“Yes, whose son is he? He is the son of dora. Dora was also very
handsome when he was in his youth. When our pedda dora was of
chinna dora’s age, I was your age. I used to graze the cattle.”
The beating of the drum has again started in the heart of
Poshaiah. ‘Had my grandfather been doing the same work for years?’
“Have you been grazing cattle all these years?”
Grandfather laughed loudly. I’ve taken up the job of grazing
the cattle recently, as I became old. Previously I used to draw water
 It’s Not Yet Sunrise / 151

from the well, plough the land, involved in every kind of harvesting
...” grandfather started recalling his past. Poshaiah was not interested
in that. He kept quiet for some time – with a fear in his voice he said,
“Thatha – I’ll request my mother to send me to school for studies.”
Grandfather’s happiness vanished immediately. He spat with a
loud sound. “Let your life be torn asunder, why did you get such a
nasty idea? Why don’t you work happily with dora? Will you become
a thabedar or thalukdar? Who will repay the loan of two hundred rupees
which your father borrowed from dora, you wastrel?” Grandfather
rebuked Poshiah.
He could understand the intention of grandfather’s words to
some extent. Sorrow was gushing forth from within for being denied
school education. If he goes to school, he can sit happily in the shade.
He can wear nice clothes. He can study ‘A for Apple’. He can play, he
can go home when the last bell rings. Shekhar told him all these things.
Shekhar is the son of the school headmaster. He talks freely with
him. He has been asking to come to school. He gives some slate
pencils. If he goes to school, he can become like Shekar, Chinna dora
or Seenu. Poshaih’s mind is filled with various thoughts.
“Arey – Why are staring like that when the cattle are grazing in
the fields?” When he heard the shout of his grandfather, he became
alert and looked around. By then, the cattle have already entered the
paddy fields. He rushed towards the field. When he was running
through the mud, a thorn pierced into his feet. “Amma”, he yelled in
pain, cried, as could not find anyone in the vicinity, he removed the
thorn himself. Limping, he ran towards the cattle and drove them off
from the field.
When Poshigadu returned to the banda, his grandfather was not
seen anywhere. He was going towards the well at a distance. Poshaiah
understood that it was lunch time for his grandfather. He checked all
the cattle, cleaned his face with the water of the canal. He looked
around. The family members of patel were weaving ropes with fibre
near the well at a distance. Lakshmaih, the toddy tapper was coming
from palm trees. His wife was following him with toddy pots. The
water in the canal was making gurgling sounds. Calves were eating
grass voraciously. Little calves were going after their mother, making
‘amba’ sound. The sun was right on top of Poshaiah’s head. His hunger
intensified. He had been grazing the cattle all alone for the past two
152 / Astitva

days ... his friends Mysaiah and Yadagiri have not come for the last
two days. He felt something was amiss because of their absence. Three
of them used to have lunch with them. Yadagiri was elder to him. He
sings songs. He had been to school for some time. He could write
some of the Telugu alphabet. He used to surprise both Poshaiah and
Mysaiah by writing alphabet with coal on rocks. These days, they
were building the wall of dora which collapsed recently. Poshaiah
had to take care of the cattle all alone as the other two are in wall
work. His grandfather was helping him in the task but he always
chitchatted with the people of nearby fields.
Poshaiah’s hunger intensified further. He opened the food
container that he had brought from home. When he put a few morsels
in his mouth, Maisambai patel yelled “Who is there? Who ... The
cattle have entered the paddy fields ... you boy, where are you?” When
Poshaiah heard the cries he rushed towards the fields holding sticks
in his left hand. The foot which was pierced by thorn prevented him
from running at once. All the same he had to rush, limping. Irritated,
he beat the cattle severely. “Your sister, your mother ... ,” he started
using curse language on the cattle. When the cattle felt the presence
of Poshaiah, they ran calmly to a far-off place. When Poshaiah returned
to the banda again, some crows were eating the food from his food
can. Poshaiah threw his stick. The crows flew away. The food got
spilt over the banda. He thought for a while. His hunger has further
increased. He gathered the food which was spilt on the banda, cleaned
the place and put it in his food container. Poshigadu could not
understand as to how many crows were there around him to snatch
away his food.
He finished eating food but it was not enough to douse his
hunger flames. He filled his stomach with water. Cleaned the box.
He suddenly remembered the work assigned to him by the lady of
the yellow bungalow. He started cleaning the she-buffalos neatly. That
lady would give him some money for doing this work. The cattle of
dora mingle with those of ayyagaru and the yellow bungalow people
while grazing. ‘What could be the relation between dora and the
people of yellow bungalow?’ he wondered. His grandfather ordered
him to graze them and he was simply following his orders. ‘Whatever
it is, I’ll clean the she-buffalos and she will give me money. I can buy
some slate pencils with that money. When Yadagiri returns from the
 It’s Not Yet Sunrise / 153

wall construction work, I can learn the alphabet from him. If I learn
the letters, I may be permitted into the school – I don’t know the
details, let’s ask Yadagiri’ thought Poshaiah.
The sun was going down the hills. A small motor vehicle went
towards the village raising dust all around. ‘Dora might be returning
home,’ thought Poshaiah. He gathered the cattle together and drove
them towards the village. The she-buffalos which were cleaned by
Poshaiah were looking black and neat. He jumped on to one of the
she-buffalos. The she-buffalo started running in panic with the
unexpected happening. “cho-cho-cho,” he tried to pacify it by gently
rubbing below its neck. The she-buffalo became calm. Now, Poshaiah
could remember the refrain of the song which Yadagiri had sung many
days ago. “Nandamaya guruda nandamaya, thandana paatale vindamaya”
(Oh Nandamaya! let’s listen to some melodious songs). He repeated
the same refrain for about ten times because he couldn’t remember
the next lines of the song. So he stopped singing the song. He got
down the she-buffalo as he approached the village.
He left the cattle of dora in his cattle shed, offered them the
grass and kudithi. He did the same thing in the houses of ayyagaru
and those of yellow bungalow. When he was returning home, he
stopped before the yellow bungalow and said in a loud voice.
“Ammagaru ... I have cleaned the she-buffalos.”
Ammagaru came out of her home, looked at him and went inside
by smiling. Fifteen minutes later, she came and gave him twenty paisa.
He didn’t expect ammagaru would give him that much money. He
wanted to jump with ecstasy. Poshigadu did the same when ammagaru
went inside the house. He counted the twenty paisa four times, held
them tightly in his fist and walked towards home. He was jumping
and hopping on his way. A song was coming from the radio of Panchayat
office near Rachabanda when he was on his way to his hut.
“Ee Baaluru Repati Pourulu, Deshapu Vakita Jyothulu” (These
children are tomorrow’s citizens and they are illuminating lights for
the country). Poshaiah listened to many things earlier on radio. But
he couldn’t understand any of them. But he could understand this
song to some extent. He couldn’t resist his happiness felt due to getting
the paisa. He rushed towards his hut.
By the time he reached his hut, it was pitch dark. There was a
tiny lamp flickering in his hut as usual. His mother must have returned
154 / Astitva

from her labour work just then. She was washing her face and hands
at golem. He rushed towards his mother and showed his open fist,
saying “Avva, see here.” His mother’s face was lit a bit and she asked
“What are they, Poshalu?”
“They are paisa.”
“Where did you get them?”
“I cleaned the she-buffalos. Ammagaru gave me this paisa. See
here!” he opened his fist and showed them again. There are four five-
paisa coins. There was placidity and tranquillity on his mother’s face.
“I’m looking for money. I don’t have even a single paisa in my
hand. I didn’t get my labour wages today. Give the paisa to me. I’m
going to the shop. I’ll buy salt and chilli powder with this money.”
Poshalu was startled with these words. The beating of drum started
in his heart again. He wanted to buy slate pencils with that money.
“I’ll buy slate pencils.”
“What’s slate pencils!” his mother was shocked when she heard
those words as they were not expected from the mouth of Poshaiah.
“For your fate, those slate pencils are needed now? Give me ...”
said she in exasperation took away the money forcibly and went out
of the hut. Poshalu felt like crying. He couldn’t know exactly what
his feeling was - grudge, anger or hatred. But his heart was seething.
He wept bitterly for a long time and collapsed by the wooden post.
He continuously blew his nose and wept. When his mother arrived,
he stopped weeping, thinking she might scold him. He slept silently
on the floor. He wept bitterly. He slid into deep sleep. Didn’t know
what time of the night it was.
His mother woke him up, wiped his eyes and took him to the
hearth. Poshaiah could see some grains of rice and porridge in the
metal bowl. But he didn’t feel like eating anything. He was about to
get up but his mother stopped him and made him sit.
“You are my dear one, aren’t you? You are gold, dear son. Why
do you weep like this, bidda? See, how red your eyes have become?
If your father had been alive, would we have experienced these
problems?” she placed warm porridge near his mouth. She fondled
his head. Poshaiah opened his mouth. He felt very hungry. He gulped
two morsels finally.
“Do we have the fortune of studying and ruling the nation? We
are very poor. We don’t even have food to eat. Education is only for
 It’s Not Yet Sunrise / 155

those who have enough food and clothes. Those who live in
bungalows and building can have education. Is it possible for us my
dear son? ... Didn’t your father say that he would support your
education so that you would be a gentleman. But what happened?
Leaving you and me in this hell of a world in despair, that noble soul
disappeared.” She wiped her eyes, and made him drink the gruel.
The warm gruel went inside the stomach and it kept his body warm.
It was his mother who wiped his son’s mouth with water. Poshalu
got up, took the old piece of a worn out mat and spread it on the
floor. He could hear the sound coming from the street play near the
Rachabanda.
“Gal gal mani bhujakeerthulu adaraga,
gal gal mani bhujakeerthulu adaraga”
(With the epaulettes making clanging sounds/ With the
epaulettes making clanging sounds)
A dog was moaning in front of the hut. He could hear the sound
of his mother washing the pots near earthen vat behind the hut.
Poshaiah’s drowsiness disappeared. Darkness all around. There is a
small lamp flickering near the wooden post. Its flame, in red colour.
A strong desire was also burning like the lamp steadily in Poshaiah’s
heart. He decided to go to school. But his mother declared that
education was only for those who could afford food. Why is that
Mysaiah, Yadagiri, grandfather and he were not getting enough food?
Why do they have only huts and tiny lamps? Seenu of yellow
bungalow, china dora who spoke to his grandfather near the stream
appeared again and again before his eyes.
After that, for days Poshigadu has been immersed in thinking
before going to sleep every night. He used to observe the burning lamp
intently. He could muster some sort of courage. He used to wait for the
new dawn. He could understand faintly that the education provided
by life is more important than the education provided in school.
He still couldn’t understand many things. But there are a number
of questions sprouting in him. They are growing with his age.

“Podavani Poddu”
1981 Translated by Palakurthy Dinakar and
Algati Thirupathi Reddy
156 / Astitva

Fireflies

Mukthavaram Parthasarathy

A company employing about 500 people should have a staff canteen,

nobody disputes it. That is the minimum requirement. The prices of
eatables in hotels are already shooting through the roof. It is getting
increasingly difficult to meet the domestic needs with ‘peanuts’ doled
out by the company. Do they have to spend the meagre wages on
family and children or on restaurants?
But, all managements behave in a kind of ‘sick manner’ in certain
matters. Unless demanded, they don’t concede anything. And do you
think, they give away simply if you ask them politely or beg them?
“Your Excellency! We are poor people. Don’t have money. Can’t afford
to spend money on Udipi restaurants. Please sanction a staff canteen!”
Well, such prayers are never answered. Don’t they look weak if they
concede? Don’t the employees shout from the rooftops that they have
the upper hand! Employees must take up the path of agitation for
realisation of every minor demand. And that agitation should appear
to reach a culminating point. Only then, half or a quarter of the
demands will be met. Who lost? Who won? No one is sure ... It’s like
‘The stick is not broken, nor the snake is dead.’ Well, all strikes end
up like this. This is the truth of employee-management relationships.
Our militant union with 500 members had no other alternative
except to tread the path of agitation.
 Fireflies / 157

Firstly, union leaders have submitted a letter to the management

explaining how the employees are facing hardships without a canteen
and also urged for setting up one immediately. But, experienced as
they are, they know pretty well that the management would not
respond instantly and set up a canteen.
Therefore, waited for a month and wrote another letter.
A few months later, an ultimatum was served–
If you fail to start the canteen by so and so date we will ... ..
(What will they do? Well, management too thought the same!)
A week after the ‘so and so date’, they passed a resolution in the
General Body Meeting of the union, ‘since the management is adamant
in meeting their just demand, they will resort to non-cooperation.’
“Where is the question of so called co-operation? Because of the
Working Manuals and Rule Books and Staff Regulations you are
putting in minimum work, not for helping us,” thought management
and threw the resolution in dustbin.
Next step was tool-down-strike.
‘Go ahead’ was the response from Management side.
Demonstrations.
Challenges.
And, lastly, strike.
Arbitrator from the labour department visited and tried to pacify
both sides.
After three days of strike, negotiations commenced. Initially
“Unless you withdraw the strike, no negations,” said the
Management.
“If we once withdraw, it is very difficult to mobilise again,” said
the union.
In such uncertain atmosphere, formalities like negotiations took
place. And something like a settlement was reached. The language of
the settlements is such that Management and union both can claim
upper hand. Make no mistake. Settlements are always like that!
Management expressed its readiness to take a decision in favour
of setting up a canteen. But, before that it has to review the financial
implications, study the economic situation in the country, review the
production goals. Meanwhile, to continue the cordial employee-
management relations, they had to withdraw the strike notice since,
there was an agreement which clearly states, ‘No work, no pay.’ They
158 / Astitva

should not demand for wages for the strike period. However, this
will not be taken into account for deciding the date of increment.
Striking employees will not be charge-sheeted. No punishment for
violating the discipline. Employees will extend full cooperation to
compensate for the production losses accrued during the strike
period.
That was the agreement.
Well, by now, we know that the union is quite militant. Even
thereafter without violating the ‘rules’ they created nuissance to the
management. How a mischievous child pinches the neighbour and
feigns ignorance! Like that officially, management cannot find fault.
Workers are just sullen. Both sides know the real problem. Before the
end of the month, the management has taken a decision about the
canteen. To work out the modalities, union was also invited. Later,
union leaders have boasted to members that without consulting them,
management cannot take any decision. (They are so strong!)
Canteen will be set up on a cooperative basis – that is, employees
will manage the canteen. Place to set up canteen, tables, chairs, stoves,
cooking, serving equipment, cups, saucers, spoons, plates etc. will
be provided by management. That is not all. Half the expenses in
running the canteen will also be met – that is ‘subsidy’ which means,
employees get food at half the cost. However, workers should help
keep the place clean. No agitation programmes should be conducted
there or make it a gossip centre. Management does not take
responsibly for the problems, eventual losses, or any litigation faced
by the ‘management’ (of the canteen).
Management: OK?
Union: OK.
Management and Union (in one voice): We assure you our best
cooperation.
Later, snacks and cool drinks.

2
For the board of directors of the canteen, elections were held. Workers
for the canteen were appointed. After all, they are also workers and
will never disregard the interest of the other workers. Canteen
workers will have free lunch, coffee/tea and monthly wages of Rs.
60.
 Fireflies / 159

Normally, this story should have ended on a happy note there.

But, a year later, boys (canteen workers) started grumbling.
“Sir, I travel quite a distance to reach this place. From Bolaram.
And spend a rupee and half each day only on travel. Sixty is not
enough, sir.”
“You greedy fellow, who asked you to travel such a long distance
form Bolarum for this petty job? Can’t you get a similar job where
you stay?”
“Who will give me a job sir?”
“So, you have admitted that getting work is impossible these
days. No job can give you the wages you wish for. We get much more
than you. Do you think we are happy with what we get?”
“Sir, instead of once a day, we will have meals two times here.”
“Hmm. You can demand anything. Why you alone, all your
family member can have free meals every day. Ok. Is it a canteen or a
choultry? Have you chosen us to exploit? One can aspire for better
amnesties. But that desire should be reasonable. Did we ever ask you
how much you eat or how many snacks you are stealing? Well, no
one knows the number of cups of tea/coffee or milk you gulp down!
And still you are not satisfied! Trying to help out the greedy ones
like you is our big mistake.”
“Sir, Sir!”
“Get out!”
What can the canteen workers do? They too formed a union.
One day, secretary of the union spoke to the Directors of the canteen.
“Sir, we need a pay hike. At least by ten rupees. Make it seventy.”
Directors could not suppress their jeer.
“Is this comrade learning new methods of agitation from us or
teaching us some!”
“Yatha Raja, Thatha Praja.”(Like ruler, like the ruled)
“We can terrorise management. Can these fellows match us?”
“Orey, comrade! We appreciate your militancy. Probably your
demands are justified. You deserve a hike if not just ten but even a
hundred. But, dear little comrade, do you know why we wanted to
have a canteen in the first place? The simple reason is that we cannot
afford to pay the exorbitant rate in the restaurants outside. Because,
the company subsidises, we are able to eat at a nominal cost. Now,
160 / Astitva

let’s say, we fulfill your demands. Imagine the result. The prices in
the canteen will also increase. The purpose of having a canteen is
lost. Therefore, dear brother, don’t be greedy and kill the goose that
lays golden eggs. This is a class society: Exploitation is the norm. No
worker gets a reasonable wage. For workers, employees always appear
to be exploiters ...”
Secretary of the canteen workers’ union can’t read or write, which
means, he is not aware of the history of the international trade union
movement or the astounding victories of the labour struggles. What
he knows is precious little. Those sixty rupees per month are not
sufficient to meet both the ends. Can’t their affluent, decent, educated
bosses afford to raise ten rupees? He is not sure that the problems
will end by that. But, right now that is the immediate need. Being
illiterate, his argument will also be crude.
“Sir, sir, now you pay thirteen paise for tea. With wage hike, it
will be 15 paise. Just two paise more. Snacks will also cost two or
three paise more.”
“Ho ho, listen, this fellow is teaching us economics.”
“We know you are very smart. Quite brilliant. To you, increase
in prices seems a trivial issue. But.”
“Sir, you get so much as wages. Just two paise will not hurt
you.”
“Hurt or not, purpose of the canteen will be defeated.”
“Sir.”
“Look, dear comrade, we may appear to you to be very unkind
and cruel. Probably in your eyes we are exploiters. We are not keen
to continue as the directors of the board and are prepared to submit
resignations here and now. Again elections for the new board will be
held soon and you can negotiate with them. You know very well, we
are all accountable and answerable to our members – that is, the
shareholders. All our actions should be for their benefit. Now, I will
advise you how to go about. Go and submit your demands to our
secretary. To my knowledge, that is the only ray of hope you have in
the present situation.”
That very evening canteen workers’ secretary met employees
union secretary.
He is a veteran of several trade union movements. Fought for
the workers’ rights and did much to their better working conditions
 Fireflies / 161

and emoluments. Everybody dreams of working in this company

these days. But many a struggle he waged, and many a sacrifices he
made to achieve this. His heroic stature, strategies, conviction are
well known. He knows the pulse of his members as much as he knows
the weaknesses of the management.
And with hardly ten members, this ‘petty’ canteen secretary met
union secretary who has a deep understanding of the problems of
the working class.
Union secretary gave a patient hearing and advised thus:
“Dear Comrade, your demands are perfectly justified. I wish
we concede them immediately. But there is a catch. I was elected for
welfare of our members. I cannot and should not do anything that
harms their interests. While discussing the pricing of eatables in the
canteen, the expenditure on the maintenance, your wages and other
things were carefully considered. Our members wanted the tea to be
sold at 10 paise. It was I who insisted that 10 should be 13 paise.
Now, the sales in the canteen have picked up. We have slowly learnt
how to run it. In fact, with these developments, the prices in canteen
should be somewhat reduced, but you are demanding for an increase.
Now, convince me how that is possible?”
“Just two paise, sir.”
“It is not one two or three. Prices should come down, not go
up.”
“Meals twice.”
“Oh, please don’t trouble me further. If there is slightest chance
will I not help you? We are all, after all, basically workers. Do you
think, we can ever dream of exploiting you? What you wish cannot
be given. Not at all possible. Sorry.”
Since the All Mighty, All Powerful Secretary has also declined,
now nobody–yes, nobody is going to answer his prayers–yes, that
much, the canteen secretary has understood.
Next day, after the day’s work, nine workers, and the canteen
secretary held a general body meeting under the streetlights near the
canteen.
“So, dear fellows, even if we threaten to commit mass suicide
right now they are not going to increase a single paisa more.”
“We will go on strike. Without us, they cannot work.”
“Since snacks are so cheap, they eat them many everyday.”
162 / Astitva

“They go on a strike and threaten the management. They don’t

work at all. Throughout the day they loiter in the canteen gorging all
kinds of snacks, tea and coffee.”
“What if they remove us from work and appoint new people?
Where will we go! What will we eat?”
“Don’t be fooling. Were their services terminated when they
went on strike? Nobody sheds a tear if you keep begging.”
“They do not work in the office. Have a leave of three months
every year. Free medicines. Several allowances and advances too. Only
God knows how many other facilities ...”
“No point in getting jealous.”
“Yes. Sixty Rupees is the highest wages these generous lords
can offer us. And not a rupee more.”
“They do not care if we go on strike. I will not join.”
“You bastard! While we plunge into the battle you want to betray!
We will break your legs.”
“I too feel like staying away. But any way, I will join.”
“Scoundrel, Do you think are you doing us any favour?”
Canteen workers submitted a strike notice. And the board of
workers chuckled. Notice is one thing and actually striking work is
another. The workers were scared. Pleaded with the bosses once again.
Begged for mercy. Fell at their feet.
“Don’t back out on the Notice, Comrade. That is not the
revolutionary spirit. March Ahead. Jeena hai tho marna seeakho, khadam
khadam par ladna seekho” (If you want to stay alive, learn how to die,
learn how to fight at every step) taunted the directors.
With fear of defeat, divisions among themselves, with several
unknown doubts – finally they struck work. It was a total strike.
Canteen doors were not opened. Name of the workers union
was inscribed on a piece of cloth in red ink with the name of the
union and displayed across the doorway. That was their banner. Poor
fellows! How can they get the wherewithal for colorful banners,
loudspeakers, badges, pamphlets etc. for their do or die agitation?
“Management, down down!”
“Fulfill our just demands,” were the slogans shouted.
But, they are scared of threatening the bosses. That is employees’
prerogative. Their union is strong. Can issue ultimatums. With their
slogans, entire company premises resound. Walls shake. Big bourgeois
 Fireflies / 163

top brass of the company sitting in the air-conditioned board room

can feel the heat! Employees’ secretary spits fire.
Employees had a hearty laugh at the workers.
Workers know they are petty fellows. Their demands are petty.
For a paltry ten rupee hike. Employees did not have any problem.
What if the canteen is closed!
Udipi and Irani Restaurants invited them with open hands.
“Good. We were bored with that canteen grub. Now we can
have things of our choice here.”
In one year since the canteen was set up, Udipi and Irani hotels
lost their old patrons. Now, this is the time to make up. “We are at
your service, sirs. We made special arrangements for you. We changed
interior decoration and seating. You don’t have to pay everyday. Open
an account. Pay once on salary day.”
What went on in the minds of the canteen workers? Didn’t they
want to break the heads of the Udipi and Irani restaurant owners?
Well, ten urchins! What can they do? May be employees and restaurant
owners together are playing a practical joke on them. May be this
nightmare will pass soon! May be this is a drama. May be both of
them are sucking their blood. The anger of ten skinny, hungry fellows
is of no consequence. A few thrifty employees who did not want to
waste money on Udipi and Irani eateries opened the gates of the
canteen, went inside and ate the lunch they brought from home.
Strikers could not put up with this insult. Next day ...
“Sir. Please don’t open the canteen gate.”
Employees laughed.
“We do what we want. Who are you to dictate? Come try to
stop!”
Strikers were treated like howling street dogs. They were
shouted at, abused, insulted and mocked.
“Ungrateful bastards.”
Canteen workers secretary is sure of one thing. Let them do what
they wish. The one and only person who can be of help is Employees
Union secretary. Appeal to him once more. The champion of the
working class is the last straw.
“Sorry gentleman. Our secretary is getting ready to fly to
Bombay (Management bears all expenses) to discuss with the
Managing Director regarding the bi-partite negotiations. In the office
room two assistants are helping with the relevant files.
164 / Astitva

“Not now, let him see me later.”

“Sir, we are on strike. Can’t wait. Please talk to us now. Right
now!” strikers begged.
Secretary could not but help smiling at their naiveté.
“Sorry. I do not mean to belittle your agitation. But, somehow
the word ‘strike’ on your tongue sounds funny,” said secretary
apologetically.
“Sir Sir, please raise our wages. If not by ten, at least eight.”
“What a shame. Don’t backtrack on your demands. Continue
the agitation for another four or five days. Haven’t you seen how
long we carried on our protest actions? How have we risked our jobs
and our security? How may sacrifices we have made? What little we
get now is the cumulative result of our collective sacrifices. Agitations
are not picnics. You have to learn much. Nobody gives what you
demand on a silver platter.
“Our secretary will be back in a couple of days. Let’s review the
position at that time,” advised the assistant secretary.
“Sir, we are going hungry. It is the third day today”.
“But, if you want to eat, you have to cook. Who stopped from
preparing food? Probably, now, it is dawning on you. Strike creates
problems not only for the managements. Workers also have to suffer
much”.
“Sir, this is a small matter for you. Be kind to us. Nothing much
to think about. We are not as experienced as you. Nor are we as strong.
You are in hundreds. We are barely ten. We are petty workers, laborers.
Treat us as your children. Raise one paisa on chai and coffee. Your
dividend may come down slightly. And we get a ten rupee hike.
“Oh, God why do you drag me into these silly non-issues?”
Secretary appeared vexed and looked at his assistants peevishly.
“Shall I prepare for talks or waste time about this ten rupees
and a few paise?”
“Now, enough is enough. Please leave,” secretary cannot spare
even a minute more. Anyway what will he do? Go and talk to
Directors.
“No. No. Don’t mix up things. Canteen is their job. I will not
interfere in their activity. I respect whatever decision they take. Do
you know, even I voted for them. In a democracy, people’s
 Fireflies / 165

representatives are answerable to the electorate. That is, they are

answerable to us.
“Sir, they don’t listen to us.”
“Probably, members do not want the rates to be increased.
Though, we are sympathetic to your demands, the interests of
hundreds of shareholders of our canteen are paramount. Nothing
shall be done against them.
“This is a cooperative canteen. Employees are the shareholders.
They expect dividend. Inexpensive snacks. It is to this end we fought
all along. And if prices of the eatables are increased, the purpose of
the struggle is defeated. And they question me, “Is it for this that we
sacrificed? That we went on strike and lost our wages?” Therefore, I
repeat that your demands are untenable. Moreover, to take any
decision regarding price hike, a shareholders meeting has to be held.
It has to be discussed threadbare. Majority should agree for the hike.
And only then any favourable decision is possible” explained
secretary.
Canteen secretary was upset. He got very angry. For the present,
he chose to be silent.
‘We are just ten helpless, hapless boys, and you can deal with us
as you wish!’ was all he thought.
Union secretary flew to Bombay. Canteen Workers strike
continued. Employees heckled at them.
“Out of our way-” snared the employees. Strikers did not move.
Did not budge.
Not only that. They defiantly shouted back.
“We will not move!”
What an insolence!
Their torn cloth ‘banner’ was ripped off by a Director.
“Dadagiri band karo” (Stop your bulldozing) shouted a worker.
He heard this slogan from the employees.
Employees felt offended.
Beggars. Idiots. Urchins. How dare you raise your voice against
us!
A worker was dragged away by the hair. With decent salaries,
good food and inexpensive snacks in the canteen, employees were
well-fed. Employees dragging the famished, skinny and emaciated
bodies do not deserve a special mention here. The youngest of the
166 / Astitva

strikers, a lad, cried in pain, others held back their tears. Their faces
turned red in humiliation, defeat and futile rage. But, they appear to
be shameless fellows. They shouted once again. “Dadagiri band karo”.
Employees thrashed them black and blue. And even in the rain
of blows, the slogans did not stop. Finally the ‘miscreants’ were evicted
from the premises.
“Bastards, you should be starved to death. With decent wages,
with our free food, you put on weight like a pahelwan. If you try to
enter our company’s premises again, we will break your heads. We
will pull off your tongues. We will skin you. We will pluck your hair.
Crush your bones. See, by tomorrow, we will get new workers for
ten rupees less than what we paid you. Millions are jobless in this
country. And willing to accept the job on any terms ...”
Finally miscreants left the scene. Some, who were hurt, limped
with pain. One fellow collected a broken tooth. Blood was flowing
though another’s nose. Right hand of one was probably twisted so
much that he could eat with that one. Self styled secretary was left
with a broken head. May be his eardrum was injured.
The union secretary who returned from Bombay came to know
of the matter.
“Did you thrash them?”
“No comrade. Do we need to thrash them! Just raised our hands.
They were scared and ran way. Cowards. Comrade, they have taken
much lenience. And we thought this is the limit. Such unruly elements
should be kept under check. We did not want to trouble you further.
Paid them the arrears and sent them off. Good riddance! New workers
were appointed and the canteen is running smoothly. The new boys
are nice and obedient. This year our dividend will increase by another
five per cent.”
Since the prices were not hiked or the dividend increased, share
holders were very much pleased. But the same thing cannot be said
of the secretary who is well aware of the history of the trade union
movement, and dialectical materialism. Preaching social justice is one
thing and practicing the same is another. The secretary knows this
well.
But knowledge that cannot be practiced is of no use. The militant
employees, who could shake the powerful, big bourgeois with their
struggles, have kicked the striking canteen workers out of sight.
 Fireflies / 167

“Hamse jo thakrayega
Mitti mein mil jayega”
(One who opposes our will, will perish)
For the present, it was their slogan.

“Minugurulu”
1981 Translated by the author
168 / Astitva

The Stud Bull

Uppala Narasimham

It is time when mothers come home from work to breastfeed their

infants. That is, when shadows grow.
Dogs, with their flanks moving and tongues dangling, were
sleeping in cool shades.
The village was silent as if all its inhabitants had been dragged
away to some place. Nearly all the doors of huts and houses were
shut. Streets looked deserted.
Under an eave here and there, old people were caressing children
on their laps and making children play. They were narrating stories
of kings and demons. Those with poor vision and lacked energy were
sitting at the same spot for hours together and cursing their ‘damned’
lives.
Among the ruined walls three or four kids were secretly smoking
beedies.
Balamma, Pentamma and Narsamma, in a run like walk, were
coming back from kalupu in paddy fields to the village to feed their
children.
The sari hems slotted in the sari-folds at waist were still like
that. Mud and soil stuck to the edges of saris was not yet removed.
Mud on the legs and hands was dried up.
 The Stud Bull / 169

Their breasts were turning heavy. They were heaving for the
speed of their walking. ‘How much the infants may have been crying
for milk! Only a mouthful of milk given at the break for gruel
(afternoon). Must have been digested long back. Throats must have
dried up ... ’ they were thinking in themselves and walking.
If they were slow in their walk and feeding their children it might
be late in joining back to work, then scolding from the Patel and
Patelamma would be sure. That fear and hurry are clearly seen in their
faces. Moreover, the allotted work has to be completed by them only.
The thought that they have to thus go back soon was making them
walk fast. Patelamma spat on a rock and ordered that they should
return before the spittle is dried. That is making their steps much
faster.
On entering the village, the three went their different ways and
walked towards their respective homes.
Balamma entered the yard and the one year old child, playing
in the lap of nine year old daughter Eshwaramma, recognized mother
and started hurrying for milk.
Seeing the child’s hurry mother’s heart was filled with anguish.
She said, “My child, I am coming. Are you hungry my son? Oh, my
son’s throat must have dried up.” Balamma was feeling troubled. She
washed her feet and hands at the golem, in which water was kept for
cattle to drink. Sprinkling some water on her face, wiping it with the
pallu untied from the waist, took the child from the lap of the eldest
daughter and kissed him affectionately four or five times.
That motherly love, passion and the love for offspring is
somehow known to the infant and amidst all the crying his face
glowed with a smile like a flower. He groped for the breast.
Eswaramma stood sulking and looked at her mother.
Balamma untied the knot of the blouse, exposed the right breast,
wiped it with wet hand, squirted milk a couple of times onto the
ground and then gave it to the infant’s mouth.
The little one took it with hunger.
Balamma was stroking the child’s hair on the head and asked
the daughter “Where did father go?”
“He said, I will go to Patel’s house with sieves and winnowing
baskets and went away,” she answered cheerlessly.
Balamma looked for other children. No one was there. Must
have gone to play, she thought and continued feeding.
170 / Astitva

Eshwaramma has also run away to play for a while.

Removing the right breast Balamma was giving the left one and
was also looking at the cow in the shed that was ready to lay a calf.
The white cow reached full term of pregnancy, was looking healthy
with brilliant eyes.
‘The cow also must be feeding her calf with equal passion,’ she
thought a moment later.
‘After how much of careful rearing the little calf has turned into
such a big cow?’ thoughts of the trouble they took for looking after
the cow flitted down Balamma’s memory lane.
That was the first issue for the cow. While thinking about it
Balamma’s heart pined with pain for a moment. It was taken over by
love towards the cow.
The little one slid into sleep even while suckling.
In the front yard under the shadow of eaves, she made the
toddler sleep on a gunny sack. Balamma tied up her blouse. She
arranged nicely the scattered bamboos, ribs of date palm leaves and
bamboo slits.
She entered the hut, arranged all the material scattered around
the hearth and swept all the trash towards it. She put some pulusu
into the rice left by children in the brass plate. Came out of the hut,
ate it, washed the plate, kept it inside, closed the door and shouted
“Hey! Pilla!”
For a couple of moments, there was no answer. Later, laughing
and cavorting Eshwaramma came running.
“Little brother is sleeping, have a look. Don’t go anywhere. Play
here only. Father would be back. Yenkatesanna would come. If you
are hungry, there is rice on the utti. Eat it. Don’t beat the kids, what
am I saying? I am going ...” so saying recommending all tasks,
Balamma moved.
Eshwaramma nodded her head saying “alright” once the mother
was away. She called all her friends under the neem tree and started
playing with them. That was the game of pot shards.
Once Balamma entered the street, a bull was coming in the
opposite direction, bellowing.
It was munching the branch of a red gram plant.
‘Whose crop it may have spoiled, now? It has come as a plague
into the village. It has started ruining others’ crops. When will it die?
When will the scourge be over?’
 The Stud Bull / 171

Balamma was walking sideways, frightened.

The bull was heading towards thegadi.
Even if that bull was moving among a hundred or two hundred
cattle, it could be recognized very easily. It is a bull as tall as a man. It
is healthy, as well as strong. Its looks are fierce. It has a wide forehead
with a spot in wheat color wide as a palm on the face. Its hump is tall,
back is wide enough for two to sit. Its lower limbs are like molten
iron. Long tail with long black hair at its end, black hooves at the end
of legs; it would disappear beyond one’s range of eyesight, once it
starts running. It is so alert that it does not allow any fly or mosquito
to land upon it.
Many in the village call it the Stud Bull.
In their opinion, the offspring sired by it are of good quality.
They would work more and yield more milk if female. They would
also be good to look at.
All the day the bull goes around unheeded, keeps looking at
cows, eats the crop that it finds attractive, putting its tongue in the
nostrils all the while and keeps ruminating happily. If a cow of its
choice is seen, it makes a sound and that would be audible over half
the village.
Other cows and bulls would scamper away on seeing this bull.
They would be scared even to graze. People too, would be afraid to
walk by it.
“Gold, it is a bull like gold. Whatever is the secret of its birth,
we cannot get such a bull even if we are ready to give gold. There is
none who can find fault with it,” some of the villagers keep saying
when they look at that bull.
On no day the bull was put under yolk. Never drew a cart. It
does not even know what is hauling weights. It does not know the
goad. Eats well, sleeps in shadow and goes around without care; that
is its work.
The owner of the bull feels proud when he looks at it. With
boundless pride, he twirls his moustaches. He tells in every village
that it brought luck to him. He looks after it with utmost care.
But whose bull is it?
It belongs to an erstwhile Deshmukh, one who made people
shudder, now the highly powerful Sarpanch. His name is Pratapa
Reddy Dora. This bull is his!
172 / Astitva

Pratapa Reddy dora’s appearance resembles that of a tiger. A

tall man he is. A big bundle-like moustache adds more seriousness to
his burly physique. His eyes are red like embers of tamarind wood
(no exaggeration). Thick eyebrows, big cup like ears, hair all over
them creating a feeling of oddity. His body is full of hair.
Wearing the sandals made by Madiga Balayya as free service
which make queer sounds, with four golden rings on the hand with
Kavali Mutyalu on one side and Wastad Mohammad Pahsa on the
other, dora goes round the entire village once in a day.
When dora goes thus for a walk, all the women folk in the streets
get back into their homes. Sometimes children pass urine due to fear.
When old people come across him, they bend down folding their
palms together. They step aside. If anyone comes on a bicycle from
the opposite direction, he has to get down and take to another route.
When dora comes neither cattle nor cart should be driven. Maize or
any other grain must not be spread in front yards. Children should
not sit to relieve themselves. Many such restrictions and rules are
there.
The gadi that was built during the times of Pratapa Reddy’s
grandfather is still there. Deshmukh Mutyam Reddy, in those days,
got a gadi constructed which is unlike any structure around in the
area. The gadi was erected for the sake of which many lives were
ruined. People know that there is no injustice that has not taken place
in that gadi, that it is the heaven for the doras, and hell for the poor.
Many are aware that the gadi used to taste the blood of farmers every
day. Now, Pratapa Reddy is living in that same gadi.
Even now, the same tradition is continuing almost in the same
way. Now, the rampart of the gadi’s south side is ruined a little. Even
near the main entrance the wall has collapsed a little. The tops of the
rampart have come down. Trees and other greenery have died off.
The water pond has dried up too.
The lime-built mud roof house in the gadi is good enough. Even
though the wall is peeling off at some places and moss has started
growing due to rains and humidity, the remains of earlier grandeur
are still clearly visible. The office chairs, tables and adornments and
the platforms are all still intact.
Pratapa Reddy dora has more than two hundred cattle. Some
more are there at his in-law’s place Mylaram. The four big sheds in
the gadi are not sufficient for the cattle.
 The Stud Bull / 173

Though land ceiling has been in force for the last few years, he
holds more than five hundred acres of land. All the good irrigation
wells around the village are his only. There are lands under the tank.
He had usurped those lands because they were very next to his lands;
other illegally occupied lands are many more. All the fertile lands on
the outskirts of the village are now owned by Pratapa Reddy only.
Though the government had banned bonded labor, people of
every caste are there with him in tens doing bonded labor.
Though the government announced from the top that lending
money for interest without license is illegal, he had been continuously
indulging in the trade for decades. He amassed wealth beyond
accounts.
When anybody says that there is income tax and property tax in
this country, he laughs in peals of laughter.
Law, act and rule of the village, all are in his hands. To keep the
higher ups in his grip, he sends ghee pots and masuri rice to the
Tahsildar through his bonded laborers. To the police Sub Inspector
and the SP he sends chicken, lamb and illicit liquor brewed on the
sly. To the other officers visiting the village, he hosts parties. He
arranges shows by beautiful ladies.
For Pratapa Reddy, all the women belonging to others are equal
to his keeps. If there is a woman who is good looking and healthy,
she has to fall on dora’s feet. Later, she has to go to his bedroom too.
If anyone protests saying all this injustice, his unlicensed twelve
bore gun would roar. Later, there wouldn’t be any case because no
one dares to file a case against him. Even if someone does, that he
would be finished.
When the matters are continuing like Ram’s kingdom and
Bharata’s crowning, how can there be any obstacle to him? There is
none.
How can there be any opposition to the stud bull belonging to
the dora? There is none.
Just like how people are afraid of Pratapa Reddy, they are equally
afraid of his stud bull too. Its existence has grown thus. Any night or
day if it eats of the crops, there is no scope of complaint. Even if the
hay stacks are made empty by the bull, no word has to be uttered. If
it tramples the border plants badly, same is the case. If it eats off and
tramples the grass grown on the land borders too, no complaints.
174 / Astitva

If anyone goes near it and tries to beat with a stick, it hits the
ground with hooves and lunges forward to thrust with its horns. It
could simply lift a person and drop him down. So, no one goes near
the bull. The bull that goes round unchallenged and has turned into
a nightmare has now entered the gadi. With the sound it made before
doing so, two workers came running to it.
At that time, basket maker Poshayya was coming out of the place
with remaining winnowing baskets and other goods. The stud bull
appeared in front. On looking at it, he moved aside and started for
home after it passed.
Poshayya came home and gave some fodder to the cow and then
spread some dry soil where it was slushy. He washed his feet and
hands and sat splitting bamboo till dusk.
Farmers and laborers were coming home with loads on their
heads. With the sound of wheels at the water wells, that of cattle at
the sheds, shouting and hooting, it was all noisy. There was more
noise at the toddy shop.
Once Balamma came back from the labor work and reached
home, Balayya started for toddy shop.
Eshwaramma was cleaning pots. Mallesha, younger to
Eshwaramma was making the younger one play. Though vexed, elder
boy Venaktesu was not home. Balamma, on arrival, washed her feet
and hands, took the toddler into the lap to breast feed. She sat for a
while like that and rested.
Later, she swept in the front and inside of the hut and lit lamps.
Then she started cooking food. Eshwaramma was assisting her
mother.
The little one after suckling was playing with Mallesha.
Exactly after a week ...
Myadari Poshayya’s cow laid a calf. For the entire family, there
was boundless mirth. Since the delivery happened without any
hitches, Balamma was very happy. We need not describe the children’s
exhilaration. They were very happy.
The male calf that is born is cute to look at. Black patches near
the hooves and the knees were adding to the beauty. There was a
wheat complexion mark on the face. Its body was tender and eyes
were active.
 The Stud Bull / 175

Poshayya removed turban, tucked up the dhoti and cleaned up

the cow and calf with warm water. He did all the necessary procedures
to the cow. He gave it the leaves and medicines customarily given
after delivery.
The entire family sat watching the cow. Children were thinking
about the name to be chosen for the calf. Venkateshu was going around
it and enjoying the touch of its tender body. There was untold
happiness in the boy’s eyes.
Soon after birth, the calf started running around the yard. That
its legs would pain Poshayya was trying to stop it. But it would slip
off and was running around. Every time it ran thus, the kids were
shouting, having fun by clapping and enjoying. Because of that racket
the calf was getting out of control, thought Poshayya. He was silencing
his children. They kept quiet for a while and started playing with
calf again.
The cow was watching the swiftness of its calf with pride. Its
looks were following the calf wherever it was going. It was watching
every move of the calf.
The calf would run around, come back to its mother and once
the touch of her tongue is experienced it would run again.
“Male calf is born in the first issue. There would be all welfare
at home” Balamma’s heart was rejoicing. Even though busy with work,
her mind was only on the cow and its calf.
Children were feeling happy that they can eat junnu, the curdled
milk. They were already fighting over the size of their share.
Poshayya was feeling happy inside that if daily some milk is
sold, the money would come handy for any needs. That pride,
enthusiasm and the confidence were seen clearly on his face.
“It would be better if there are cattle and calves in the forecourt.
They would come handy for any eventuality” Poshayya thought.
Selling winnowing baskets, bamboo screens and other goods is
not giving enough income to run the household. Family was growing
gradually. Income is decreasing. It would have been better if some
more income is there” while he was thus thinking, the cow got
pregnant and gave a calf and Poshayya was pacified a little.
The news of Poshayya’s cow laying a calf was known all around
the village. Some people came to visit it. Some more were on the
way.
176 / Astitva

Many people expressed happiness for Poshayya’s luck. Some

people gave advices. Some people gave a few hints.
Listening to the words of all, Poshayya did everything needed
to be done.
The matter of Poshayya’s cow came to be known to dora through
his men. On listening to the news, Pratapa Reddy had a smile on his
face.
That night Balamma, Poshayya and the children made a bonfire
near the cattle shed. They kept on seeing the cow and calf in that
light. They watched their love and affection, sat, spent some time in
smiles and then went into the hut to sleep.
Children ate junnu for three days in a row fighting for a larger
share. Balamma distributed the milk to many in the street. She sent
some to the relatives in the next village.
Children, competing with each other, started feeding the cow
and the serving the calf. They played with the calf for long.
There was more work for all in the family after the cow’s delivery.
Activity increased. For a week, Poshayya supplied two and a half
liters of milk to Golla Mallayya. He used to retain some for the family.
Time was passing very well. He took some money from Mallaya and
utilized it for his expenditure. Somehow a satisfaction filled his heart.
A week later on one morning ...
With his checks lungi and lalchi, surma in the eyes, taveez to the
upper arm and in the neck, with a small knife tucked in the waist,
dora’s henchman Ustad Mohd Pasha was standing before Poshayya’s
hut.
Thinking that he had come for some bamboo products, Poshayya
called him into the hut. Since he did not enter even after calling two
or three times, Poshayya himself came out.
“What is the matter Pasha Bhai?” he asked.
Looking at Poshayya for a couple of seconds,
“Dora asked me to bring your calf ...” Pashas told bluntly and
straight.
Poshayya did not get the point and was in wonder.
“Why?” he asked.
Balamma, leaving work at hand, came out and listened to the
words. Children were sitting under the neem tree in sun.
The cock with its chicks, started towards the refuse heap making
sound “Kokkokko ...”
 The Stud Bull / 177

“He asked me to bring it, that’s all! What should I say if you ask
why?” he asked a counter question.
“I should know why he asked the calf to be driven there, isn’t it
Pasha Bhai?” Poshayya asked calmly.
“You will come to know on coming to the gadi. Come” said
Pasha.
“Why come to gadi? Only if you tell what mistake we committed
... . After telling you may perhaps drive the calf there, but tell”
Poshayya asked with the curiosity to know the matter.
Pasha after hesitating for couple of seconds said “It appears
dora’s stud bull crossed your cow. The calf that is born to the stud
bull should not be with you it looks. It belongs to dora they say. That
is why Dora asked me to bring it.”
On listening this, it was like stone falling on Poshayya’s heart.
His face turned pale. Many feelings appeared in that face. In a moment
the face became lusterless.
What was Balamma listening? She was unable to understand.
Children did not get the matter at all.
That dora’s eyes fell on his cow and he wants the calf to be
brought to him, Poshayya could faintly see what was going to happen.
That is all! It was like his heart stopped functioning. Blood in
the vessels appeared like evaporated in a moment. He felt as if the
light before his eyes was removed by someone. He felt as if all his
five sense organs stopped working. He was not aware what he was
thinking. His mind was full of burden. All void ... . darkness. With
mouth wide open, he was gazing at Pasha without blinking. After
two seconds passed, his heart became quiet. He could come back
into this world. But the impending dangerous occurrences were seen
in Pasha’s eyes. Again the severity, turmoil, fear reached their peaks.
To ward off the danger, Poshayya fell on the feet of Pasha.
“Pasha bhai, I shall bow to your feet. I shall be your servant.
Please don’t do that. You may beat me physically but please don’t
take away my livelihood. Unable to meet both the ends, unable to
run the household, fasting many a time, we reared that cow. We
nurtured and protected as if it was a flower. How is it if you now say,
you would take it? You only tell? Please don’t cast your looks on us.
I shall bow to your feet” he cried.
178 / Astitva

Pasha’s heart never melt – moreover, the hatred and anger

increased.
A hope that he would get an inaam if he completes the task given
by Pratapa Reddy dora, was lurking in the corners of his heart.
Satisfying him was his lone duty, Pasha thought in his heart. Day by
day, a curiosity, urge, and hurry to gain the appreciation from Pratapa
Reddy dora were growing in his mind. There was also the illusion
that he would gain something with that. That enthusiasm was causing
impatience and anger towards the others.
He looked at basket maker Poshayya for a moment ...
immediately, the task given by doravaru, his orders, and also his figure
flashed in his mind. With that the layer of sympathy settling in the
mind was shattered. Toddy, arrack, chicken and lamb meat also moved
in his thoughts. With the memory of ‘toddy, arrack and meat’ fervor
in the body enhanced. Loyalty to the lord welled up in his heart.
Duty appeared before him. Cruelty crept into the eyes.
Myadari Poshayya said with hoarse voice and tears in his eyes
“Pasha bhai, please don’t take away my bull. I shall prostrate to you.
I shall be obliged to you if you leave it”
He was expressing all his anguish through words.
Pasha was not listening any of that. His body was burning. Is
this Poshigadu such a great person to order him? He felt irritated.
Anger started. Looking with disdain, thinking who the hell he is and
what is his position, he made faces.
Like a breached tank, Balamma was overwhelmed with grief.
Tears welled up in her eyes. Nose turned weighty.
Children did not understand any of this. Venkateshu came and
stood by his father and stood. Other kids were looking from where
they were sitting.
Pasha was not heeding to any of this and as if unaware of
Poshayya’s crying, Balamma’s misery and the state of the children, he
was trying to break free from Poshayya’s grip who was falling on his
feet,
“I don’t know all that ... Dora asked me to get it. I shall do that.
If anything, come to Dora and talk with him. Then it would either be
his wish, or yours. If I don’t act on Dora’s words I shall be taken to
task! He said calmly only.
 The Stud Bull / 179

After those words Poshayya caught hold of Pasha’s feet more

tightly. Fear that if he loosens the grip he would drive the calf away
took over him. Balamma kept the basket in hand in the house and
came and stood next to her husband. Children also came there and
stood.
When the situation changed thus the anger in pasha touched its
peak.
“Am I not telling you ... , you fellow, go away,” he pushed
Poshayya with great force.
Poshayya fell at a distance with that shove.
Pasha took a step towards the cow.
Balamma and children were holding poshayya. In that condition
also Poshayya was trying to reach Pasha even along with wife and
kids.
Looking at a stranger coming towards it the cow sensed danger
and tried to use its horns. But since it was tied up, it could not reach
Pasha. The rope in the neck held it back. Even then it was trying to
use its horns but in vain. Poshayya once again gaining grip of Pasha,
said.
“Listen to my word, Pasha bhai – I shall be extremely grateful to
you.” He was saying so many things. Pasha was not listening any of
them.
Afraid, the calf lifted its tail, and was looking at Pasha. If Pasha
moves it is ready to run away. Alertness and activeness were visible
in its eyes.
Barring the way for Pasha, Balamma went and stood between
the two. His anger touching unbearable limits, he pushed Balamma
aside, and caught hold of the rope tied to the calf. It all happened in
a flash.
The calf tried to run. But since the rope was with Pasha, it could
not go far. It was struggling. Cow in its own place was trying to gore.
It was showing concern for its calf and trying to defend it.
Balamma even while crying was trying hard to take the rope
from Pasha’s hand. Poshayya was holding Pasha’s feet making it
impossible for him to move. Except Venkateshu all the children were
crying. With that noise and cries all people from around gathered
there. Since Pasha the henchman of dora was there no one came
forward. They all stood like spectators. Pasha, pushing Balamma with
hands and Poshayya with feet was trying to take the calf by any means.
180 / Astitva

Looking at all that, Venkateshu’s mind was agitated. Something

flashed in his mind. Anger and vengeance crept in his eyes. That’s all.
He picked up a stone and hurled it onto Pasha. The stone missed
Pasha in hair’s breadth and fell down at a distance. While Venkateshu
was readying to hurl another stone “Arey ...” so saying Pasha tried to
run towards Venkateshu.
With the fear that he would be caught Venkateshu dropped the
stones in hand and took to heels.
With that Pasha’s grit grew further. Anger touched the pinnacle.
Pushing Balamma and Poshayya with hands and feet, shouting
obscenities he was trying to pull the calf away. The calf trying to get
freed from Pasha’s hands was holding its feet firm on the ground and
denied to move.
Balamma and Poshayya were in their own efforts.
Looking at the whole situation, the cow was trying to break loose
from the rope in the neck. It was hissing and hitting the ground with
hooves as it was trying to attack Pasha. It was collecting all the strength
to defend its offspring.
Thus, the situation was tense.
Children crying on one side, cow hissing on the other, calf’s
noise, words of Balamma and Poshayya, Pasha’s abuses, and the noise
of spectators in the backdrop ...
At the same time, with a doubt that such a thing would happen,
Pratapa Reddy dora came to the hut of the basket maker Poshayya
along with two or three of his followers and the unlicensed twelve
bore gun on his shoulder.
Pasha gained an elephant’s strength by just looking at the dora.
He felt he has a chance to show what he is and what he is capable of.
To show his fierce image, he started pushing Balamma and Poshayya
again and again.
Immediately on seeing Pratapa Reddy, Poshayya hurried to him,
fell on his feet and started crying loudly. Balamma was not giving up
the grip on Pasha’s hands and was struggling with him. Because of
pulling the rope her hands turned red due to friction. Skin was cut
and a little blood was showing up. Because of the shoving of pasha
her shoulder hit the wall again and again and was bruised.
Children holding the sari of their mother were weeping very
piteously. Balamma was not listening to their cries. Pasha was also
 The Stud Bull / 181

not heeding them. He has his own task cut out for him. Pratapa Reddy
pushed Poshayya, away from his feet with the help of the twelve
bore gun barrel ... even while he was crying hoarse.
“What? What is the matter? he asked quietly only.
Poshayya beating his own chest and with tears in his eyes and
shaking voice, said “Don’t take away my calf, Dora, I shall fall on
your feet. I would be your slave. If you take the calf, the cow would
be heartbroken and die. Don’t take the cow away from us like that.
Don’t deprive us of our livelihood Dora ... your servant I am ... one
who ate your gruel and Gatka. Don’t cause injustice to me.” He was
crying like a child and kneeling on the knees with deference to Pratapa
Reddy joining both his palms together.
Poshayya’s lament sounded like unneeded wailing ... he felt
irritated for falling on the feet of Dora. Poshayya appeared like a
worm to him. He felt disgust. His forehead was revealing all those
things. Even then, “Is this calf born to my stud bull or not?” he asked
calmly.
Poshayya for a moment did not know what to say. Later “Who
knows Dora, I shall fall at your feet. Among all the cattle, which bull
crossed, no one knows. Your servant I am, be kind to us ...” he wanted
to tell something else.
But dora felt angry at once. Shifting the gun into another hand,
“What you, basket weaving son of a whore, you say my words
are false?” Pratapa Reddy kicked Poshayya in the stomach calling
obscenities.
Poshayya fell down saying “Amma!” Balamma hitting and
punching, left Pasha’s hands and the rope, came running to her
husband and started rubbing in the stomach even while crying.
Children gathered around the father.
Pasha was pulling the calf forward by the rope.
Poshayya even in that weakness, mustering all his strength, went
to stop Pasha after pushing wife and children aside.
The cow was still struggling. The ground beneath its hooves
was getting loose.
Poshayya encircled Pasha’s legs, with his hands. Balamma was
wailing beating her head. Children were crying. Some people in the
street were watching like spectators. Many moved away from there
on the arrival of Pratapa Reddy. Except the old ladies, all the women
went into their homes.
182 / Astitva

“Amba” the calf was refusing to move holding the ground firm
with its hooves. With slight slip in Pasha’s grip, it was moving a step
behind.
Pratapa Reddy felt as if he was going mad. He took two steps
“What do you think?” he moved Poshayya from his feet using
the gun barrel.
“Nothing dora, Don’t take the calf, I fall at your feet” Poshayya.
“I have already told you it is born to my stud bull. There, the
patch on the face also is like that. Did anyone deny giving me the calf
that is born after my stud bull crossing? If denied, did he live after
that? ... Now, do you fall on meet denying?” Dora uttered obscenities.
“Arey Poshiga ... Why confrontation with dora? Don’t you like
to stay in the village? What is the matter? I have seen the stud bull
crossing your cow ... I have seen with my own eyes ... I am not saying
after hearsay do you know” said Madiga Mysayya who came along
dora.
“That is true after all. Only after Dora’s stud bull had crossed, a
calf similar to the bull was born. Are you not seeing its form and its
likeness?” Byagari Narsayya added a word.
“Have you heard at least now, Poshiga” Dora was twirling his
moustaches proudly.
“It must have crossed dora ... We are people without any support.
Don’t take the lone calf ... If you ask I shall drink your piss ...” said
Poshayya with utmost anguish.
“Your audacity is increasing with my silence. What is the matter,
you, Mayadari son of a whore?” Dora moved forward.
Poshayya shook looking at that form and was afraid. He joined
both his palms together in respect as if asking “Don’t say anything
Dora”.
Addressing Pasha who was trying to pull the calf away, the Dora
issued an order: “You, drive it to our sheds. Move.”
“If I leave your calf today, tomorrow one more fellow would
also talk the same. If I leave his also one more comes up. That is all
impractical. Calves born to my stud bull cannot be with someone
else.”
There is the feeling that since the calf is born to his bull it after
all belongs to him. More powerful is the feeling that his taking the
calf is not at all injustice.
 The Stud Bull / 183

Pasha lifted the calf with both his hands and moved from there.
Pratapa Reddy, along with his henchmen, moved from there.
Balamma and Poshayya were wailing helplessly.
Children were crying loudly.
The cow was trying to muster all its strength to snap the rope in
its neck.
No one was heeding the torment and the tussle of the cow. They
were wailing cursing their fate.
Cow’s strength was increasing as the calf was moving away.
Hisses were heard from the noses. Bitterness in the eyes was
increasing. By then one or two strands in the neck rope gave way.
Balamma was holding Poshayya and crying. Poshayya brought
tears to his eyes and started to cry while holding the flanks of the
cow.
Pain was very severe as if someone was cutting his innards. He
was wriggling in pain and Balamma’s heart was breaking. Not
knowing what to do in that helpless situation, she was undergoing
the torture of a hell.
Pasha put the calf down and made it walk. But it was resisting.
Making the sound “Amba” it was looking back. Pasha was pulling it
forcefully and cruelly.
Pratapa Reddy Dora was walking behind the calf with gun in
hand. Following him, were Kavali Mutyalu with a spear in hand and
few more people.
The scene at the hut of Poshayya was extremely poignant. As
the “Amba” sound of the calf was reaching far away, the blood in all
the hearts there was curdling.
After the dora left, one or two persons came to Poshayya.
Unable to bear any longer and mustering all its energy, the cow
stretched its neck while holding the ground stiff with the legs. The
rope already giving away strand by strand broke with a sound. Half
the rope remained on the peg and the other half in the neck.
Once the rope was broken, the cow making a wild sound and
hissing, started running for its calf unmindful of the bulk of the body.
No one there could stop it.
Pratapa Reddy turning at the end of the lane noticed the hissing
and charging cow coming to attack and immediately shouted
“Arey, Pasha, Take the calf first into the house. The cow is coming
after it,” and then he loaded the gun.
184 / Astitva

Cow was charging towards him ferociously. Dust was arising

as it came. Its flanks were flapping. It was looking for the calf ...
Sensing the danger, Pratapa Reddy aimed at the leg of the cow
and shot a round. The aim did not go astray. The sound reverberated
all through the village.
Like squirting from a pump, blood gushed out from cow’s leg.
Bullet pierced its leg. Even after that the cow was coming charging
forwarding. Fearing that it would attack him Pratapa Reddy loaded
the gun again. But the cow came very near. There was no time to aim
and shoot. Immediately Pratapa Reddy and the others barged into
the nearest houses and shut the doors.
Much before that, Pasha entered one of the houses along with
calf.
The cow could not find its calf even after turning at the street
corner. Even men were not seen. With that the cow went mad and
made wild noises. Hitting the ground with the hooves, goring with
horns the walls and anything that comes in its way, it was running
hither and thither. Blood was oozing from the leg. The leg was paining.
After it ran frantically in different directions and made noises,
its strength was draining off because of the wound. The helpless
situation brought it further down. Unable to step further, lacking
energy, it mooed for the calf loudly, with tears in eyes and grunting
went around for a while and sat down with the hope that the calf
may be seen after waiting for a while.
Poshayya, Balamma and children crying, came to the cow, fell
on it and were sobbing. They saw the cow’s wound. It was heart
rending. Even while they were missing the calf found the cow
wounded. The cow was having unbearable pain. The sorrow was like
a hit on the spot which was already wounded. Cow with tearful eyes
looked helplessly at the master and mistress. Unable to bear those
looks Poshayya broke down again.
On seeing Poshayya, wife Balamma also started wailing. Looking
at both the kids, she started crying. Looking at all of them, the cow
became very sad.
Some old people gathered there. Narrating old incidents to
pacify Poshayya they were trying to calm him comparing the present
situation. On listening to those words, Poshayya’s heart was melting
more and more. His anguish increased.
 The Stud Bull / 185

Cow was looking eagerly into the street thinking the calf may
be seen. With tearful eyes it was scanning the sides.
Its leg was paining and still bleeding. Poshayya once again
cleaned the blood with his Dhoti, tore a piece from it and tied it on
the wound even while shedding tears.
Balamma was wiping the cow’s tears.
Children were stroking its back.
People collected there, were asking Poshayya and Balamma to
get up. But their heart was not relenting. Poshayya thought that it
would have been better if they all had died there.
The cow with a broken heart was watching the family of its
master. It was looking into the street again eagerly. Poshayya and
other helpers tried to drive the cow home but it did not even get up.
Everyone remained sitting. They were all ruminating the injustices
occurred earlier.
Pasha left the house that he entered by the back entrance and
reached gadi. He tied up the calf in the cattle shed of the gadi where
all the calves and grown male calves sired by Dora’s stud bull are
kept. After tying it Pasha heaved a long sigh and dusted hands before
looking at the calf with pride. Then with his stick in hand he walked
towards the Kacheri, the office,
The tied up calf is struggling and trying to break loose. Its
strength was not enough to break the rope. It tried again but in vain.
It looked all around. More than a hundred cows, bulls and calves
were all looking at it only. Thinking why all of them together do not
get me relieved – the calf was struggling.
Here the cow was weeping with tears rolling down its eyes.
Pain in the leg has increased. Leg reached a stage of immobility. It
appeared like the spasm of tetanus. However much Poshayya pleads
to come home the cow was not moving. It looks pitifully but does not
move. Even when Balamma pacified it did not move. It is looking
piteously into the street for its calf.
Doravaru and his men reached gadi through backdoors. Pratapa
Reddy seeing the struggling calf tied in his cattle shed, twirled his
moustaches and smiled to himself.
“On growing up, this calf will add to my shed after crossing
others cows? ... thought Dora in his heart. He felt very satisfied with
186 / Astitva

such thought. From there he started for the office. He gave a chit to
Veerayya Goud for a pot of toddy to be given to Pasha and others.
Veerayya Goud on seeing the slip thought “What kind of bargain
early in the morning ...” and was also thinking “these mamools are
unavoidable for Dora ...” and handed over a toddy pot to Dora’s men.
Darkness came about.
The cow did not get up from the place where it fell down. Even
after the people in the street and their servants tried, it did not get
up. It laid spread like hardened. On twisting its tail it moved a little
but remained there only. Tears from the eyes were continuing. Except
Venkateshu entire family of Poshayya was there only.
Venkateshu came back to the hut from the hillocks, after dark
when the fear abated and felt that no one could do anything. He felt
doubtful on finding no one at home. On enquiry the matter came to
be known.
That’s all. He reached the cow like an arrow. On seeing its state
he broke down. Cow also cried with him. Poshayya and Balamma
were crying holding the son.
Cow was feeling the force of the milk and the udder was paining.
On another side the wound was troubling. Pain on looking the owner’s
family thoughts of calve’s cavorts ... came to mind. Tears increased. It
was imagining the jumping of the calf. The thought that the calf may
not push and suckle milk at its udder perhaps occurred to it and it
started crying again.
Venkateshu after crying for a while pacified the cow by patting
on its back, kissing the forehead, and pressing his head to the neck,
wiping the eyes, removing ticks from the ears. He begged it repeatedly
to come to the hut. He was talking to the cow as if it was a human
being. It appeared as if understanding everything. On hearing
everything it perhaps decided that its calf would never return and
tried to get up.
On seeing that Poshayya, Balamma, Venkateshu and other
people collected there helped the cow and made it stand. After that
Venkateshu rubbed its feet for a while. After its muscle spasms abated
a little cow moved slowly step by step and reached the hut. Poshayya’s
family and few others walked with it.
Next morning ...
 The Stud Bull / 187

Blacksmith Rajayya came and removed the cherralu from cow’s

leg. He made paste of some leaves and applied it to the wound. He
administered his quack treatment.
The cow stopped eating fodder. It was not giving milk either.
When the udder turns heavy it gives some and then stops. In only
two days cow lost half of its weight. Venkateshu keeps cajoling it to
no avail.
After ten days of suffering the cow died.
Entire family of Poshayya was extremely grief-stricken.
The calf in the gadi was continuing to struggle. Always it had
struggled to cut the rope in the neck alone.
The day after the cow died Venkateshu left home. No one knows
where he went.
For Balamma and Poshayya the hearts turned heavy. Moisture
in the eyes dried up. They became fireballs. May be it is not possible
for anyone to douse them.

“Ittanapu Kode”
1983 Translated by K.B. Gopalam
188 / Astitva

Forage

A. M. Ayodhya Reddy

That was the second day of respite from rain.

The Sun, who had not shown up for the last one week, was
struggling to come out of the clouds. The surroundings were still
wet. The puddles on and beside the road were like unhealed wounds.
An ant suddenly stepped out of a small hole at the left corner of
the last step of the Irani hotel entrance. Watching the surroundings
carefully the ant ambled. Before it moved four inches, another ant
had hurriedly come out of the same hole and met the first ant.
In that pleasant atmosphere both the ants started moving beside
the wall like threads tangled in knots. The land became slushy as it
got soaked in the rain. Watching the ups and downs and the puddles
carefully, both the ants were inching forward on their legs that looked
like the lines of collyrium.
The smaller ant was repeatedly moving fast. It looked excited
while doing that.
The first ant, Neeli, who was coming behind it watching the
surroundings more cautiously, looked worried at the aggressive
walking style of the second ant. “Hey! Chitti! Look around and walk
slowly. You may fall under something and die,” it cautioned.
The tiny ant was not at all heeding to her elder sister’s words. It
was moving ahead, hopping. It would come back with the same speed
 Forage / 189

to move around her sister once and dash ahead. “You ... widow! Why
don’t you listen to what I am telling? Will you meet untimely death
by running like this?”
Neeli was getting tired by shouting repeatedly. But Chitti didn’t
stop its run. In fact, Neeli was not interested at all to come out with
Chitti ant. At home, mother ant too denied her permission. But Chitti
didn’t pay attention to her.
Ants’ entire habitation was flooded with water due to the
incessant rains for a week. Leaving their houses and the food they
accumulated all the ants scattered in different directions.
Neeli’s father, who had been separated in that confusion, was
not seen afterwards. The food they had collected was not there when
they returned home after water dried up. Mother and daughters
awaited the father ant very much. But it didn’t turn up. Some said it
was washed away in floods, others said it might have been crushed
in some accident. There was also a rumour that it had been killed by
the soldier ants in a brawl while delivering the food to the queen
ants’ residence.
Whatever the conjectures, Neeli understood that its father
wouldn’t come back home.
Four days passed by.
On the firth day unable to control hunger further, Neeli came
out to bring something to eat. While father’s memories were agitating
in the heart, it was moving absent-mindedly. It even wasn’t aware
that the tears flowing from its eyes should be wiped off.
When Chitti said, “Why are you crying sister? Has father come
to your mind?” Neeli came to its senses. It affectionately kissed her
sister’s tender hands that were wiping off the tears.
“Sister! Where has father gone?” asked Chitti, walking beside.
“I don’t know my dear! Our houses were washed away by flood
waters. Hasn’t come till now Don’t know where he is.”
“Is it true that father had been killed by someone, sister? Did he
die really?”
To this question Neeli couldn’t give reply immediately. “Father
didn’t die. He will come soon,” said Neeli.
“Who are the soldier ants ... ?” again asked Chitti.
“They are called police ants my dear. Also called soldier ants.
They reside in queen’s abode.”
190 / Astitva

“Queen’s abode means?”

“Queen ant’s place.”
“Where is it? Shall we go there once, sister?” eagerly asked Chitti
ant.
“We are not allowed there. Only the elder worker ants are
permitted to enter.”
“What work has to be done there?”
“Not one. From mopping the houses, sweeping the roads to
everything in Queen’s habitation has to be done. More importantly,
some food has to be procured and handed over by evening.”
“What malady have they got? Can’t they acquire their own food?
Why should we bring for them?”
“Ssh, you are talking like a termagant! Speak in a low tone. If
any soldier ant hears, it will not let us live. What do you think of
Queen’s residence? It is government. All the ants in that place
represent the government. They don’t do any work. They shouldn’t.
All the ants living in our colony are slave ants. Of course, ‘worker
ants’ is another respectable name we have. All these worker ants have
to bring food to the government ants living in queen’s habitat. If they
dole out anything out of mercy, we should eat.”
“Should we give them the food gathered by us with empty
stomachs wandering around trees and ant hills? Do we have to eat
the leftover food, given by them with mercy? Thoo! How pitiable are
our lives!” said Chitti ant abhorrently. Without asking any further, it
dashed ahead.
Neeli ant’s sight suddenly fell on a white thing at two feet away.
Cautioning Chitti, it slowed down its speed.
It was a big object. Neeli couldn’t see it entirely until it lifted up
its eyes. Chitti, noticing it, hid behind her sister with fear.
Neeli stopped walking completely, looked around thoroughly.
There appeared no danger in and around.
Suddenly a big whiff of wind blew. Someone threw garbage out
from the window on the upper wall. Chitti stayed put there. After a
minute when it opened its eyes, the white thing which was seen earlier,
came closer to it. Seeing it, Chitti cried in fright and fled away fast
from that place.
Neeli’s heart missed a beat. It couldn’t understand what that
hill like structure was. Neeli inched towards it gathering strength as
 Forage / 191

that substance didn’t move from its place even after a couple of
minutes. Neeli moved around it twice. Some known flavor touched
its nostrils. Neeli, after smelling it out, jumped in excitement.
That was a piece of roti. A bounty of food!
Neeli went closer to it and felt it with its hands. Yes, a roti. Soft
too.
Neeli’s joy knew no bounds. It was sufficient for all the worker
ants in their colony for at least two days. It felt proud of itself for
identifying such a big chunk of food at one place. It looked around in
joy when it remembered its younger sister, Chitti. Chitti was not there.
It moved around the entire place in search of Chitti. There was
no trace of her sister. Neeli got panicky. It couldn’t understand at
once whether to feel happy for finding such a large piece of food or
worry about its sister.
It started running towards their colony as it was afraid of staying
alone there.
***
All the ants living in that area are worker ants. Common
problems like working hard from dawn to dusk under the same
authority, hunger and diseases made the ants live united there.
When Neeli reached the colony jumping and running, it saw a
big crowd in front of its house. It was perplexed and frightened as it
couldn’t understand why so many ants were there. When it got the
doubt, ‘has anything happened to Chitti?’ it immediately moved
forward anxiously.
All the ants saw Neeli from a distance. They rushed forward to
receive it and surrounded her. “We are happy that you have returned.
Hope no untoward thing happened to you, daughter? How much
we are all worried about you!” said Neeli’s mother, hugging Neeli.
“Why fear anything, mother?”
“Why do you ask like that? Chitti told us that some demon
attacked you. After seeing that demon, your younger sister got
terrified and ran home. After listening to its words, we were petrified.
Your mother cried inconsolably,” said an old ant in the crowd.
After hearing that, Neeli laughed loudly. When everyone looked
at it inquiringly, it stopped laughing and explained everything in
detail.
192 / Astitva

“Is it true? Really a piece of roti?” asked an old ant doubtfully.

“I swear on my mother, grandpa! Indeed, it is a roti and as big
as a hill. No need to worry for food for our entire colony for two
days. You all listen to my words and come there quickly. If large ants
or soldier ants see it, nothing will be left for us.”
Neeli hurried everyone.
All the ants applauded Neeli. A few ants kissed her with
affection.
In a few moments, this news spread in the entire colony. All the
small and big ants moved ahead collectively. While Neeli was showing
the way, ants walked very fast and reached the garbage dump behind
the Irani hotel. The food that was seen by Neeli was still there. All the
worker ants looked at Neeli in admiration. Within no time a plan
was prepared to shift the big chunk of food. All the ants surrounded
the roti and held it firmly with their mouths. In a minute their long
journey would have started.
Suddenly ...
“Stop! No one should move. That food is ours!”A thunderous
voice was heard.
Startled, the worker ants looked in that direction. A group of
large black ants hurriedly came forward. Watching them, they stood
in a circle around the roti. By their looks, it appeared as if they were
ready for a battle.
“This food is ours. Get out of the way,” said the leader of large
black ants loudly.
After listening to that rebuke, all the ants which had held the
roti firmly left it and stood still. Before everyone, Neeli came to senses
first. “I am the one who saw this food first. The moment I saw it, I
went to my colony and brought them. Hence, this food is ours” she
asserted.
“What little girl! Why are you bragging so much? No one
believes your cock and bull stories. We had seen the roti before you
saw it. Move aside calmly. Otherwise ... ,” the big ants threatened
them looking pointedly.
“No ... I only saw it first. When I saw it no one was here. This is
ours. It is injustice to snatch our food away.”
“Yes, it is injustice ...” said the remaining ants in support of Neeli.
“Shut your mouths!” How dare you to teach us justice ...”
thundered a large black ant. “This is ours. Whatever we say is justice.
 Forage / 193

Where there is might, there is justice. Go and tell wherever you want.
Move away from this place.”
Neeli didn’t know what to do. It turned its head towards its
people. Everyone was looking at it miserably. As a final attempt, it
moved two steps ahead and pleaded with the leader of large black
ants:
“Sir, this food is really ours! We saw it first. Please look at the
stomachs of our people. How shrunken they are? Look at their faces.
How lifeless they have become! Our entire colony has been washed
away by a stream. For the last five days we have been starving. Show
pity on us. If you snatch the roti, we all die of starvation.”
“What! You all die ... Die happily”. A large black ant laughed
loudly. “Already it got delayed much. Ooh! What do you see..? Take
the food away” saying this it gave instructions to its group.
Neeli moved its head helplessly. The worker ants got severely
enraged seeing the large black ants which wanted to snatch away
their food.
‘They may be mightier than us. May be of a bigger race! But
hunger is not different among races. Do we have to bear it all and
remain silent even if they plunder our food? Why should we allow
this injustice?’
As anger was added to hunger, the worker ants’ looks became
red with fury. Their fists tightened with determination.
Neeli noticed this. Looking at the large black ants, and taking a
risk, it said, “Stop! You may be powerful. But we won’t allow this
injustice to happen. If you have strength in your muscles, we have
hunger in our stomachs. Our hunger would spit fire on you. You all
will be burnt to ashes. Go away from this place in dignity.”
Neeli’s caution fuelled the anger large ants. Without a second
thought, they attacked the worker ants.
The next moment it became a battle field. A bitter war broke out
between the large black ants which possessed immense physical
strength and the worker ants which rushed with strong determination.
In the war, hundreds of worker ants died. Rest of them fled away.
The large black ants cheered up in joy. “We are victorious. The
food is now ours. Come on, let us pull it home,” said the leader loudly.
***
194 / Astitva

Obeying their leader’s command, the large black ants removed the
dead bodies of worker ants which fell around the roti.
A plan to shift the food was prepared. The roti moved a bit for
the strong grip of big ants.
Then ...
Suddenly the roti was lifted into the air. All the ants screamed
in fear and dispersed in different directions.
Five snake-like fingers encircled the roti. The hand belonging
to them lifted the roti further and disappeared.
The large black ants stayed there helplessly with tears, looking
at the demon that was in the form of a human being.

“Aahara Yatra”
1990 Translated by Gannu Nataraja Shekhar
 The Funeral Feast

Tummeti Raghothama Reddy

By the time the obsequies were over it was hot, burning midday. Later,
all the relatives who came to attend the last rites went back. To tell
the truth only a few people have come. Even of those who attended,
some cursorily completed the ritual of eating and went away without
looking back. Only a few important people remained.
Even from the village, only a few people came. Not just now,
even for the cremation it was the same. Even among those, three or
four are big landlords and rich farmers. Other ‘low caste’ people of
the village, unlike in the past, never even looked that way.
In earlier days in this household, even deaths were celebrated
pompously like marriages. When Narasimha Reddy’s grandfather,
father and mother passed away entire lot of people collected there.
With the goats that were offered to them at that time, one more batch
was added to the herd already owned by Narasimha Reddy. With
the bustle of relatives who stayed back and the workers moving
around, it used to be very hectic in the bungalow for fifteen to twenty
days.
But now! Not only relatives, even the workers too, but for three
or four, went ‘the other way.’ Farm servants who appeared very loyal
and trustworthy also joined that group. It appeared that the three or
four who are moving here may watch this time and when they feel
196 / Astitva

confident, they are likely to join the others. With the smells of masala
dishes, and yelling of people, the bungalow should have been buzzing
with activity, but it remained quiet now.
Before the bungalow under the almond trees four or five old
relatives lying on the cots were talking with mumbling voices. In the
same shade, three scooters and two Bullet motorcycles are parked. In
the jeep parked in the same shade, the driver was dozing. The gunman
of Narasimha Reddy’s son and Mandal President, Madhukar Reddy,
was standing near the jeep observing the surroundings.
It was the first week of June. The fury of the sun during daytime
was followed by strong gales as harbingers of the rainy season with
clouds moving across in the sky. Since it was the transition time of
summer and rainy season, it was horribly sultry like in an oven. In
the katcheri adjoining the bungalow front doorway, Brahmins were
fanning themselves with their upper garments unable to bear the heat.
An old fan that refuses to spin was hanging from the roof like a dead
vulture. One or two old Brahmins were singing praises of the deceased
Dorasani. Wherever they might have gone, even the brahmins who
came there were very few in number. Some of them were lamenting
‘it would have been better if the Dorasani had not expired in such
critical conditions.’
What a hubbub when Narasimha Reddy’s mother passed away!
On each of those twelve days, it used to be busy with brahmins, those
looking after cooking and serving tasty dishes from breakfast to dinner
with Jagannathacharyulu narrating Puranam about hell, making the
people get goosebumps, and villagers in rapt attention listening to
the story with fear of sinful acts! ‘How much the times have changed,’
some were commenting.
Linga Reddy, the elder son-in-law who came on illarikam has
almost completed the distribution of gifts and honours to the
Brahmins in the katcheri hall. He distributed pitchers, dhotis and cash.
He gave some two skinny cows as godanam to the chief priest. The
voice of the Brahmin who till then was asking for and accepting the
munificence as usual fumbled when it came to land donation.
Practicing priesthood for the last forty years in the villages around,
he comfortably asked for such donations on occasions of death in
many households of big landlords, and accepted them. But that
Brahmin who never imagined that such a situation would arise, asked
 The Funeral Feast / 197

hesitating for couple of moments, as part of his professional duty,

“Doravaru! Bhoodanam.”
Unable to say anything, Linga Reddy sat down. His illarikam
life revolving around the land matters for thirty years reeled before
his eyes. Family of a poor farmer unable to eke out a living! Ignominies
of illarikam! More than that, feeling suffocated in the confines of the
bungalow walls, he ran away after one month only. His parents and
relatives while trying to convince him of the patience needed for a
son-in-law in illarikam said: “We underwent so many hardships for
many generations because we never had land to cultivate. Even if
you suffer trouble and insult, your children and the next generations
would be in comfort with a hundred acre land.” As if some force has
zapped all his strength he stepped in on the same threshold with
head bent down. Since that time he never felt bad for any matter.
Farm lands spread till the limit of sight have tied him to the place. He
took many insults in his stride for the sake of the land he would get
as his share in the coming days.
But at the end ...
Linga Reddy involuntarily heaved a heavy sigh, got up and
walked into the edifice from the bungalow to consult his father-in-
law. Something was getting tricky somewhere. What was going to
unfold in future, he could not make out.
He glanced as if witnessing for the first time, at the mogurams
that ripened into dark shade, moved from there and crossed the
kitchen. Behind the kitchen under the jasmine creeper spread on a
wooden structure supported by big stone pillars Narasimha Reddy
was sitting like a lump in a jute chair.
Linga Reddy could not understand whether his father-in-law
was sleeping or just closed his eyes in agony.
On the right side, cooking was still going on by stones turned
into makeshift stoves. Since not many workers were there, Vimala
the lone daughter-in-law of the family was taking a lot of trouble
supporting the cook. Linga Reddy’s wife too joined her daughter-in-
law in the chores. Narasimha Reddy’s elder sister though aged and
deaf was also helping them. Some of the daughters of Narasimha
Reddy were taking rest on the mats under the same canopy. Youngest
of them was busy with her kids. Among those resting on mats the
eldest daughter was trying to recollect the ornaments of the departed
198 / Astitva

lady expecting them to be given to her marriageable daughter. Fearing

that the daughter-in-law of the house may hide them somewhere in
the clamor, the second daughter was trying to keep an eye on Vimala.
Vimala raised her voice and said “Mother, that day, the sun was
extremely hot in the afternoon. Father-in-law and my hubby were
not at home. Both of them have gone to Hanmakonda. Mother-in-
law, I and sister-in-law finished eating lunch. Brother Linga Reddy
went away just a little earlier to get the fertilizer sprinkled in the rice
fields. I was in the kitchen getting things arranged.” Cooks called
Vimala as they needed some item for cooking.
The deaf old lady was about to express displeasure with the
arrogance of a Dorasani but restrained herself from doing so.
‘Which direction will this whole episode take?’ said Linga Reddy
to himself. He was standing under the jasmine creeper.
Vimalamma came again and sitting next to the old lady, said:
“That lame Poshigadu started shouting from beyond the gates as if
the village was on fire. I came wiping my hands with the hem of sari.
By then, mother-in-law and sister-in-law have already arrived. He
opened the gates forcefully and rushed in. Mother-in-law was saying
something. He blabbered something even while gasping. ‘Tell
properly, you dirty scoundrel’, mother-in-law admonished him. He
started saying ‘Dorsani, flags – flags’ ... . At last he could tell. ‘Dorsani,
they are planting flags in the backyard.”
“Who? Are they the workers of Pochampadu canals?’ said
mother-in-law.
“No, banchen, they are planting red flags. Madigas and the
backward class people in huge numbers” he was telling.
“Did you not say anything, you, nasty fellow? Where are our
farmhands? Are they dead? Poshiga! Run – get all of them.” Saying,
she was running into the backyard. As such, you know, she is a burly
woman. Further, she was angry. She was running anxiously. I had
understood the matter ‘Mother-in-law! You, please don’t go there.
Father-in-law would deal with it after his arrival’ saying so, I had
taken four steps. Mother-in-law fell down as she stumbled on the
stone on her way to cattle shed. What calamity, we thought and
meanwhile sister-in-law and I reached there’ “I am feeling severe chest
pain” those were her last words. Sister-in-law and me lifted and
brought her inside. We sent Poshigadu for the doctor. She was
 The Funeral Feast / 199

sweating all over the body. Within five to ten minutes, she breathed
her last” Vimala’s voice shook a little.
“We could not have the last look, O mother! What word you left
for us mother!” daughters lying on the mats wailed.
Wife of Linga Reddy, busy with work, stood erect with tears
welling up in the eyes. Old lady wiped her eyes. The younger daughter
who was feeding her youngest kid started weeping with sobs “Mother,
Oh mother.”
With his eyes closed, Narasimha Reddy heard what the
daughter-in-law said. Fluttering red flags appeared in his closed eyes.
His wife appeared in them. Whether due to sorrow or anger or both,
Narasimha Reddy could not sleep properly for the last eleven days.
He has seen many deaths and turmoil in his very long life and
experienced them. But on no occasion he was disturbed as now.
Narasimha Reddy’s eyes were burning. More than that, his inner
self was burning much more. Unable to bear the red flags appearing
again and again he opened his eyes. The cattle sheds within the
compound on the left side looked as though they were burning in
the hot sun. In the sheds oxen, buffaloes and other cattle were seen
eating hay from the haystacks. There is none who cleaned and cleared
the dung heaps from there for the last fifteen days. Cattle were
sleeping under the trees after they drank water from tubs.
On the right side, there is a mango garden within the eyesight’s
range. Beyond that, there are black clayey lands. A hillock was abutting
them and red flags were flying in the fields.
Not knowing what to do, Linga Reddy was standing there till
then. Noticing that his father-in-law opened his eyes, he said:
“Mamayya, the Brahmin is asking for land donation”
On listening to the words, there was a sad smile on Narasimha
Reddy’s face that appeared for a moment.
‘Land donation? Is the Brahmin intending to make fun of me
today?’ he thought to himself.
Unable to see the red flags in his fields, Narsimha Reddy closed
his eyes.
“What do you want me to say?” Linga Reddy asked again.
“You only tell that one or two guntas land will be given, brother-
in-law!” this time second daughter of Narasimha Reddy intervened.
Vimala, frying Pesara Garelu in frying pan turned her head,
looked once and was again immerse in her work.
200 / Astitva

“Why do you want to trouble Bapu at this time?” second

daughter heaved a heavy sigh and said “Is the situation such that we
can donate whatever they ask?”
Narasimha Reddy’s elder daughter who wanted to get a big
amount also wanted to say something. But she did not find any words.
Linga Reddy walked into the ante room silently.
The distancing sound of Linga Reddy’s footsteps were audible
to the old man. He understood the actual intentions of his daughters.
So many people pinned their hopes on his land. The earlier scene
was appearing again when he closed his eyes. He never slept a wink
in the last eleven days. He is unable to differentiate night from day. It
is as if light and darkness are jumbled up. Whole body was burning
as if chilli powder was smeared on it. He was seething with anger
inside. He took exceptional pains for this land. To own so many fertile
lands in the village and run the affairs single-handedly is not an easy
thing. He knew that the farmers, Madigas and others were watching
his lands like wolves. Each one has been having a row with him again
and again. He could emerge victorious with trials and tribulations.
Now, those who are behind them are not commoners. The villagers
too, are of the same intention.
Narasimha Reddy was confused and could not know whether
the happenings are a nightmare or truth. He was frozen and unable
to understand where it had gone wrong.
He was again immersed in his earlier thoughts. People met him
frequently when in trouble and were submissive to him till recently.
All of them have benefited from him.
Today, in his own lands, the old man moved his head sideways.
The lamb meat being cooked was making a small sound. Embers
were burning in the hearths. The cooked rice was steaming. Puris
were being fried on another hearth. Cook Mallayya was sweating
profusely while going round all the three hearths. Vimala too, was
taking an active part in the cooking.
“In fact he never imagined that such a thing would pass” the
old man stretched a little more in the jute chair and again fell back.
“Are such big government offices and staff all useless?”
Police and military are all of no use? His son who went to
Warangal Sabhas when narrated that there were discussions about
lands, he simply pooh-poohed the matter saying where is any party
 The Funeral Feast / 201

that does not talk about lands? Could never imagine that it would
turn true and would affect his own lands. The old man sighed
hopelessly.
Deshmukh Anna Reddy who forty years back sold lands in one
village after the other, came to the mind of the old man. Then old
man was less than twenty years of age. Old man’s father learnt
alphabet and worked as a scribe under the Karanam’s watandar, the
village accounts officer. By then, only communists on the Nalgonda
side, Razakar disturbances, Nizam’s abdication of the throne, police
action – later Anna Reddy came in Khaddar Lalchi and Dhoti and
summoned to his gadi, the big farmers of the villages in which his
lands were located in a wide spread area. He put his lands for sale.
Old man can never forget the sight of Anna Reddy’s figure of that
day. Along with father in their bullock cart Deshmukh Anna Reddy
came to gadi that day.
That was the beginning. They bought good valuable lands at
nominal prices, black cotton lands, farm lands, grazing fields in the
villages where father was the Karanam. Two hundred acres of
Deshmukh’s land also were added to their already existing holdings.
From then on, all the good lands of the village are adding up to their
lands. Starting from just behind the house including the hill area on
the left, at the end of the lands occupy the entire stream banks.
The old man with uncontrollable anxiety opened eyes and stood
up as the chair was creaking. He is not even aware of the cooking
activity going on at home. Walking slowly, he came out through the
gates. Cattle and the rows of Neem trees extended the compound
wall. He looked around. The old man had been sensing whatever
was happening in his farmlands right from here only. Backyard,
engine well, hill are visible only hazily. Lands were spread out east-
west wise stream on the southern side, the sand in the stream is
shining white. Long range of hills was on the north side.
Even while the old man’s looks were somersaulting like a
vulture, the flags tied to the trees in the fields came to his vision. Old
man’s face shrank ... . ‘I should run at once, pluck out all the flags,
trample and burn them’ he thought.
His wife came to his memory. Walking slowly with small steps
he came and sat in his jute chair. He closed the eyes.
202 / Astitva

Father and mother used to say the family grew well only after
his wife came as the daughter-in-law to the house. Are the luck and
lands about to vanish with her? Memories of the wife surrounded
the old man. With them, the memories of lands also came to his mind.
Which farmland was leveled and where, where a well was sunk,
where the backyards of neighbors were added to his own, not just all
these memories, many more came to his mind. He was trembling
like how the ground under his feet was shaking.
These houses, mansions, lands, plots and power - all were
permanent, he thought. He never imagined that the life he had known
for generations would be toppled right before his eyes.
“Where did everything begin?’ the old man was trying to
recollect.
“Was it ten, fifteen years ago?” Every summer, Puli Malla
Reddy’s four sons have been posing problems for the stream water.
Unable to compete, they brought party people into the village. Party
people have organized a meeting with people belonging to backward
classes in the dried tank bed. They demanded that the salaries of
farmhands and the wages of daily workers be raised. He gave them
tit for tat. He never entered the scene but the police came there,
thrashed people and played havoc. The sons of Malla Reddy slipped
off midway. He thought his was the upper hand every time. Peculiarly,
the party people mingled with Malas and Madigas in their homes. It
became difficult to identify people. That year passed. Another year
they said they would cultivate fallow lands. He was not perturbed. If
they write slogans on the walls that additional lands must be
distributed, when will they show actual effect on the dispute of lands,
he mused. He thought it can be tackled later when it will actually
happen. He could not recognize the inner smoldering that was taking
place. The heat erupted and everything turned upside down.
Anna Reddy who had migrated to Hyderabad, came to the mind
of the old man.
His son is Mandal president for name sake. He never talks his
heart out. Has everything changed in these fifteen years without him
noticing? Is he unaware of who is moving which way and growing?
What about the impatience seen in his son? Is he also drifting along
the tide? No way out was visible to the old man.
 The Funeral Feast / 203

While the old man was thinking thus, his son Madhukar Reddy
came there. He was wearing Khaddar Pyjamas and light yellow lalchi.
Though the appearance was good enough the face was looking wilted.
Standing for a while next to the chair of the old man whose eyes were
closed, he said without any formal addressing “All are sitting for the
feast. They are waiting for you”.
Old man waved his right hand as if asking to start serving the
guests. Again he closed his eyes. Madhukar waited for a while and
walked inside.
Old man’s second son-in-law who works a Forest Ranger in the
Forest Department came down from the upper floor with difficulty.
His lost his left long ago. Ranger says he lost it when a branch hit him
in the forest. But the people say that that is a bluff and when the
tribals chased him, he fell down while fleeing and the eye ball was
burst. They also say he got a goat’s eye fixed. The ranger always wears
dark glasses.
In the past, forest lands could not be retained. Now, even the
lands in villages cannot be retained. With cash and gold he moved to
Karimnagar and built a house there. Ranger has a big paunch and
hence he acted as if bending, held the hand of the old man and said
“Come, uncle; all are waiting inside for you only. It is said that the
inevitable fate cannot be avoided even by any means. How would it
be if you sit sadly like this?” A couple of relatives wanted to come in
but stopped at the door itself.
The old man did not open his eyes. He too can say many such
words, he thought. What do employees know of the farm lands? What
do these people know of the days and nights that he went around the
lands?
“If you won’t get up none inside would touch even water” said
the ranger holding old man’s hand once again.
Vimala also came there and stood a little away. Such life is not
new for Vimala. She is seeing such bickerings right from the
beginning. The minds of everyone were getting exposed. Vimala
studied in a college in Hanmakonda. Her father is a big landlord in
Parkal Taluq. He also owns seed production centers, poultry farms,
an automobile shop in Warangal. Twice he had contested for the
assembly as an independent and lost.
204 / Astitva

Right since the death of her mother-in-law, Vimala has been

watching the behavior of her father-in-law and brother-in-law and
was surprised. She never thought people who maintain their dignity
and toughness would collapse like this. How many troubles and police
cases were there, she thought. Strangely, whatever is there in their
minds this time, no such occurrences were there. Are all the people
troubled over the death of the departed mother-in-law? Are they
worried about the lost lands? Vimala understands well that the
relations in this house are intertwined with property. She shook her
head. She thought of amenably asking the father-in-law to get up.
But unable to muster courage, she remained silent.
Old man’s sister also came and stood there. Looking at all the
faces once and with raised voice she said “Now the times are such
that we should talk submissively. But, just because it is so, why do
you want to eat or drink nothing? What would you gain by doing
that? Come on, get up! Get up, and have meal. Have we come to stay
on the land forever?
After her words two of the relatives held the old man by hands
and made him get up. It became inevitable for the old man to get up.
Like walking in sleep he followed them into the second floor of the
building.
In that two stories house by the hill side and spread north-
southwards with the main door on the east, the northern hall is used
as the dining place. From that room one can see the fields even while
taking meal. Only for that reason the old man has made it the dining
room. To the left of that hall, is his bed room.
Already nearly fifteen of important relatives were sitting. All of
them, like the old man, belong to the chief landlord clans. There are
relationships among them. There are people of all ages in them. All
are hungry. Having indulged in unending discussions till then, they
are impatient.
With the entry of the old man everyone felt relieved and settled
in their chairs. In the chair opposite the side western window, the old
man sat ... even while thinking not to do that, he once had a look at
his unending lands.
On the three tables joined together there were basins full of Puris,
garelu, rice, lamb leg meat, head meat, black powder made of blood,
dals, rasam, pickles, curd and everything was served there.
 The Funeral Feast / 205

Madhukar Reddy and Sugunakar Reddy, a highly placed officer

in the abkari department together were arranging bottles of brandy
and whisky on the table. Madhukar Reddy came down and rushed
his driver for some more liquor. Driver started the jeep yawning and
moved. Gunman came into the kutcheri room and sat on a wooden
chair.
Inside the room, the ranger sahib poured whisky in a tumbler
and gave to his father-in-law. Old man poured it into the throat gulped
it and cleared the throat.
Bottle after bottle was being opened and glasses were getting
filed. They were pouring the contents into their already burning
stomachs. But, instead of getting abated, the burning pain was
increasing. From the kitchen, basins full of mutton were being
supplied. Bones were being munched. One or two asked for toddy.
Since there is none to get it he could not arrange it, Madhukar Reddy
pleaded helplessness.
In that manner, they ate and drank like hungry tigers. The
discussions that over by then were coming to the minds of everyone.
Old man was munching tender meat with the help of his dentures.
With a belly that burned for eleven days, eyes devoid of sleep and
frozen mind, the old man was eating very silently like an old tiger.
The ranger who was sitting next to him was handing over glass after
glass. The old man was emptying them silently. Someone struck a
match noisily and lit a cigarette.
Pingali Raghava Reddy, short and plump man with fair skin,
bald head and a paunch looks like a Shahukar. He emptied a glass
into the mouth, gulped it and puckered the eye balls – without seeing
any face stood up and sat again – said
“I have been telling since long.” The old man glanced at him as
if for the first time, kept munching the meat as if nothing mattered.
“Kaka! Kaka! It appears the times are going to be not ours. Take
care of the lands one by one. But Kaka did not trust my words,”
Raghava Reddy continued.
“What does the illarikam son-in-law of Huzurabad Patti
Manikyamma know of land matters? Did this fellow settle even before
the time? He sold all the lands and performed the marriages of two
daughters. Giving dowry in lakhs, he found well-educated sons-in-
law. One is in America and the other is in Iran. Locking the house in
the village, he started to stay at Warangal with family. He owns two
206 / Astitva

bungalows on the main road and gets rents. He does some business
too. What does he know about lands apart other than rupees?” old
man thought.
The old man recollected his own daily routine. Getting up at
four in the morning, waking up the workers and finishing tiffin and
coffee – with the cigars in the pocket and an umbrella he goes out
through the back door. First having a look at every patch in the river
canal paddies on the left eyeful, talking to the neeratikars he used
walk till the hills. Turning right there, going round the loamy fields,
Mirchi crops, he would reach home by noon. After taking bath and
putting Tirumani namam, he performs puja. He, then consumes date
palm wine or toddy as per season, and takes a nap after meal. Once
the sun sets, he sits on the kutcheri platform under the neem and
tamarind trees, before the bungalow and would listen to litigations
of the village and give his judgments. In the evening, he would go
round the gardens and yards again, would talk to the workers only
to the extent that is necessary. Daily routine of the old man continued
to go on mostly like this.
“If I did not visit even one day, the goddess of land would show
her displeasure in her face,” he used tell his son. Like that with an
eagle eye, he used to go round the lands like a demon every day. He
used to observe the boundaries of the lands critically.
Since no one said anything, Raghava Reddy started to talk again.
“Oho! Who is he and what is his status?” Katukuri Krishna
Reddy thought with the anger that he did not give his daughter to
the son – smiled sarcastically, said,
“All the shahukars of Nizamabad area are being chastised, they
say”
With these words, Ragahava Reddy’s face turned pale. Krishna
Reddy noticed it and thought Katukuri’s swipe has worked on the
Pingili fellow.” He sucked the marrow from a bone with relish. Like
the old man, Krishna Reddy still has some lands in three villages
where red flags were planted by Annalu..
“Why only in Nizamabad?” they are breaking the bones of all
the business people who had settled in cities and are collecting huge
amounts, it appears. This was written in today’s papers,” someone
said from behind.
Raghava Reddy’s kick of intoxication came down. He filled
another glass with brandy and gulped it in a neat swig. The old man
 The Funeral Feast / 207

noticed faint sweat on Raghava Reddy’s face. Another person moved

his hands like an actor in a drama and said “Well said, this is totally
true. Can we get away by selling lands and leaving? Wherever you
flee, the war is inevitable.” That man’s hair turned grey and his belly
is flat. His name is Kasarla Veera Reddy. Villagers thrashed Veera
Reddy twice in land disputes. He bid adieu to the position of Sarpanch
in the village, went to the Taluq centre and is doing abkari contract.
He has been waiting with a hope that good times may come to him
one day or the other.
Old man listened to Veera Reddy’s words sincerely and nodded
in support. One or two appreciated Veera Reddy. With that Veera Reddy
became more enthusiastic. Pouring brandy into the glass of the person
sitting next despite the latter declining it, he said “We only have timid
bastards among us. In our area there is one Polsani Narasingarao. He
is a Velama only for name sake. He trembled with fear and gave away
his lands in writing. When we are like that even lame Poshigadu would
get ready to fight. How are they uniting? See our unity. Pchch ...” Veera
Reddy expressed his disgust with a chewing sound.
“That’s okay, but having got thrashed twice, could you cultivate
your lands?” Pingli Raghava Reddy countered with a question.
“Bastards. Each of them ... I will ...“ Veera Reddy hit the glass
furiously on the table. The glass broke into pieces.
Madhukar Reddy came silently and removed the shards.
Kasarla Veera Reddy’s fury abated and he slumped into a chair.
Gradually, his face turned pale. Someone filled another glass and
handed it over to him. The mention of the thrashings in front of so
many people ... for five minutes no one spoke.
Madhukar Reddy was peering out through the window. The
old man could not fathom what was there on son’s mind.
Kasarla Veera Reddy pulled himself together and said “If people
like you escape to Hanmakonda and Karimnagar like coward women,
for people like me what is the use of taking birth in Reddy community?
Anybody has to be born some day and die on some day. Why to fear?“
Even before Veera Reddy could talk his mind out completely,
Raghava Reddy remarked moving his hands like a real Shaukar: “You
will die like that only Kasarla fellow! We must change with the times.”
With that, the Kasarla man walked out tucking his dhoti that
was coming out even saying “Useless sons of widows.” Unable to
208 / Astitva

take a side with neither of the arguments, another person too came
out saying “Oh! How hot it is? Looks it will rain”
None was bothered about his utterances. The room was filled
with the smell of meat, puris, brandy and cigarette smoke. A kind of
stillness was set in there with the words of Veera Reddy. To ward it
off they were munching bones noisily. They also drank alcohol fast
and smoked cigarette after cigarette. Everyone was immersed in his
own thoughts. Unable to decide whether to fight or sit calmly, the
old man has lit a Charminar cigarette. He had been cherishing that
brand of cigarette for a long time.
Madhukar got vexed with all this and called the people in the
ground floor with a big shout. Vimala sent the cook upstairs. Through
a gesture, Madhukar expressed his intention that whatever food items
are needed on the tables, should be supplied. The cook went round
the tables and observed. Rice remained as it is. But puris, meat and
garelu were being consumed fast. He went down with empty basins.
Cook would not narrate to Vimala the scene he has witnessed. Vimala
smiled queerly.
“It appears she has no sorrow at all,” one of Madhukar’s sisters
whispered with another.
Madhukar Reddy had already climbed down, lit a cigarette and
stood apart as if staying away from the incident. Just with the mention
of lands, so big a bickering is going on. How much more one needs
to struggle to not lose them! Opponents are not like earlier. When the
groups are ready on either side of war line ... again a confrontation is
taking place. He threw away the cigarette in disgust. Madhukar Reddy
was attracted by the cloudlet hanging on a stream. His mother came
to his mind. He felt that the present obsequies were not being
performed properly. He passed his left hand onto his head that was
tonsured clean just that morning. The funeral rites which took place
in the morning came to his mind. He rushed to the upper floor. By
then the bottles became almost empty. With the arrival of his brother-
in-law, the ranger took out keys, brought some more bottles out from
the cupboard and placed them on the table. For a while the guests
talked about them. As per the custom in vogue, guests and near
relatives bring the liquor bottles. The summary of their talk comprised
who brought how many bottles.
As if to make the atmosphere light, the abkari man opened the
whiskey bottle with flourish, stood by the chair in which Veera Reddy
 The Funeral Feast / 209

was sitting and said “Thatha, it is better if you get into some vegetable
business.”
“If I enter vegetable trade, all from your department must buy
four buffalos each and sell milk,” he answered. Though he said so, it
was evident to himself that his own business would not run well.
Veera Reddy went out briskly and started thinking, ‘Why the itch for
me when they all don’t have it?’ Like Beeravolu Sundar Reddy, should
I try something like fertilizers, pesticides, electric motors, middle man
in the grain market?
The old man spread his glance far away through the window.
With the trees that shed their leaves and bushes the right flank of the
hill was completely bare and boring. Cattle and goats were moving
hither and thither in hot sun. Somewhere a goat was bleating
piteously.
All of them had another round of liquor.
Kasarla gentleman felt much anger on Pingili man who settled
in business long back. Katukuri Krishna Reddy was already sodden
in liquor. He got up and slumped by the wall and muttered something
to himself. Some other person spilt a glassful of whiskey on the table.
“I could manage to escape even from the problems of land ceiling
in the name of horticulture and retained my farmlands” old man got
up from the opposite window and moved to the one on the right.
That side of the hill had no leafy trees or bushes and it appeared as
though there was a hill fire in the backdrop. On the top of the hill,
smoke was seen. Branches and leaves were not moving. It appeared
as if time stood still in a conflagration. Somehow the old man did not
like to watch that scene. He came back to the tables, sat down and
emptied the glass in one go.
All of a sudden Veera Reddy stood up and shouted. “Sons of
bitches! The unity seen in them is lacking in us.”
This made Pingili man furious. His face turned red like a
polished copper pitcher. Upset, he put the whiskey bottle on the table
and ran to Veera Reddy.
By the time Madhukar Reddy understood the feud Raghava
Reddy toppled Veera Reddy and sat on him. Glasses made noises.
“Stop, Stop” Linga Reddy separated the two and made them sit
in chairs. He was the only man who sat without uttering a word till
then in that party. Moreover, due to fear or some other reason he was
the only man who drank less than others.
210 / Astitva

“What is the use of blaming one another? We have to condemn

the Congress rule” another person gave his judgment.
The old man was tense. Had he said something, may be the
tension would have lessened.
Meanwhile, with a conviction that all this is half-baked
knowledge of politics, Mandala Mukunda Reddy said “All your ideas
are mere waste” and belched. Thirty years back he was an MLA of
Praja Socialist Party. Gradually he fell away from the party. He kept
his distance. He participates in the agitations of that region now and
then. He too was about to lose his land. He yearns to keep his
reputation and does not consider the lands very important. Even that
looks impossible. He studied well even during Nizam era. His father
was a Deshmukh.
Many could not understand what Mukunda Reddy had said.
Mukunda Reddy started talking in a friendly manner.
“No use blaming Chenna Reddy or Anna. No need of finding
fault with Singh either. Gorbachev of Russia himself gave it up ... .
The entire world is in a whirlpool”
With his words many there felt as if contacted a fever.
Moving back and forth and looking at Mukunda Reddy, the old
man wanted to say something. “Why did it happen like this?” asked
the Ranger. Many were familiar with the things mentioned by
Mukunda Reddy. But they don’t even know the actual inner principle.
Even if they knew, they had no clear understanding of it. Madhukar
felt not just curious but also agitated.
“If you ask why, it is very simple. It’s a matter of conflict between
production and supply. No one can deny it nor stop it.” He told curtly.
Many did not understand the matter at all ... a couple of them
were even afraid of going deeper.
Mukunda Reddy rubbed his face with his left hand. Perhaps he
wanted to tell little mildly, he said “We can’t help. Whatever land
they give us out of mercy has to be accepted. For the present, we can’t
do anything more.” He purposefully stressed on the words ‘for the
present’.
Whatever strength remained in the old man has dissolved too.
His countenance showed that up.
“How much would they give?” asked Pingali Raghava Reddy.
 The Funeral Feast / 211

With this question, there, a hope arose in the old man. So many
hundreds of acres! Would they take them all? How much would they
give him? The old man felt as if some support was at hand.
It came to be understood in the light of the preceding arguments
that this typhoon was not going to lose its strength. There was
something getting ready to erupt inside the old man. What would be
its shape? Old man’s anguish increased.
“According to the areas in the district, nature of the lands, and
also the behavior of the landlord – and also the fixed assets that the
landlord owns apart these lands ...” Mukunda Reddy narrated the
details of the lands in the district and also informed of the decisions.
The old man did not find any place where he would fit in.
“Chiefly, the distribution of the lands is done by the lower rung
people, it looks,” Veera Reddy said with concern.
They are not different among themselves. Hands and mouth
belong to the same body. By the way, what was told at the Warangal
Sabha, Bapu?” vexed, he turned to Madhukar and asked.
Madhukar has no taste for such a debate. He was one person
who was contemplating what stand has to be taken in this changed
situation.
“According to what they said, in our area a good landlord may
be left with ten acres,” said Madhukar quite unwillingly.
“Is it the same irrespective of the number of persons in a family?”
“Major children would have share. For the unmarried daughters
some concession” Mukunda Reddy told.
The old became peevish. Ten acres to the one who got hundreds
of acres cultivated! Water was dripping from his nose. Eyes turned
red.
All the others were calculating. They were doing additions and
subtractions. One of them was shouting that it is not right. All were
talking continuously and noisily. All of a sudden, the atmosphere
turned tense.
The old man got up and stood. More than due to the effect of
the drinks, his entire body was trembling due to rage.
Yet, trying to control himself, he said “So I and my children and
the live-in son-in-law would get ten acres all together. That too, only
when we cultivate it. My son and I must till the land with ploughs ...”
212 / Astitva

Being in their own inebriation, no one heeded his words.

Mukunda Reddy looked sideways, struck a match with sound,
lit a cigarette and said “Yes, Mama ...” and sent the smoke through
his nostrils.
Unable to utter even a single word, the old man has shaken.
He picked the basin of garelu and hurled it. Fortunately it did
not hit anyone. It hit the wall and made a big noise. Everyone turned
to the old man.
Looking at his face, they thought he would lift the three tables
and hit all of them.
Hearing the sound, the cook and womenfolk came running and
stopped in front of the room. The cook stopped at the wall on looking
at the old man’s face.
Old man scurried towards the window. Everyone breathed a
sigh of relief. Women went down whispering among themselves.
Everyone had felt that some of the kick was lost. They filled their
glasses with last pegs.
Linga Reddy brought a glass to the old man and handed it over
with shaking hands.
Old man looked into Linga Reddy’s visage. He did not
understand what was there in that face. He pushed the glass away as
if refusing. Something other than kick was creeping in him. Lands
appeared to him hazily. As if the thoughts were broken, he couldn’t
understand anything for a while. Again, through the right side
window he gazed at the hill side. The sound of an axe was heard
faintly from far, as if it came nearer, the sound of a tree collapsing
was heard.
Peculiarly tears welled up fast in the old man’s eyes.
At once he started crying uncontrollably.
Ranger and Linga Reddy carefully caught hold of the collapsing
old man and put him in a chair.
With this unexpected occurrence, everyone was stunned. Instead
of crying, if the old man hurled everything in that room and broken
them, none of them would have wondered even a bit. It was an
unforeseen and unfortunate happening for all of them.
Madhukar did not like his father’s weeping. All those who
collected there till now appeared to have been standing in their own
places safely. Getting down slowly with step after a step, Madhukar
came to the front of the home and stood there. He looked at his watch.
 The Funeral Feast / 213

Fifty minutes after three – clouds were collecting on the hill. Dust
and gales were likely.
Madhukar stood silently, remained still and smoked two
cigarettes in a row.
Dust and gale have started with a big noise.
Is it that his father and all those who joined here have collapsed?
Or would they continue the meaningless resistance? Whatever it is,
their age-old methods of thinking and functioning have ceased. Is it
so? Then in this tempest where should he stand? Not in his father’s
position, of course. Father has collapsed in the position that had
formed over generations. He must find his position and sustain
himself.
Gales picked up more and more, carrying dust and dried leaves.
Clouds were somersaulting in the sky.

“Chaavu Vindu”
1991 Translated by K. B. Gopalam
214 / Astitva

Education

B.S. Ramulu

“I won’t go to school,” Gangadhari said with tears rolling down his

cheeks in a stream.
“Son of a donkey! If you say that again, I’ll kill you!” Yellaiah,
his father, was about to hit him with a stick again.
Latchaiah, the school teacher, took Gangadhari into his arms, as
he didn’t want to see the boy being punished in front of his house. He
saw the marks of the stick on his delicate, dark body. This was the
result of Latchaiah’s complaint that the boy had been irregular to the
classes. He was feeling guilty as he was responsible for the corporal
punishment of Gangadhari.
Latchaiah was fond of Gangadhari. When he first came to the
village, Gangadhari was Gangaiah as per the school records. He
changed his name to Gangadhari. In fact, Gangadhari was interested
in education. He used to get good marks, but only this year there was
a sudden change in his behaviour.
“Water is getting colder,” said Mallavva, Latchaiah’s wife, while
offering them tea. Though her name is Mallavva, Latchaiah prefers
to address her as ‘Malleshwari.’ Yellaiah proved to be handy to
Malleshwari, ever since the family moved to the village. He used to
do everything for them–from fetching firewood to bargaining with
vegetable vendors. Gangadhari too ran errands for the teacher’s family.
 Education / 215

Gangadhari didn’t take the tea. “Why didn’t you have the tea,
bidda? Take it,” Malleshwari consoled him. Keeping the glass aside,
he stood and started sobbing. After finishing his tea, Latchaiah said,
“I’ll be back soon.” He went towards the bathroom–an enclosure built
with dried palm leaves.
When Latchaiah was getting ready, Gangadhari ran away, saying,
“I won’t go to school, even if you kill me.” The tea glass was flung to
the corner as he tripped over it. Yellaiah could not catch hold of him.
Latchaiah rushed out of the room. He tried to pacify Yellaiah
saying, “Don’t say anything to him now. I’ll persuade him to go to
school in a couple of days.” This year, Gangadhari had suffered from
fever for several days. He also had the runs. He was not taken to the
doctor in time. So, he couldn’t attend the school for many days.
However, he was able to catch up with others in his studies. But he
might have thought that this school and writing notes could come in
the way of his freedom. The textbooks seemed to have been designed
keeping in mind the children of middle class families in the city. They
did not interest the rural students particularly, the dalits. Latchaiah
faced many such problems in his childhood but he could not find a
solution to it. If a student is able to pass Intermediate somehow, his
education will move further smoothly.
Latchaiah too had similar experiences. His brother, Narsanna,
behaved like this, when he was same age as Gangadhari. Narsanna’s
parents too were worried like Yellaiah.
When Narsanna had protested –”I won’t go to school,” the
parents tortured him, turning the house into a virtual cell for him.
They pinched his thigh, tied him up to be flogged, and starved him.
Everyone in the neighbourhood made fun of him. Thinking that he
was possessed by an evil spirit, they performed exorcising rituals,
tonsured his head and massaged it with lime. Such things only
prompted Narsanna to become more stubborn. Some called him a
wastrel and others treated him as mad. For some time, he took to the
streets and would come home to eat when no one was around. He
slept at all places. Frightened by the torture inflicted on his brother,
Latchaiah went to school sincerely. ‘But why should there be so much
of violence for the sake of education?’
Rabindranath Tagore didn’t go to school till he was fourteen
and enjoyed a life of freedom. He might have become a Vishwakavi, as
216 / Astitva

he was not compelled to study. And he had established Shantiniketan

to provide liberal education. Narsanna would have also become a
great writer, had he been given such freedom. Narsanna was a good
story teller. He was popular with the children. He adored Nature,
trees, lakes and ponds.
After a few days, nayana forced him to learn the caste-
occupation. Having noticed nayana’s attitude towards him, he decided
to not heed whatever he said. When tortured, he blurted “You can
kill me ... .” and wept, but didn’t go to school, nor practised the
occupation.
Nasranna was very audacious. He would collect variety of items
walking along the fields. He would bring all types of fruits and
firewood. He would catch fish and spin the top on his palm. When
we were all scared of snakes and snags underwater, he would jump
into the ponds to collect the flowers and sell them out.
One day, nayana, punished him severely by tying him to a
wooden post for ignoring his advice. He didn’t give him food and
Narsanna fainted. At night, avva got up to feed brother. She
unfastened the rope and pleaded, “Don’t run away anywhere, bidda.
If you want, you can go to one of our relatives and stay there for
some time.” Nayana had thrashed avva that day. As a result, she didn’t
stir out of her bed for three days. To study is easier than to get into
family profession. But Narsanna showed no interest in either.
Narsanna’s whereabouts were not known for about two weeks
after that incident. Nobody knew where he was. They came to know
that he was taking shelter neither with their relatives nor in other
known places. It was also rumoured that he might have died having
fallen into some well or pond. His mother searched for him
everywhere, crying heart out. There was no trace of him.
After a few days, some said he was in Nizamabad and was
working in a hotel as a waiter. Nayana, compelled by avva’s entreaties,
went to Nizamabad to bring him back. But he had already fled the
place before nayana reached there. It was said that he was seen in
Jalna, in Bhiwandi and in Bombay carrying tiffin carriers to the factory
workers. Somebody told that he landed a job as a power loom operator
and turned a perfect hand. Others said he became a mechanic. Several
rumours were doing the rounds about him but there was no letter
from him to his parents.
 Education / 217

Narsanna was a misfit in any field, as he wouldn’t tolerate any

kind of deceit. He was not a person to stay put at one place for a long
period.
One day, he came back home and promised to not go anywhere.
They married him off. After a while, finding marital life an
unnecessary burden, he went away again leaving his wife and family
in lurch. Frustrated with Narsanna’s behaviour, his parents arranged
a second marriage for his divorced wife.
Later it was heard that Narsanna took a Marathi woman as his
living partner. They got separated after a few days. It was rumoured
that he eloped with someone’s wife and was murdered and his body
dumped into an underground drain. But for some time, he kept
appearing to people at Pandaripur, Shirdi and Surat. For a while,
there was no news about him. Narsanna who wanted to enjoy
complete freedom in everything had a pathetic end eventually. Why
are some persons averse to maintaining social relations? Is there any
freedom beyond social relations?
People thought of Narsanna as being irresponsible. If only the
education or family occupation had been marked by an iota of
pleasure and human element, his brother would have achieved
something in his life. Teachers’ inhuman treatment and social
constraints coupled with superstitious beliefs had become hurdles
in the life of persons like Narsanna, who was not able to articulate
his feelings well. How many would have been victimised like
Narsanna by this insensitive social ethics? Is there not a way out to
save individuals like Gangadhari who seemed to replicate the feelings
of Narsanna now? Can’t he do anything to prevent Gangadhari from
being wasted?
Gangadhari is very sensitive. He easily gets offended. He would
never reveal his feelings to anyone. Like his brother, Gangadhari loves
to go about the fields, lakes and trees. He used to spend near the
hills, grazing his sheep. He would croon the lyrics he has created on
the spur of the moment. He had the makings of a poet. But how could
he become one without formal education? For Tagore, it was a
different situation. Did Gangadhari have any of such advantages?
Latchaiah felt disturbed when he thought of his brother. He sent
a letter of absence to the school for he got late because of his nostalgic
ruminations. After taking his breakfast, he went towards the fields.
218 / Astitva

Women were singing as they worked in the fields. The gardens and
commercial crops were everywhere. He was enchanted by the smell
of the red gram crop and was about pluck the pods. With good sense
prevailing, he abstained from doing so. The chrysanthemums spread
along the embankments shone brightly. He was not aware how long
he spent there. At sunset, sitting on the bank of Sriramsagar Project
canal, Gangadhari was seen crooning to himself, while letting the
sheep drink water. Latchaiah moved through the bushes to keep
himself out of sight and reached home by evening.
Does man find so much happiness being with Nature? Is there
real freedom in the lap of Nature? How ethereal he felt about his
body and mind today! Was it because of the feeling that he would be
separated from Nature, Gangadhari declined to go to school? Love
of Nature might transform landless Gangadhari into an agricultural
labourer! Preoccupied with the thoughts that the tenant farmers and
common labourers would find so much of joy and liberty in
benevolent Nature, Latchaiah had his dinner absentmindedly and
went to bed that night.
Early in the morning, Budavva, looking forlorn, came to meet
Latchaiah.
“My son wasn’t home last night, saru. The sheep returned. He
didn’t even come for lunch. Feeling that he would come home at any
moment, I kept the door ajar. What is wrong with him, saru? He will
do anything he is asked to do. He is very smart and energetic. Tell his
father not to beat him. I beg you to advise my son to not wander,”
said Budavva, with tears in her eyes.
“You needn’t worry. Leave the matter to me. I’ll take care of
him. Don’t say anything to him even if he were to miss a few classes.
Treat him as if he was attending school regularly. He will know the
importance of education and grow wiser in course of time. What if
he does not come to school? One can study Tenth, Inter and Degree
privately. If he has a desire, he can continue his studies at any age,”
said Latchaiah consoling her.
Since then, Gangadhari became a free bird. Latchaiah would
buy many books on education in both Telugu and English, whenever
he visited Hyderabad. He had many doubts when he started reading
them. He was pestered by the thought that the Narsanna-Gangadhari
factor more than poverty was the reason why only one out of every
 Education / 219

ten students who took admission to school was able to complete tenth
class. This was proved to be right in course of time. He raised this
issue at a seminar conducted at the District Teacher Education Centre.
When he had met his old friend, Laxmaiah, a teacher in B. Ed
College, at a marriage function, he discussed the subject with him.
Many teachers, who were present, evinced interest in the topic –‘As
Jiddu Krishnamurthy or some other educationist opined, can anyone
get educated on his own without the formal system of education? Is
it possible to have higher level of enlightenment in those individuals
who abstain from school, and are given liberty like Tagore for twenty
years without assigning them any work? Can the parents however
rich they are, allow this to happen?’
During lunch, they had a long discussion.
“To speak the truth, today’s education gives no scope for
creativity and freedom among the children. It turns them into relay
centres by suppressing their ability to self expression. We have made
them perform like tape-recorder, radio or TV relay stations. The rote
system killed their natural instincts for novelty and creativity. To learn
mere alphabet doesn’t require so many years of schooling. Forcing
dalits to join the school and brand them as numbskulls when they
fail to perform is like slapping someone going his way without a
reason,” said Laxmaiah bluntly.
“Do you mean to suggest that whatever is taught in the school
has no relevance for life?”
“I don’t mean it. First, the child is expected to parrot what is
there in the lesson. There is no way to express their creative ideas on
a subject in the present system. Second, some children are able to
make out the subject but are not able to express. Third, few others
want to keep to themselves what they have understood. How can it
be termed as creativity? We treat the students as robots. In other words
it is no less than a violence to coerce the students to repeat what you
have taught them. Unless the students agree to the ideas learnt from
the lesson, they cannot express them properly. Are you not imposing
on them your ideas, against their wishes?” Laxmaiah had almost
delivered a lecture.
Then Latchaiah told him about Gangadhari.
“Poverty is an impediment in all aspects. Tagore, Jiddu
Krishnamurthy and Gouthama Buddha grew not knowing what
220 / Astitva

poverty was like. So they were able to enunciate the value of freedom
and convince the others. Because of his low birth and penury,
Gangadhari could miss out on this opportunity,” said Laxmaiah.
“If only there is a system that nurtures and satisfies the needs of
such students, the society would have been that much better,”
Latchaiah said, feeling sad.
“I agree with you,” Laxmaiah said and the discussion came to
an end. Once an agreement is reached, any discussion is bound to
cease. But what remains is putting it into practice.
Latchaiah organized poetry meets for children on different
occasions. He encouraged Gangadhari to take part in them. He made
him sing at dharnas and protests held by the District-level teachers’
associations. Gangadhari was appreciated for his talent. During
summer holidays, Latchaiah took Gangadhari to his native village.
Gangadhari made friends with local brass band group. He also learnt
tailoring. When he was in need of money, he worked in the brick
kiln, and took part in digging wells at times. He was friendly with
the owners of mango groves and shepherds. They liked his songs
very much.
When the school reopened, during rainy season, Latchaiah was
transferred to another village. Gangadhari showed no interest in the
studies after Latchaiah’s departure. When he came to know of this,
Latchaiah took him to his new place for a few days. After returning,
Gangadhari became obstinate and so Yellaiah put him in the service
of Venkat Rao dora. He was to look after cattle and attend to minor
jobs at home. Mesmerized by his songs, Venkat Rao’s grand-daughter,
Haritha followed him to the fields and woods skipping her classes.
Since she was his daughter’s kid, Venkat Rao didn’t say anything to
her, but he punished Gangadhari twice or thrice. He put up with the
torture silently for the sake of Haritha’s company. Vexed with his
behaviour, Venkat Rao turned Gangadhari out. When Yellaiah tried
to beat him, Gangadhari ran away, hitting him back. Yellaiah hurled
abuses at his son, who kept away from home for some days and finally
without informing anyone he went to Latchaiah.
Latchaiah tried to make Gangadhari work for a saw-mill, but
the latter chose to guard the cattle in the woods. Once the members
of an organization heard his songs and took him along with them
and trained him to sing their songs. When he was asked to sing only
 Education / 221

such songs as were sung by the group, he decided to part ways. He

went back to guard the cattle. But he was replaced by someone else.
Then, he started working as a construction labourer. He was
happy with it because he could work at will. By and by, he learnt the
work and rose to the position of a mason. One day a group of
mendicants, comprising an old man and his wife and two disciples,
arrived in the village. They claimed to be the practitioners of achala
tatvam. They led their lives wandering from place to place.
The name of the guru was Purnananda Swamy, but people
addressed him as ‘Swami’ or by his real name Rajaiah ayyagaru. They
visited the house of a disciple a day and took something as gift from
him, after having lunch. In the evenings, they spent reciting
philosophical songs or preaching at a disciple’s house. Gangadhari
was fascinated by the guru when he heard him say, “The worldly
attachments, the pains and pleasures are all illusions. This body is a
mere sack made of leather. Why should we be so fond of this? All of
us one day turn to dust. Only our good deeds remain here after we
leave this world. This is the truth of life.” He reflected on the words
of the guru and went to meet him in the evening. He sang at the
satsangh and the guru was amused by the intelligent queries posed
by him. The guru asked Gangadhari to join his troupe.
He visited many villages along with the guru and got a lot of
experience. He became a source of solace to the guru when his wife
died after prolonged illness. When the guru was not well, Gangadhari
was sent along with his disciples. He came to know that there were
many mutts and as many ideologies. He wanted to know the
philosophy of different mutts. He took leave of the guru. He worked
as a labourer to raise money for his journey. He visited all the gurus
and was enlightened by their philosophical teachings.
Slowly, Gangadhari learnt some Sanskrit slokas, Hindi and
Marathi songs and a bit of English. He could recite melodiously the
stanzas from Kabir and Guru Ramdas. Ratna who saw him at an
international Ashram began to admire Gangadhari. He was not aware
of this. Her husband who was a Telugu man, living in Maharashtra,
died recently. Her parents left no stone unturned to keep her in good
humour.
Ratna invited Gangadhari to her village. Her parents hoped he
would bring in some change in her life. He never thought of marrying
222 / Astitva

anyone. He longed to meet his guru, Purnanada Swamy, after

spending few days in the village. But he could not find the guru’s
address. Bidding farewell to Ratna, he embarked on his journey alone.
He searched for him in all the villages.
Once, he confronted with a naxalites-dalam. When asked about
him, he refused to reveal his identity. Thinking that he was a cop in
disguise, they thrashed him. Muttering some philosophical lines, he
fainted. When the dalam left, the villagers, taking pity on him, helped
him recover. Later, he was obstructed by the police on suspicion:
“Who are you?
“I am a living being.”
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m trying to know about it.”
Suspecting him to be a courier of the Naxalites, they beat him
hard. He became unconscious, reciting metaphysical songs. One of
them, hearing the songs, said, “He seems a monk. Let him go.”
One evening, sitting under a tree after quenching his thirst with
water from a bore well, he started singing to himself. Then a jeep
pulled up near the pump. The driver wanted some water to cool the
radiator. The tribal welfare officer in the jeep, on hearing the songs of
Gangadhari, got down and asked him to join them to use his talent
for the benefit of the people for which he would also be paid. He
went with them and sang at various places for few days. Soon he
realized that it was all monotonous and he didn’t feel like singing
under any compulsion. Informing them of his decision, he went
searching for his guru.
One morning, another batch of Naxalites met him. One of them,
recognizing him, said, “Anna! You’re Gangadhari, aren’t you? Don’t
be mistaken, I had a classmate who looks like you. It’s been very long
since I saw him. I don’t know if he is alive.”
Gangadhari could not recall anything. The memories of
childhood got blurred just like that of his former life. He remained
silent not knowing what to say. When he began to sing, the member
of the team thought he was none other than Gangadhari. He hugged
him and said, “Gangadhari, this is Sudhakar. We together spent days
walking along the fields, driving cattle in the forest.” As he spoke to
him, tears of joy coursed down his cheeks.
 Education / 223

Gangadhari learnt from him about his family—his father died

ten years ago, his mother continued to worry about him, his sister
was married and had two kids, her husband left for Arab countries in
search of livelihood, Latchaiah-saru got promoted as lecturer, who
remembered Gangadhari now and then, his wife became the
chairperson of a mandal under women’s quota, a new temple was
constructed for Shirdi Saibaba. Gangadhari’s close friend, Rajaiah who
led a life of a labourer, was now a noted building contractor, and
became Sarpanch, Venkat Rao died a long time ago, his grand-
daughter, Haritha had two children, and her husband was killed by
Naxals. He informed that she was now running a school, she
remembered him at times. Sudhakar proposed to Haritha and she
consented, but the party objected to their marriage.
Mentioning of Haritha reminded Gangadhari of Ratna.
“Are you not vexed with this sort of life which is not useful to
the society? How could you lead this lonely life? Can’t you do
something for the people?” suggested Sudhakar.
Gangadhari flashed a smile which was neither sad nor sarcastic.
It was a felicitous smile.
“Is your revolutionary struggle meant for the people? If so, what
is the role of people and their likes and dislikes in the revolution?”
Gangadhari said without mincing words. He continued:
“You believe in revolution. All your struggles amounted to
treating your personal beliefs as public beliefs, didn’t they? You thrust
your ideology on the people. When some believe in it, you assume
that it has got a wider acceptance. Is it sensible to say that you work
for the people when you actually carry out your personal agenda?
Where is room for the likes and dislikes of the public? When there is
no ‘self’ interest in any action, then you really be able to do something
for the people. Have you overcome your wants, your ‘self’? Do you
experience the joy of being selfless? Does happiness lie only in the
material possessions? If you feel happy when others sing to your
tune, how will it make me happy? Have you read the teachings of the
Buddha? What do actually freedom, love and kindness mean to you?”
Sudhakar somehow managed to answer his queries. He told
him that there was nothing more important than physical existence.
“There’s no denying the fact but what I have been saying also
concerns physical life. My discussion is all about man,” said
Gangadhari.
224 / Astitva

As they found the subject interesting, they asked Gangadhari to

spend about a week with them. They wanted to discuss it threadbare.
During the period, everyone in the group was charmed by the
points he raised—‘Have you conquered your mind? What actually is
mind? What’s freedom? What is society? What do all these relations
signify? Shall we have real freedom without relinquishing the worldly
claims?’ Gangadhari didn’t attempt to provide answers. The leader
of the dalam opined that it was all a pigment of imagination or mere
idealism.
Gangadhari interfered, “When the mind is dynamic and
henceforth originate all the desires, perspectives and theories from
it, how can a discussion about mind be termed as idealism?”
At one point, the divisional secretary of the area took part in the
discussion. But no one was able to find answers. Gangadhari didn’t
help them either. For the first time, they understood that these simple
looking monks had an analytical mind with an ability to probe deeper
into the subject. When they informed him that they had to attend
party meetings Gangadhari took leave of them. He resumed his quest
for his first guru.
Gangadhari came to know about his guru in some village. He
was told that the guru had visited the village last year. He was very
weak and felt that he might not visit the village again. All the disciples
from different places got an ashram built for their guru. Soon,
Gangadhari located the ashram. The guru looked emaciated and aged.
Seeing Gangadhari, he cried with happiness, as if his own son had
come back.
In all, there were ten disciples. The ashram had a pleasant
ambience. There were four rooms, a hall and a pandal, encircled by
trees. In all respects, it looked like a model Ashram. In the evening
someone began bhakti songs, but the guru stopped them.
“Where is the God, nayana? Why do you search for Him when
He is not there? God is an illusion. Those who have no control over
their mind have created the God and asked Him to gratify their
desires. In your desires will God be. Your soul is your god. Your
goodness is your god. Your mind is your saitan. Nowhere do they
reside, but in your mind nayana?”
Gangadhari felt happy as he found a profound change in the
guru. This is also what Buddha enunciated. By playing on the kanjeera,
he sang the songs he had composed, extolling this philosophy.
 Education / 225

Days went by. The ashram was busy with disciple-friends’

coming-and-going, and the guru was satisfied with Gangadhari’s
philosophical conversations with them. Gangadhari exhibited a lot
of maturity lately! He would get up early in the morning and work in
the garden, help in the kitchen and clean the toilets. On seeing him
work enthusiastically, the guru became happy and his health
improved. He was worried all the time about his successor. He
discovered one in Gangadhari, and all his worries were put to rest.
One day, the guru was sipping hot gruel. The disciples gathering
around him initiated a discussion on the importance of family and
renunciation. “The difference between renunciation and
possessiveness is like the difference between control over the senses
and obsession with worldly possessions,” one of them said.
“Real life implies leading the family life like a sanyasi,” opined
another disciple.
“If it were possible, the world would be filled with love,” said
another. They continued to argue animatedly. The guru was listening
to them. When he got an opportunity, Gangadhari remarked, “I would
like to live with Ratna. What do you say?”
“If she comes leaving her children behind, she can become a
member of our Ashram.”
“Then what about celibacy as has been propagated by
Buddhism?” someone raised the question.
“Renunciation is a man’s attempt to live the family life. Only to
live for the sake of illusive earthly relations is family life. The
renunciation mentioned in Buddhism is a lofty ideal. To remain a
sanyasi while leading the family life is still better. That’s the reason
why Buddhism lost its ground here, and Hinduism has continued to
survive and thrive.”
The arguments continued further on the subject. However, no
consensus was reached. They left it at that, since to favour one is to
be prejudiced against the other.
Gnagadhari brought Ratna to the ashram. On her arrival, the
ashram got a new look. Thinking that his mother would feel happy
to know he was alive, he sought the permission of guru to visit his
mother for a few days along with Ratna.
“If you go there, you will be surrounded by your kith and kin
and I’m not sure how much time you may take to return. I cannot
226 / Astitva

endure the separation so long, bidda. Couldn’t she come if you simply
write a letter to her? Or we shall send a disciple to fetch her.”
Budavva came with her baggage and became a member of the
ashram. Having heard that Gangadhari was in the ashram, Haritha
visited it a few times. Latchaiah and Laxmaiah also met him and
congratulated both him and the guru.
During Karthika Pournami, about three hundred disciples
congregated at the ashram. Ratna and Gangadhari were busy
attending to their accommodation and other needs. It was a pleasant
sight with the disciples greeting one another and all cheered up at
the prospect of being with their guru at the ashram.
“How would you like the ashram to be managed after you?”
asked a senior disciple who was of the same age as the guru.
“This is left to the discretion of the disciples.” the guru said
subtly to avoid further discussion. But they went on talking about
the subject, when Gangadhari interfered by putting forth his feelings.
“The people are craving for real freedom. Shall we establish a
school that would be an abode of liberty, pristine love and
compassion?” Gangadhar said keeping his own experiences in view.
“Will the students, imbibing such ideals at school, be able to
cope with life in the society?” doubted a disciple. Gangadhari was
surprised why he didn’t consider this aspect. He requested the guru
for his message.
“Nayana! What you think is not right. The world is real.
Selfishness, jealousy, familial bonds, sense of superiority and the State
are all real. But these are also illusions. Holding on to these bonds
with selfishness is an illusion. Freeing from fetters of selfishness, still
living through all these is like a sanyasi liberated from illusion. This
is real freedom, real love and compassion. It will be selfishness if
some gurus become rotund by amassing wealth in the name of mutts
and ashrams. Real happiness lies in rendering our duty sincerely.
Guru Ravidas, great scholar he was, led the simple life of a cobbler
wandering across the country. Nowhere do we find divine knowledge.
It is in sudras and low caste people. Divine knowledge is a bliss one
experiences in creating something. All things are created by the low
caste people. So they are true brahma gnanis. No one knows better
than these people what bliss is!”
“What about the popular belief that those who acquired brahma
ganam are brahmins?” another disciple asked.
 Education / 227

“This is a false notion, nayana! Those who have got brahma

gnanam are sudras, the low-caste people. How could the Brahmins,
who never do any work connected to Nature, claim to have got brahma
gnanam and divine bliss? They never overcome the idea that they are
superior by birth and are placed above all. The divinity will never be
attained by such men as are biased and egoistic. Those who are able
to free themselves from such ideas will be blessed with divine
knowledge. This is called brahma gnanam. It means freedom from
illusion. It will be a real liberation. Living amidst all the human
passions like anger, envy, jealousy, and the thoughts like ‘I am
superior, this is mine, this is not mine,’ and still steering clear of this
illusion is real renunciation. The saying of Buddha– ‘when you feel
that nothing is yours, everything belongs to you’ is profound and
worth remembering. What Gangadhari desires is a unique world of
ideals. This can never be realized. Here what we are expected to teach
is how to control the mind while going through all the worldly
experiences, working for the universal good, preparing our mind and
soul to accept the fact that nothing is ours. If we shun the family,
property, power, name, honour, caste and religion, our body and
beliefs, we reach a state of abhavam, release from maya. Then only a
world of socialism can become a reality. Son! This is the essence of
teachings by the Buddha, Kabir and Guru Ravidas and it is also my
message to you on the eve of Karthika Pournami!”
After a long discussion, they were all agreed that a suitable and
a natural education was that which explores the interests and tastes
of the students and offers them freedom to express themselves,
enables them to explore the world around. They vowed to start such
school. The guru blessed them.
Preparations were in full swing and the disciples gathered at
the ashram on the day of Buddha poornima. The school was inaugurated
by Budavva, as the guru lighted the sacred lamp. As suggested by
Latchaiah and Laxmaiah, it was named ‘Educational Research Centre.’
It would cater to the poor and the hapless. The school took off on a
grand note and ran successfully. With Latchaiah’s support, the
students were able to get scholarship from Social Welfare Department.
The officials appreciated the school’s progress. Budavva died
peacefully, a few days later.
A seminar was conducted at the ashram for a week, with the
support of Latchaiah and Laxmaiah. As Laxmaiah was now the
228 / Astitva

Registrar of a University, he made it a collaborative event by extending

financial support. They covered writers and philosophers like
Buddha, Russell, Povel, Mendel, Marx, JK, Erik Fromm, Tagore,
Gandhi, Ambedkar, Mao, Gijubhai, Phule and caste-based gurukula
system, ancient Buddhist Universities, Phule and topics like children’s
literature. The students along with their parents and the disciples
took part in the discussions. They had got clarity about an ideal school
and everyone felt satisfied with the proceedings of the programme.
Gangadhari embarked on a nation-wide tour, collecting
donations from the disciples and the well-wishers of guru. He visited
several universities. On his return, a forty acre land adjoining the
ashram was purchased. As it was for a great cause, the farmers also
cooperated by reducing the price. Raising the fence around the land,
they developed it into a vegetable and fruit garden. It had attained
the look of a natural garden.
The Ashram school created an impression among the students
that education is a recreation–a combination of study and play. They
learnt many things in a playful atmosphere.
One evening, having worked with children all day, Gangadhari
felt exhausted, and he went to bed sooner than usual. There was a
sense of satisfaction in his physical strain. Suddenly, he felt as if some
divine grace had spread through his body, as if some flame of quest
with unfulfilled desire had guided him all along.
Now he had another question–‘Can’t anyone achieve anything
in life without the burning flame of some hidden desire or a sense of
dissatisfaction?’ ‘Was it the same flame that inspired the likes of the
Buddha, Kabir, Ravidas, Vemana, Pothuluri, JK and Phule and
Ambedkar? Did they transform this flame into a halo of pleasant life
and a new path with a fresh perspective to lead the world forward?’
He was not aware how long he spent thinking like that, and when he
went to bed. Nobody knew when he died in sleep that night. Some
thought he had a heart stroke and others felt that he had brain-
haemorrhage. Ratna who went in to wake him up was shocked to see
him dead. He was cremated in the ashram in the midst of
philosophical chanting. The students paid rich tributes to their teacher
by reciting the lines dear to him.
“He who is expected to lead the world into light left it in
darkness,” the guru said, shedding tears. Latchaiah and Laxmaiah
 Education / 229

became sad, thinking that Gangadhari had left without fulfilling his
dream of converting the school into a university.
The guru seemed lonely after Gangadhari’s death. He did not
live longer. The disciples assembled to construct a memorial in his
honour in the ashram premises. Slowly there commenced bhajans of
Saibaba and Swamy Ramakrishna. Ratna felt isolated. She understood
that unless all the disciples were as committed as Gangadhari, the
school would not progress on the expected lines.
Ratna requested Haritha to join her. But Haritha was not willing
to leave her school which had been upgraded to 7th class recently.
Ratna appealed to Latchaiah and Laxmaiah to apply for voluntary
retirement from service and come to lead the school, staying at the
Ashram. But they were not prepared to take the risk.
There is a vast difference between professing idealism and real
practice. Ratna was disappointed that they had not been able to come
out of their obsession to make a mark in the society and to acquire
recognition and comforts. Unable to bear with the innuendoes from
the resident disciples, she felt tortured and left the ashram.
After a few days, the ashram was reduced to rubble. The sign
board–Educational Research Centre, lay broken at the gate of the
ashram, as if waiting for someone to come. Slowly it got covered in
the soil and was out of sight. The students went their way and the
garden left unattended, withered and lost its glory.

“Chaduvu”
1997 Translated by E. Satyanarayana
230 / Astitva

Opponents

Allam Rajaiah

The last phase of the campaign for the Lok Sabha elections was over.
Having gone around without respite to election meetings at many
places across the country ... from the problematic situation of victory
or defeat ... about having to meet and encounter the war-like, repulsive
situations and opponents in the Parliament—to decide where and
how to stand in the difficult scenario that he was becoming aware of,
he got down at Renigunta airport from a special plane.
He looked at the faces of the people who were coming towards
him with floral garlands and put-on official courtesies. How did those
very diminutive, wretched faces become so? Rubber faces, how
difficult it was to hide what was within for years together and put on
artificial faces? The news reporters were pushing their way through.
He had to be stone faced. Otherwise lakhs of stories and fantasies ...
They would not leave him alone. From what he wanted to be
away, what he wanted to keep aside for a while—thinking calmly—
tearing it open—from a raging stormy wind, from a conspiracy filled,
one-upmanship politics—from playacting, from riots, from chaos,
from confusion—‘No,—the earth beneath your feet is moving—that
the pawns who you had moved are turning into snakes to make you
dance—that you yourself ought to slowly and carefully move the
pawns,’ a groaning in the inner layers.
 Opponents / 231

“That God of Seven Hills will look after you well! In this election,
your party will win!” Someone from behind the stone faced people
was saying.
He looked in that direction. He could not find a face in the crowd
that could utter those words! That voice. Was it a bit truthful? Did he
know that he wanted to hear those words? A clever one! On the whole,
a human voice. To them his face...
The khaddar clad leaders were excited.
Bringing that which he was habituated to after long practice,
giving a full toothless grin—without letting it known that it was
artificial, not letting them doubt that it was a sham, in a respectable
person’s fashion, “Namaskarams to everyone. The final phase of the
elections being over, I’ve come to have God’s darshan,” he raised his
hands slowly and saluted them.
The reporters surrounded him. Pale cheeked ones, short-sighted
ones, ones with unkempt beards, how eager they were—as if homes
were burnt ... he was amused. Just trash, one beat the other hollow—
he had once wanted to write a story. To write trash—to write was to
scratch, to irritate. He had this itch.
“Don’t irritate me. I’ve come to take complete rest.”
By then the local officials were whispering about security. Were
getting anxious. Had kept a helicopter ready. A circle of police—were
driving the crowd away ... even though he had not informed anyone
earlier, it came to be known so quickly.
‘By the way, how did so many come to know?’ Thinking to
himself and getting into the helicopter—thinking it was all for the
better, he waved his hands to the crowd that had gathered there. The
police were fighting with the reporters. Without his intention, it was
turning out to be an emergency situation there.
The helicopter took off in Renigunta. Much before that, stopping
normal traffic, cars and jeeps were rushing towards Tirumala.
On the hill, they got the Padmavati guest house vacated in no
time. Around the guest house they set up a patrol of commandos and
armed police. Closing the path from the garden to the guest house,
the armed police were picketing. The atmosphere on the hill changed
instantaneously. They knew that someone extremely important was
coming.
Scorching summer ... even so it was cool on the hills.
232 / Astitva

He got down from the helicopter and took a deep breath. Phones,
grumbling of advisors, disorder, opinions, some tension, some issue
or the other—were they there? Was it comfortable here? The salutes
of the armed police standing on this side and that. ... The officers in
charge hurriedly came running. They would not allow him to walk
at his own pace. Everywhere—in everything, interference. So far the
local political leaders had not turned up. ...
He looked down the hill from the corner of his eye ... The blue
cloudless sky was shining in the sun. On the serpentine, twisting roads
of the hill, vehicles were rushing as if the houses had submerged.
Were they coming for him? They were coming for their own sake.
That someone would kidnap him? That someone would kill him? So
many armed ... Cha, cha! Why was he thinking in this manner?
As an ordinary man—what did it mean to be an ordinary man?
Surrounded, followed, stormy, ... as if in contradiction to his inner
thoughts, the clouds had wrapped around the hill, as if the floods
had surged forth, as if a storm had formed in the ocean ... one, two
three ... Vithala! Panduranga Vithala! Pandarinatha Vithala! The vocal
music—in the ears ... no, no, did they open ... the clear shade ... more
than in these insipid words ... it was better to unite, to become one
with the animal faces ... fear ...
The Bhairavi ragam he loved ... Bismillah Khan–he held his
hands behind him and looked up at the hill. A small, white cloud
passed over the guest house like a plane and flew by somewhere ...
Just like that he moved his toothless lips. ... A little speed increased
in the old blood. ... danger ... danger ... if he put four footsteps—
steps—again into the rooms ... someone was saying something ...
He stopped, turned left towards the garden, and looked at
“Chandragiri” at a great distance. ... far away ... the commotion of
the devotees at the sanctum sanctorum was being heard ... On the
other side of the picket, the noise of the cars was increasing. From a
distance a number of people were looking only at him. If he were to
roam around the entire garden for a while ... mingling with the crowd
“Govinda, Govinda ... Yedukondalavada Venkataramana,” if only he
could sing ... in that ecstatic state ...
The more he desired to be one with the crowd, the more distant,
really distant, he was chased away. Was this contradiction inherent
in the universe? No one was aware that this strange sorrow had grown
 Opponents / 233

within him like a mountain. Why did it happen like this? Where did
it happen? Cha, what kind of questions were these? Where were these
questions coming from?
“It needs to be developed even more,” the temple officer was
saying something.
“The foolish fellow’s plea for the allocation of funds.”
Had he done anything at all? Did anything that he yearned to
do happen? Running away from everything, finding out everything
without doing anything—what was funny was that he did not get
anything that he intensely desired ... what he got did not satisfy him
... Having become tired in that strange race, had he become strangely
indifferent? What did it mean to do something?
‘Marrying me ... you’re a murderer—you want everything
including love—but you don’t give anything,’ a hoarse voice ...
He, detached ... without any emotion—perhaps to instigate
emotions and observe them being played out was his game—a game
more horrible than that of a sadist ... with his tiny feet he walked ten
steps this way and ten steps that way. A few gulmohar leaves had
fallen on the ground. Even for this teeny-weeny walk, the officers
went behind him.
‘It would be good to drive all these people away and sit out for
a while. Under that tree with hands beneath the head, happily ... like
the time when he had made people work in the fields in the village—
if he were to have a deep sleep—if he were to do that, how wonderful
it would be ... sleep eluded him. Even if he could sleep, they would
not let him ... ’ Wonderful sound of the breeze, the smoke-filled clouds
moved him ...
‘He’s an old fox—it seems Sugunakar has left for Delhi. Divan,
Singh, Scindia—each one a big bull. Empire, let it go. Why worry, let
them kick each other to death ... Why should I let them die? What
should I do? Landlords, Zamindars, Marwadis, Sindhis, Kutch people,
prisoners ... kissa kursika, America, Japan, Germany—Russia ... ’
Yes, this was a game. A sport ... he could not but move the pawns
... He was born to do such things. Vengeance? On whom? Why? When
did it take shape? When did he step into this game?’
He looked in the direction of the ruined Chandragiri ... that was
the Chandragiri fort that gave trading rights to the British in Madras.
King ... He was startled. ... Why should he remember that at this very
moment?
234 / Astitva

Behind him the familiar sound of police boots. What was the
meaning of that sound? “Security problem, sir!” He did not see his
face.
“Must go ... must go in.” Surveillance, security—bodyguards.
Officers above them. Even if there was everything ... all the people
who were targets of bullets–he remembered them all.
He signalled and called the officer in-charge overseeing his
programme who was at a distance.
“No appointments till 7 in the evening. I’m extremely tired. At
7.30 Kashayya and at 8 Shekhar Reddy—after that God’s darshan.”
He muttered in a low tone.
Putting four steps briskly, he stopped, called out to the security
personnel and said, “Ask the officer from the Endowments
department to meet me.”
The officer came running.
“If you have Telugu comedies, who’s that young boy, Prasad.
His. Send me his comedy movies.”
On the officer’s face something that was not resolved ... Without
noticing it, he entered Padmavati guest house.
***
Black sky that had bent down up to the head—on the west a hill, on
the east till the eyes reached an expanse of fields—deep colours—oh
oho, some kind of a waft of moist air with an amazing drone ...
He was awake. The air conditioner’s noise ... Dream? Reality?
Where was he? Did not feel like getting up ... The eyes did not close
again. Was he very tired? Din ... Somewhere within a din. He never
appeared as if he was tired ... From the village to Delhi ... No irritation
or break in the walk—in the run—that was neither of the two—some
excitement. He had never articulated the normal thing in a normal
manner. Didn’t he? Didn’t he get an opportunity?
Why was he asking such questions? As of now, where was he?
On the old bridge, a rela tree on the Tamma lake in Manthani ... What
did he think sitting under it the first time? That his ancestors too
were born in that village? Why had he such attachment to the ancient
village with a mud storied house?
He turned on his side ...
Getting away from his secretaries who like wooden dolls
reminded him of his engagements from his routine timetable ... had
 Opponents / 235

he left them behind? Did he desire all those? Didn’t he? What did he
not desire? He did not get anything of what he desired. Like crying
for the sake of laughing ...
He got up from bed. It would be good to turn off the air
conditioner. It would be good to walk outside in the fresh air. What
was the time? On the wall clock it was seven in the evening ...
Perhaps they were waiting for him outside ...
The tension that he had suppressed within—what he thought
he did not want—what he thought he should stand next to but not
look at? That very thing—who would win the elections? If someone
other than him formed the government ... many things would be
shaken up. What all could befall him? What had smeared his hands
... the dust of the collapsed Babri Masjid. No. What did he have to
do? ... A little bit of headache ... Reports of national and international
detective agencies said that it was not favourable to him. Another
hour—it would be good not to meet anyone. If only he were to sit
here alone ... When he went out and looked into the darkness—if he
roamed around a bit.
Again people would surround him. Again the same words about
victory and defeat ... when the entire nation was heated up in the
hoo-ha of elections, he was here.
He drew the curtain so he could see the window pane. Outside
the guards standing encircling the guest house ... Was he a life-long
prisoner? After walking up and down in that room for a while—he
looked out through the window. The entire valley was mistily dark—
lights all along up to the top of the hill ...
It appeared as if the clouds had enveloped all over—it was
gloomy ... As never before, his eyes closed at dusk ... as if everything
was lost—as if he had run away alone to far off lands—as if he had no
work in the world of living and non-living things. Something
inexpressible—inexplicable, a state he had not experienced—as if
there was total chaos and confusion and the trees had swung
continuously and became suddenly silent, was his brain not
functioning?
He sat on the sofa ... closed his eyes. He stroked his bald head.
“The darkest clouds.”—those very clouds, groups and groups.
The sweet aroma of the wet earth. The body was trembling with
anxiety.
236 / Astitva

The children on the road had been jumping about, naked. They
had been smearing themselves with mud. Drawing lines and making
canals in the thin sand layer ... bullocks bellowing ... hullabaloo ...
commotion! Voices that called out. On the mud red coral like maybugs
...
He had escaped. A prison-like house. Crossing the boundary
wall on to the street—oh, how wonderful! He had run crazily.
All the children who had been playing stopped and were looking
only at him. ...
A morning drenched with rain. The mud, soft under the feet.
He had stood near the children. Had it been out of shyness? Or out of
pride?
All the children had laughed. Mockingly or in camaraderie? He
had got angry. ... Suddenly he had collapsed on to the water. As a
protest—on the children—or on his people asking him not to go
outside? Fear on the faces of the children. The farmhands had come
running in search of him. Fear in their eyes.
“Chindora! Have you come here towards this slush? Your slave,
if the peddora knows, he’ll skin us alive ... it’s over, dora! You’ve
spoilt your clothes. Our backs are sure to be broken!” The farmhand
who carried him had said trembling—
“I won’t come, go. I’ll play.” He had kept running in those soiled
clothes.
All the children had run along with him and caught him.
The farmhand had carried him on his shoulders like a lamb.
He had bitten, had scratched—pulled his hair, struggled and
finally cried. ...
In the verandah, his foster father had kept looking, incensed.
Those eyes—that anger had always haunted him. Somewhere some
tender memories that were like tiny sprouting leaves and buds had
been burnt to ashes. ... From creativity—from the aroma of mud, from
trees, from children, from people, from toil—he had been thus
forcefully separated.
To constantly keep him under check—they had appointed
teachers to teach him from the very next day.
“Don’t play with Sudra children. You must study, nanna,” His
foster mother who was more than a mother to him.
He had not looked into his mother’s face. Hadn’t said a word.
 Opponents / 237

“If you study you’ll look after the lands. You’ll be the title holder
of these lands.”
“I don’t want it. I don’t want it at all,” he had shouted. He had
kicked hard on the ground.
He had been separated from his parents, who knew his
happiness and sorrows, at a very tender age so that he could take
over the wealth of this zamindari! How sad! Had he been doing just
that from that time till now?
In the summer—when he had looked out of his terrace and
watched the children in the bazaar kick dust as they played marbles
and sack race—he had to study Sanskrit and Urdu. He too had wanted
those games. Had wanted to mingle with those kids. Only those
dreams in his teeny-weenie brain. Those imaginations.
As he dug deeper and deeper—as he closed his eyes and
recollected—that old tamarind tree—its branches, that he could never
climb increasing his inner feelings of shame and inferiority—the
children who had climbed up the tree and played. The tree that had
hurt his ego. The tamarind tree that he had seen with tearful eyes
from the shoulders of his farmhands. ... Even though he had climbed
many steps and ascended many thrones the tamarind tree that had
fomented the flame that he could never douse ...
Many times, from that prison house, he—had run away from
those boring studies to the children. The children had not allowed
him to mingle with them. Had not let him play with them. Clothes
on his entire body—fair skinned—either looking at the clothes or
because he was a Brahmin or because he was the dora’s son, they
would move away. Would keep him at a distance. This was a kind of
untouchability. A self-imposed untouchability that had not allowed
him to touch nature and people!
But he would think day and night as to how to meet those
children. Just like he thought of the ways to interact with different
kinds of people today—finally to find some strategy. But he had not
been aware what the hurdles were. Was he aware of them at least
now? From how many generations, through how many layers had
people been segregated? As if whatever that had been touched melted
... No matter how much he had run, how much he had persevered he
could not be one with the crowd. Did not mingle with anyone. Look
here—under the misty hills, frozen ...
238 / Astitva

He had not played, sung. Had not rolled in the mud. Had not
swum. Had not climbed trees. Had not ploughed. Had not sown
seeds. Had not kicked anyone. Had not been kicked. Had not cried
copiously. Had not shouted. His entire exposure—his personality in
the name of studies—having attributed it to being a zamindar—
regulated ...
Those were just dreams to him. ... for some dreams were an
impetus ... for creativity. But dreams had made him become more
introverted and inward looking.
In the same environs—people born in the same village torn
asunder as different castes, different religions all over the country, as
different jatis, crores and crores of people—were they also separated
by experiences? He could never become one with Delhi ... When did
they come? How did they come? The Aryans did not mingle with the
people of this country. Did he not have a country? Did he not mingle
with the people at all? Could he never mingle? No he was raised
without allowing him to mingle. Had been trained. This was an
invisible, atrociously violent act! A violent act that did not allow him
mingling in the beautiful creation, nature.
In the streets of Warangal when the Aryasamjists had taken a
procession against the atrocities of the Muslims—when his friends
had joined it and were shouting slogans, he stood at a distance and
observed.
“Don’t go with them—don’t speak with the Aryasamajists.
They’re khatarnak people. ...” His enthusiasm—his young blood had
been curtailed in that manner. By terrifying him ...
He tried to recollect the children of his childhood. ... He was not
able to recall any of those faces. Moreover, in a disturbed state—all
the memories in utter confusion—like waves rising in a lake ...
Was it sorrow or sadness ... as if the throat was heavy ... heaviness
in the body. What kind of sorrow was this? Was it the congealed
sorrow of loneliness! Had to get away from these memories ...
If his party were to lose in these elections ... In Delhi full of
people like him no matter which party it was—one-upmanships ...
who knew the isolated, defeated people? People together in forests,
fields and villages—furrowing with their ploughs, herding their
cows—how strange was a human being’s behaviour? Must write
something about this? Why should one write?
 Opponents / 239

As the tiny green snake of “thousand hoods” was moving in his

brain, he opened the door. Outside, the commotion of devotees ...
along with it the howling wind ... a bit of hot air—a merger of strange
voices ... the merger of how many sounds ...
Seven thirty. ... All along the sloped path, against the steps, armed
guards ... Many cars were parked outside. Familiar people in khaddar
clothes were walking up and down.
He was anxious that they were all waiting for him.
That he was nothing to them—that he was useless—he was
necessary to them. ... Again the intoxication of arrogance ...
Someone came from the long verandah—and said Kashayya had
come.
As he was walking up and down in the long waiting room—the
cook came and ...
Brought coffee. He sat on the sofa and drank coffee.
Without pretending subservience, Kashayya came and sat on
the sofa. Perhaps it was not necessary at that time! ...
“You seem to be very tired,” said Kashayya.
The same worn out look. ... In his entire life how much of anxiety
he had borne with that face? What was that face an index of? He was
looking at it for thirty five years. ... Finance Minister—even now he
did not want to rest. If he did, what would he do? As for him ... was
this man’s worry more than his?
Kashayya was saying something with a base voice which was
like the clanging of coins. Those were things he had heard thousands
of times. Where would new words come from? If only he were there
where words were born! Some already mouthed words—what does
it mean for words to have been mouthed and tasted?
Once again into the surfaced fragments—what had he been
studying then? Fourth or fifth? Yes, at that time, involuntarily he had
stood apart ... vengeance on the children, vengeance on laughter,
vengeance on games, vengeance on everyone—it was then that the
clouds of Sravana month covered his face ... it was then that darkness
had filled his inner self ... everything closed ... only books remained—
studies—to forget the ever changing nature surrounding him that
made fun of him—he would read. He would read aloud crazily ...
with a voice that was becoming hoarse within.
First in class—when teachers had praised him, children would
mock at him. ... They would call him many names. ... With vengeance,
240 / Astitva

he would read all the more. ... But the words they had used to mock
him would reverberate during the nights. Who could he tell it to? “The
short fellow, pig faced.” None of the children who had spoken those
words knew how much they had tormented him. They would often
say those words to each other. They would kick each other. In the next
moment they would place their hands on the other’s shoulders and
would laugh together. But as for him ... bundling those words ... those
words had haunted him all his life. ... There was no conciliation in his
life. In the war, he had been placed mercilessly on the other side. The
war had started then itself. Yes. Why did he have to love people? People
had only instilled hatred in him. As for them, they had experienced all
emotions together. Each had given to and taken from the other.
“We’ll definitely get twenty to thirty seats in Andhra,” Kashayya
said as is final word, raising his voice a bit.
“Yes! ...” he said. Yes for what? Kashayya did not understand.
The cook brought coffee again. ... Kashayya took the coffee. He
drank without leaving a trace and stood up looking outside.
“Has Reddy come?” he asked.
“No ...” Kashayya said in a voice that did not reveal his dislike.
“Our people,” Kashayya muttered—keeping the cup on the
teapoy—”You’re tense. It’s not good at your age. You’ve come going
around the northern parts. ... The God of the seven hills will take care
of everything. Let’s go for god’s darshan.” Kashayya got up.
Without paying heed to anything, he went out. ... Kashayya
followed him. His legs were unsteady. They say one can say what a
man is like by his walk!
The Temple officer and the security personnel were worried.
“The arrangements in the temple are not yet over, sir,” the officer
muttered ...
Without paying heed to it—one—two—three—he was walking
away from Padmavathi guest house. The boots started to move.
Running, racing. Commotion. The car came and stopped. They
hurriedly drove away the devotees on the way. The burr burr of the
pilot jeeps. ...
“No, I’ll only come by walk.” He refused to get into the car. Just
like he used to as a child—
The political leaders and the officers pleaded. Just like always—
they made him sit in the car against his will. ...
 Opponents / 241

Didn’t know what he thought after getting into the car! Irritated,
he opened the door and got down.
Kashayya came running and in a dry voice said, “Near Madras
... LTTE ... Not just that, Tirupati is a Naxalite affected area! You know
it all.”
“No, I’ll walk.”
As if in a frenzy, he walked towards the sanctum sanctorum.
Cool breeze ... outside, the commotion of devotees.
As if a typhoon had occurred suddenly—they were driving away
the devotees. All in a rush, they were driving away the devotees from
in and around the temple. ... in a few shaded places—on the steps of
the temple, the armed police took their positions ...
Under the protection of the armed guards in rows holding Sten
guns—as the bodyguards came along—he reached the sanctum
sanctorum ... from the top he looked towards the temple ... police
everywhere—without any devotees—would not let him play, would
not let him put a step—just like the farmhands of his childhood—
But he wanted to mingle with the devotees intoxicated with
devotion—to mingle with the people ... but he had no such luck. He
had been separated from people a long time ago. The closer he would
move towards the people, the farther they would move away.
Otherwise, they would chase him away. He was an untouchable—no
one would touch him. Would not embrace him. If they touched him,
they would burn. ... If they embraced him ... That’s why his
vengeance—anger ...
Kashayya picked up again ...
“The money bags from Bombay have arrived. It seems Reddy
met Divan.”
As he was climbing down the steps, he stopped and looked into
Kashayya’s face. For some reason he found it disgusting. ... he
shuddered, felt nauseated. He knew everything. Who was doing what;
no one knew as much as he did. ... In whose heart what kind of
conspiracy was being hatched? He would know before anyone else
did. He had been trained in this art. ...
“This time there are many speculations on people’s opinion—all
the foreign newspapers are writing that we won’t get a majority. ...”
‘Knowing all that ... pretending not to know ... this turmoil was
only because of this.’
242 / Astitva

People’s opinion did not mean the opinion of the people. That
too was a total farce. Goebbels’ propaganda. One thing was true. ...
To the foreign countries ... more and more doors ought to be opened.
Each one must plunder to one’s heart’s content. There ought to be
unstable governments. There ought to be governments only in
namesake.
As if he was walking in his dream he got down one step after
the other and reached the sanctum sanctorum. ... The priests were in
a hurry. He had no intention of seeing anyone. No intention of
listening to anyone’s words. All his senses were going haywire. So he
had to keep them under control. ... He stood before the idol of
Venkateswara with folded palms. ... His hands were trembling. His
feet were trembling. ... The idol was not visible. All things around
were disappearing. ... The song on the shehnai, the din of the
accompanying instruments.
In the line when he had come along with his wife to offer the
hair of his eldest son who was two years old—pushing—just one
minute—after that he came many times with many people. ... The
first time that anxiety. Breaking out from the layers like smoke—the
priests were doing something. Clouds that gave out smoke—wife,
beloved—touched by the cool breeze of the smoke giving clouds—
like everything within becoming a lump—melting into water. ... Who
was he in fact folding his hands to ...
Unaware of what it was he walked out of the temple in a strange
state. Gusts of wind having scattered the clouds, it appeared as if
only the desert was moaning in the stormy wind—clouds that had
become dry. The earth that could never become wet.
“I feel like sitting on the steps all by myself.” Did he shout in a
strange voice? No, he said it.
Kashayya stood at a little distance. The armed guards stood on
the steps.
He slumped on to the steps. His knees did not bend. All around
the surveillance of many eyes—holding up their rifles. What
insecurity—
“Don’t meet Aryasamajists—they’re khatarnak.”—His foster
father had driven fear into him. That which he had been scared of all
his life! That which he thought was khatarnak! His own life had become
more khatarnak than anyone else’s. ...
 Opponents / 243

He closed his eyes. ... so many pictures, words were surging up.
At a little distance officers and political leaders were whispering.
... Were getting worried.
How could the most important man in the country sit in a
peopled place for such a long time? How could a zamindar’s son
play in the slush?
At a distance the din of the devotees—
Inside, ‘At a place where words rubbed and thickened and
collapsed, Bhimsen Joshi was singing an alaap of Bhairavi ... peeling
the outer layers, melting within—yes ... ’
Did not open his eyes. Pictures, words and scenes all in disarray.
Hesitantly, an officer silently and with humility got down the
steps and muttered, “Reddygaru has come.”
“Tell him I’ll meet him later.”
Silence ... heat ...
“Problem ... “
Even before the man completed, he got up in irritation. ...
Everything was a problem. Who had made these rules? Nothing in
his hands—as if everything was in his hands—as if he was turning
the wheel—strange, they would say he held on to the pigtail and
made the country dance. They would say he was moving the pawns.
From Delhi to the gulley ... But ... For ten minutes he could not stay in
a place of his choice in the manner he wanted to. Who had invited him
into this spider’s web? Who forced him? He came on his own. Why
did he come? He came as he could not remain anywhere? Did he come?
Did he not? Packing his bag and baggage—and bidding goodbye to
this race to go happily to Hyderabad and spend time reading or
listening to music. Was that possible? Murder—the show of strengths
... a Gordian knot ... it was now that they wanted him to ... international
investment, national regulation—conniving within—bought ... came
back to the point from where the ball was hit. He could not live in any
other situation than this. He did not have the human world outside.
That world was the world of his friends in his village. The world of
fields—the world of production. ... His classmate ... what did the
classmate who had teased him say, “I believe you’ve become the king
of the country—our village doesn’t have drinking water—will you get
it?” That same teasing, “You’ve got hundred out of hundred in maths—
but can you climb up a tamarind tree and pluck tamarind?” ...
244 / Astitva

He had the survey done. Budgets—surveys ... why did he have

to bring water to the place that had ridiculed him? ‘Water won’t come.
Orey, it won’t come at all!’
He was walking on the steps. “My son is being tortured. If you
pick up the pen write down just a line—my son will come out from
the jail,” an old man had said weakly ...
“Who are you to give me alms of pardon? To take me out. Here,
I’ve come. Now take care of your security. ...” He was truly a man
with a moustache.
He felt a bit scared. ... How could anyone be freer than him? He
could not tolerate freedom—he could not tolerate happiness. If a
farmer laughed in any field! If an adivasi laughed in any forest! His
heart would twitch. ... since the last twenty years it was he who had
controlled the laughter of the adivasi—his face was becoming a bit
distorted.
Yes. That man had become an adivasi leader. He became a leader
here. That man was searching for people—getting them together—
he—from the same village ... the two who came from there, one ran
the government, the other, a leader who tried to bring down the
government ...
He cried and cried—he tortured himself within for sacrificing
his own life—tortured—without being tortured ...
The inner state had completely changed. ... The face was getting
ready to become stone faced as usual. He was walking. Walking. The
retinue was walking behind. The commotion of the devotees behind
increased. The programmes in the temple that had come to a halt
resumed. On the left, groups of thousands of devotees standing in a
line for God’s darshan—groups and groups ...
From the front of Padmavathi guest house, the Reddy group
stood up as a sign of respect and came forward. But a goonda-like
walk ... ‘What do you know of quarrels and problems—you only know
how to instigate,’ kind of look ... Did it smell of bombs? Smell of
gunpowder.
He asked Kashayya to move away.
“You’ve been fed with the wrong news,” Reddy said
indifferently.
“Reddy—they’re business people—Bombay business people—
they are dubious people—after that your wish.”
 Opponents / 245

He said as softly as he could.

Reddy understood what he meant. A special officer will be sent
to Rayalaseema. There will be raids. Cases would have to be closed.
His opponents would get hold of weapons without any hindrance. ...
Even so would he remain? Or be ousted? If they were to manage
things it would be better.
“What news did they send?”
“It was necessary for them. It was necessary for those behind
them. You must
look after yourself, right?”
“We’ve been with you for many years. Even so, as you had no
trust in us—you filed your nomination in Maharashtra—no matter
what anyone says—even if bags of money come—being born a Reddy,
I will not go back on our word. You can be fearless. ... You’ll know
our honesty—you’ll get a majority of one lakh votes ...”
“Apart from the two regions, Coastal and Telangana—isn’t it
because of faith in you! Reddy! You’ll even give your life or take it ...
I trust you.” He placed a hand on his shoulder and pressed ...
Without upsetting Reddy—with a forced smile ... without saying
anything more, climbing one step at a time he went in.
***
It was past nine at night. He ate the two phulkas the Brahmin
cook gave him.
Walking up and down he thought that he ought not to think of
anything. Ponee, pote ponee; sutul hitul ranee kashtaal nashtaal ... 1 (Let it
go. If it had to go, let it go. Sons—advisors—let troubles and losses
come) ... let memories go. Why did he have to go round those
memories ... yes, he was alone, but why did that matter? As time
went by, he had understood all the movements of the strengths in his
very being. That was why he had reached this point climbing step
after step. When the man is at the foot of a mountain, he would like
to reach out and get on to the peak. But finally, when he reached the
peak, he would find above only a void in the sky, and everything
beneath—
‘Karam Singh, Arjun Das, Juvar Divan—Pai ...
Would Pai become the Prime Minister? If he did. Let him. The
games Bombay businessmen play—within, Chatwani, Joshi,
America—Thackeray ... Japan, Germany, England—a motley crowd—
246 / Astitva

country, people, market—selling—buying—gain and loss—

globalisation, liberalisation—open, open the doors. Wrench out the
windows.
Pai’s face ... What was the difference between my face and Pai’s
face? His face was urban, mine rural—these differences too? Born in
Bhopal ... without marriage and encumbrances ... perhaps that was
happiness! I, marriage, children, yes ... but with nothing affecting—
He recalled the launch of Pai’s book recently. ‘Did they have to call
me—and Lata? They were both bachelor and spinster—I, their—Pai
had shed tears. After a long lonely journey alone was he too thinking
the way I did? I cannot shed tears. Tears had dried up. Where did the
tears drying up begin? Where had all the emotions evaporated? I’m
digging up graves again. No. No.’
It would be good to go out and roam around for a while. It
would be good to see—mountains and Akasaganga. Not possible.
There was no way he could move out of this room. If he moved, the
guards had to follow ...
He looked this way and that in the room. ... They had placed a
TV and VCR on the table. He had completely forgotten. Didn’t he
say? Saved. In the awful uncomfortable night—
He pressed the VCR button.
Rajendra Prasad’s Mayalodu (Trickster) movie was on.
“At least one mother or one father,” Rajendra Prasad was saying
something.
For the treatment of a young girl—he was performing acts of
jugglery. He laughed loudly just like that. His laugh sounded strange
even to him. Except for a kind of treacherous half formal smile—he
did not know this kind of a laugh. Why now like this? It seems when
emotions are not let out normally, they come out unnaturally.
When Rao had married Parvati opposing every one, it was the
bachelor Pai who had gone ahead and congratulated him first. ... going
about everywhere—being a part of all relationships, to say no. Was
bachelorhood a punishment? A boon? Who sets the rules? Dostoevsky
said, “Crime, regulations and punishment have all been absorbed in
our blood.” Had he set the regulations himself? No ... Had he been
trained in them? His entire life had been a battle between the
regulations within—and anarchy outside ... The wound would not
be visible. The sound would not be heard. A long drawn out battle
 Opponents / 247

without irritation or break ... Did that mean that he agreed with the
Marxists and Leninists concept of a long drawn out battle? No. No.
They, on the other side of that line. He, on this side.
He, in the village, in the mud—if he were to mingle with people
alongside him—becoming one with mud—becoming one with the
clouds—the history of the entire village would be his history. If the
rain were to turn into a drizzle—a hail storm—he could write poetry.
As he stepped down as Chief Minister, he had read a long poem in
the Assembly ... Just as they say that a happy country had no history
a man who enjoyed comforts had no history. It seems the history of
all who enjoyed was the same. But the history of those who toil was
different, said Tolstoy. His family—had not allowed him to mingle
with the village people. Even when the people below had pleaded a
lot with him, they had not allowed him. This was a terrifying
alienation—not heard by anyone—not visible to anyone. From that
turmoil—his marriage took place in the dark nights when he had
cried inconsolably ...
‘Mr. Rajendra Prasad was a mayalodu. I was then nine years old
...
Rajendra Prasad on the TV screen did not pay heed to my words.
His problems were his own. Even so without paying heed ... ’
Drums and trumpets. Ostentation. Feast for nine days.
Entertainment. Such a marriage had not taken place in that area. ...
That ostentation. That he was greater than all others ... the training
had started from then on.
A farmer would pound his son in mud—would smear the balm
of the sprouts of plants on the tender wings—and raise him. The fields
alone would be his school. He would grow up from nature like birds
and animals. But they raised him like a master, a ruler over them. His
body had not grown up from the mud, the air, the sweat and the
sprouts—but grew like fungus from the wealth produced by others.
... yes, fungus ...
Along with the wife’s face ... many irrelevant, endless
confrontations—surged forth ... sigh ...
In Pai’s book launch—Lata had sung with a quivering voice.
Lata’s voice seemed as if she had plucked a vein from her throat and
played on it ... Even as her voice had been resonating in that manner,
streams of tears had poured out of her eyes. On the dais, just the
248 / Astitva

three of us. The three of us had appeared as if we had the same face—
like the same person, whatever be the reasons—but where had the
journey begun? Walking and walking, running and running—having
been grazed—having lost and won—having lost, wasn’t it strange
that finally the three of us had reached the same dais? Lata was the
“white-haired girl” in the three crore marble palatial house. Opening
the worn out silent voice ... when the pulse had been beating—perhaps
Lata was luckier than him ... she could at least sing sorrowfully. She
could at least cry. She could make the entire world cry ... Lata was a
sorrow laden mournful tune.
From the movie Mayalodu, from the ironic words of Rajendra
Prasad,—he did not feel like laughing ... his mind once again disturbed
...
... was moving about in his thirty roomed age-old, palatial
building in his village ... What was marriage? What was married life?
Without understanding them, he had children ... Educated in
Hanmakonda Multipurpose. State first in English. First in a foreign
language. Had he been elated then? He from among thousands of
people. The ego within, a hood—perhaps there were thousand hoods
within man?
Thus having been pushed from fields to books—immersed in
it—had been to Nagpur for legal studies. ... At that time in
Maharashtra, Tilak’s name had been reverberating. Had he perhaps
given programmes suitable for such people? Yes, from history, from
the same period two opponents took shape to confront in a war—
had he gone into it on his own accord? But “Why didn’t you take part
in the Aryasamaj movement?” was rankling somewhere here. He did
not like movements where thousands and thousands of people took
part. Even in that he had not shed off his hide and did not shout
hoarse. He had not raised his fist ... When the people of his village
had taken up movements that they desired ... he had searched for the
one that he desired.
He had completed his law degree ... His little involvement with
the Tilak movement too had been cut off.
He had come back to his village again. What had he to do? Where
had he to stand? Under the cover of the sky and on the vast earth—
having become the heir of the zamindari of fifteen hundred acres
and yet alone. He had thought that he would have cultivation done.
 Opponents / 249

Why had he wanted to get cultivation done? To stand at the very

place—where he had been alienated, where he had been hurt—the
desire to become one with the very mud of that village—the air—the
fields, the people. May be that had not been it? When so many people
were together, why they had not allowed him to join ... he had
belonged to the other side ...
Was it three years? Or four years? Round those lands like a
defeated lover ... he roamed around like a beggar without any money
going around an extraordinarily beautiful maiden ... Farmhands and
coolies would work only on his lands. But he could never fathom
them. Just as there were people around him now, then too there had
been people. Had he been unable to mingle with them? Or had they
not wanted to let him mingle with them? The crops would not grow
properly. They were dry lands with water scarcity. The land had not
yielded to him. In all this pressure, children ... in cultivation, horrible
failure.
The entire village came under the leadership of communists.
He was the zamindar of the village. ... He had the zamindari arrogance
to whip and skin the back of people while they were asked to carry
rocks just for cutting the custard apples that grew wildly near the
bore wells of his lands—Cruelty ... a deep urge within to mingle with
the village people. But coolies would work in the fields with half-
filled stomachs. He had not paid them proper wages ... The battle
raged within and without—he had to make do with two swords that
would not fit into a single sheath ...
An attack on the zamindar’s house—curses, abuses ... the village
had become a battlefield. He had brought barmaru. Rifles had come
into the village. Red flags had come. Work had stopped. Farmhands
had stopped work ...
Conditions that had not allowed him to live in the village—
again it was he who had been defeated. He alone had known the
defeat he had experienced in his childhood. But he had to run away
then ... the people of the village had been chasing him away.
That night, the night when he had left the village and run away—
having failed in cultivation and in life—
Outside the jeep that he had brought from Hanmakonda was
waiting.
By then his foster father’s people had gone away.
250 / Astitva

Keeping the young children around her, his wife crying bitterly,
“You haven’t ever said what’s on your mind.” ...
Outside, silence ... the first days of the rainy season ... He had
gone upstairs. A room of old law books ... sky covered with clouds.
Just like him—what had been there in his mind? Had he known it?
Had he been able to articulate it? Even if he did, would it be
comprehensible? Could he say that this war was very ancient? This
house—village. On the west bore wells—fields spread out till the
eyes could see—cattle—bullocks, servants, attendants, toll
collectors—the same people who had said, “I’m your slave, dora,”
when he had been chased so he could not even breathe. He could not
articulate what it was to leave the region, the place he had known,
that had become one with his blood. It could never be fulfilled—
Okay, he had many things to say to the village folk. Would they
allow him to say? Who would want to hear what he had to say? ...
In his childhood itself he had been dragged away from his
mother, father and hometown—that was a violent act. When he
thought that this was his village, the village that had raised him was
driving him away. This was the second stage ... maybe she would
understand if he told her. Hadn’t she left the home of her birth and
come away here?
He had not told his village folk what they wanted to hear. They
had not needed what he knew. They had known more about
themselves than he had. Moreover, his intelligence ... By then, he had
known the Marathi language. English, Hindi, Spanish—he had known
fourteen languages. What had it to do with them? How sad that he
had not been the son of that soil! The communists would tell them
everything. Where had he to go?
Someone had come and told him ... that everyone had got on to
the jeep.
Dusky darkness. He had unsteadily got down the steps ... a pain
that had been gnawing somewhere ... No matter how hard he tried to
recollect what had happened afterwards, he could not.
He had shifted base to Hyderabad. Lawyer’s practice.
He did not fit in well there. ... he could not argue loudly and
rapidly. Words would not come to him sometimes. Looking at his
face, no one had the confidence that he would win the case. Even
before a year had been completed, there had been some torment
within. A fire that had kept raging till he gave up his legal practice.
 Opponents / 251

Ramananda Teertha—Congress party—the words that had

vanished from the time cultivation had collapsed started to rake up.
Giving lectures crazily—roaming about with the Congress party—it
had been as if he was possessed for no reason. Swaying with anger
towards someone ... lectures ... without looking back—Congress camp
on Chanda border—he had become a leader. His village had been
filled with communist struggles and guerilla groups ... Nizam’s
genocide, Razakars ... cases ... Strangely he had been in the same
mental condition but ... not with his village people. On the border ...
perhaps time and circumstances would make a man alert on both
sides!
Rajendra Prasad’s movie ended. Somewhere it had snapped. He
realised it because the words had stopped suddenly. Why was he
digging all these up now? His sixth sense was telling him that there
was going to be another turn now. ... How many turns? Why did he
have to remember all these? Why did they have to fester like wounds?
Something ... was irritating his throat. Someone was standing
silently next to him. Someone embraced and kissed him saying, “My
dear!” He responded, “Mother, mother, won’t you gather me on to
your lap? Father, won’t you carry me?” “Dear, who was the one who
didn’t allow you to play?” ... Was he like the young girl in the movie,
Mayalodu?
As for him, who had he gathered close? He had not touched his
eight children. He did not know how to touch anyone with desire,
love and admiration. He did not know how to soothe a person with
all his strength, to reach out to people.
As if someone was standing right next to him—sheer
imagination? What did he remember—some heaviness—those eyes—
those very same eyes—the eyes of the children of the village—his
lovers—he had never loved them. Something constricting in his throat.
...
In that room, in that state—he was feeling breathless. He was
unable to stay in that room. Even without being aware, he came out
of that room. Outside, moonlight as if covered with a white cloth.
The sky was clear without a cloud. ... The moon, as if he knew
everything. The commotion in the temple had abated. A commotion
inside of him—as if someone was crying bitterly—some sounds and
smells haunt lifelong.
252 / Astitva

Over the mountains, the moonlight was flowing. Sliding into

the valleys. How marvelous it was! What need of people for him?
Unable to become one with nature—or God—but as raging fire that
had not cooled down—how long was it since he had seen such pure
moonlight?
He was walking—walking. Trees, silent—the aroma of the
flowers of all trees mingling together—a strange aroma—in the village
the moonlight on the terrace—he could hear his own heart beat ...
Oho! Crickets were chirping ... the garden had been well so developed.
He put his hand behind and surveyed the four directions. All
around him Sten gun guards ... as if he was a house prisoner ...
A cool and pleasant breeze was blowing. He got down a bit on
the right side, collapsed on the grass—the guards came running. Even
though he had not said a thing, cha, fear and anxiety on their faces ...
Now. Now, he had become a wicked man who sent armed police
to places where people had gathered together out of love! Yes. He
could not cause violence to himself. He, if he had to douse the flames
within—in Kashmir, in Naga, in Mizo, in Punjab, in Dandakaranya,
where else? How many?
Moreover, these were election times—if he were to be killed—
would there be instability? Political murder—murders ... he laughed
to himself.
They would not kill him. Around him, like a girdle, armed
guards.
He got up and stood ... Were the guards and the moonlight
laughing? “You’re a coward. A wicked fellow. You can’t sleep unless
you kill thousands of people.”
He was not a coward—not a brave man. In a battle both the
brave man and coward would die. He was nothing at all. Not an
animal. Not a human being. Was it the provisional union of animal
and human being? Something? Something else? Was he a masochist?
No, not at all. Those who came from a wealthy background ... if
farmers or workers were defeated, or were betrayed, were not united,
were not able to meet their goals, they would commit suicide. That
was violence to the self.
Was he then a sadist? Then he felt distasteful towards moonlight.
Was angry with the wind. ... In an irritated manner, angrily, a bit
pompously, walking briskly ...
 Opponents / 253

He came back to the room. He heaved a sigh of relief. VCP ...

had shut down by itself. He turned “Mr. Pellam” (Mr. Wife) cassette
this way and that, looked at it and put it on.
Even as he was pacing up and down he began to watch the movie
seriously. Waving his hands, he walked this way and that. He drank
water. Removing that cassette, playing another one, “Rajendrudu
Gajendrudu”, he watched half an hour laughing just like that ... as if
he had gone crazy.
Sitting on the sofa ... getting involved in the movie ... losing
concentration—
He remembered Raj Kapoor’s “Mera Nam Joker”. The three faces
of Raj Kapoor, Nehru and Tata—were the three faces one and the
same? Were they three faces of a single soul? Perhaps the communists
would refer to this as a comprador bourgeois face! Why was he seeing
these movies with so much interest? Now there was no need for
heroes. Andani, Rajendra and he—how strange!
What would happen if he were to win the elections? What would
happen if the party were to win? He would do nothing. ... Without
doing anything to anyone? They would look into the strengths and
weaknesses. Including scams, money laundering—what would he
do? Hating people, loans, interests, industries, where to lay roads?
He would have to opt for a place where people would be happy.
Mohanudu would go about ... but he would live for a while longer in
that intoxicated state.
What would happen if he were to lose?
Whenever the need was fulfilled! Those who had not accepted
each and every turn had been killed mercilessly. ... They brought him
who had packed up his bag and baggage—and played with him.
If he were to lose where would he have to go again? Delhi was
the mother of tricksters. All the pawns that he had set in motion would
bite him like snakes. Even so what could he do in Delhi? Where else
could he go? Born somewhere—walked, ran looking for something,
floating away ... where ...
His sons had taken advantage of his precarious position. Would
the elder one let the anarchy within him to come out? Would he be
able to live with him? In his journey crores of rupees—how many
crores? If all of them were to be exposed ... the economic liberalisation
had spread in his family first. Nobody would come near—would not
let him come near. Money-minded people.
254 / Astitva

His friends—women and men—did he have friends? Did he

respect them? Did he love them? No, he did not know how to give
love. He, always with the deep desire to have control over the other—
when had he climbed on to people’s shoulders and gone around? He
had not trusted anyone. No one would trust him.
His village. Those hills—that house.
Something slithered on his body. He did not know what it was.
What had he done for his village? Moreover, he had always been
a bitter enemy of his village.
That old house had withstood with hundred armed police just
like him.
If he were to leave behind all these problems and go back to his
village—would he be able to lie down once again on the terrace?
He lay down ... surrounding him hundred policemen guarding
him.
A huge commotion—sound of guns—again silence ...
Sound of hurried steps. All around the house dirty clothed
people—women, men, children, old people, a strange combination
...
Making all the policemen stand against the boundary wall, some
armed people had been taking away their weapons. What was that—
”Fire—shoot them with the latest weapons. All of them.”
The person who had come to him asking him to sign the mercy
petition to let his son off, his son was the leader. That old man too
had been saying something.
Windows, doors, gates were being broken down.
Someone had caught hold of him and was dragging him outside
the house.
Hundreds of people—people from the neighbouring villages ...
Everyone had been moving away.
“We are going to blow up the house of these ghosts who have
been eating the flesh and blood of our village and the ten neighbouring
villages. Move away.” A man with long arms, with big eyes, with a
moustache, had been warning on the mike.
“No ... no ... I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“You know only to take, not to give. You know only to kill, but
not to save. ... Having earned crores ... having ascended the throne in
Delhi ... having spent crores on this house of ghosts—you’ve not
 Opponents / 255

brought water to our village—brought fire—brought the police

station.” Some old man.
Some armed people had caught hold of him.
Something had been happening inside the house. People had
been scurrying out of the house. Under the shade of the tamarind
tree—his opponent had been saying something to the people over
the mike.
“For generations together, this family has existed draining our
blood. Without letting a drop of sweat fall on to the ground they
confiscated thirteen hundred acres of land. When some ate the custard
apple that had grown on their arid land, they, right in front of that
very house, made them carry loads of heavy rocks. Isn’t it so?” He
had asked looking at him.
“Yes, yes. Saying that their goats and sheep had grazed their
field, he put them in the pound.” Someone else.
“For the sake of the land—opposing their plunder and cruelty,
when the communist party united the farmers and the farm labourers,
they brought in the police ... shooting, arrests ... a number of people
had to flee from the village ... their family fled to the city. He went
away to Nagpur and joined the Congress party which is opposed to
the people ... their party has a great role to play in the history of
drowning this struggle in streams of blood—killing some, bringing
in the military action—again infiltrating the villages in khaddar
clothes—once again usurped the land the communists had
distributed.” He had continued to say something more. ...
“Always the people are at risk—the fruit, yours—the people in
the village did not co-operate. Again, the crops failed. The entire
village was debating the results of the struggles. He stood for election
at a place where his caste people were in great number and became
an MLA. Became a minister. In the Telangana and Andhra agitations,
he became the Chief Minister ...”
“Wasn’t it during my time that I brought about so many land
reforms?” was it he ...
“Vinobha Bhave Bhoodan movement took place during the time
of the Telangana armed struggle. You brought your reforms to
Srikakulam. You’re a clever fox—you had the plan to give up all the
useless lands in the state, the lands where chameleons laid eggs so
that you could exploit the government treasury in the name of
256 / Astitva

reforms. That too did not succeed. From the experience of the earlier
struggles, Sanghams took birth. As your tricks didn’t work here, you
shifted to Delhi.
There with the help of robbers you became totally involved in
selling the country to foreign countries. You increased your vengeance
against people—and the revolts they were engaged in. Whichever
ministry you held—you played the key role in suppressing all the
revolts that had spread all over the country. Your agents bloodied
entire Andhra.
Now the village is filled with police—raids, searches, encounters.
Ten persons have gone underground from the village. There is still a
dispute about your lands. Having grown up in the blood and sweat
of this village, having become a poisonous thousand hooded serpent
you are biting people. For you—death sentence alone.”
He was shaken. Not a dream. Agitated recollections ... illusion
...
He recollected how the landlord Raghanedu of Karimnagar
district had been taken away to the hills, made to cut wood, made to
cook corn cobs on a fire ...
He felt that if he remained there, that was it. The country was
full of enemies.
They could bundle him and kill him for trying to suppress the
uprisings in Punjab, Kashmir, Naga, Mizo and Dandakaranya. He
had to do that. To ensure that the wealth of the landlords and the
capitalists remained safe.
With economic liberalization, the people in his family became
those who coveted wealth. Because the doors had been opened wide
for foreign capital it would make graveyards of the villages. Industries
would collapse. Lakhs of people having become unemployed ...
He could never escape the battle field ... He had no chance to
turn back. This role—just like him thrown out from production, from
life, from a life filled with the fruits of labour—that which had been
practiced against the people—assassinating personalities—
bureaucrats—industrialists—landlords—police—ought to definitely
stand and fight.
No ... no ...
In his eyes—the very ancient Chinese royal palace—the
communists had surrounded Chiang Kai-Shek ... Was that face just
 Opponents / 257

like his? Chiang Kai-Shek running barefoot in his nightgown over

the mountains behind his palatial buildings—on the white snow with
bloodied feet from frost bite ...
Not like that. It ought not to happen. His end would not happen
like that.
Was agitated. His throat felt restricted as if someone had tried
to strangle him—here, if they were to surround the guest house—in
the recent past in Chittoor—so many armed people ...
Pacing up and down in the room ...
The image of the last emperor of China being made to sit on a
bench in a dimly lit tiny room and being interrogated by the
communists flashed in front of his eyes.
Recalling how his longstanding political friend was shot made
him shudder.
Wasn’t he a leader opposed to the people in these difficult times?
In this cruel genocide, in people’s hunt, he ...
He recalled the meeting he had with four home ministers and
IGs of four states just before he had come here ... he himself had taken
the initiative and called for it. He had gone late on purpose. They
had decided where to place the border force and how many.
Assessments and analyses. They showed him the photo of the
unknown leader of the four states. They had told him all that they
knew about him ... he had known all of it already. But how many
years had passed since he had seen him ...
Huge, really huge moustache—big careless eyes—if only he had
signed on the mercy petition that day—he had been the Chief
Minister—he could have done it. But he had not signed it. Could not
sign it. He had not forgiven—the utterly poor, the uncorrupted eyes,
the man who had been born of the earth and raised on it. That man—
for his security—the man who had come to him for his freedom—
that man could become this person—had he been aware that he could
become the beloved leader of the adivasis of the four states? How
had it become possible? Had he himself not come up to this stature?
From the same earth, from the same environs opponents being born,
raised and becoming mature ...
Shakuntala ... a thirty five year old mature woman had stood in
front of him ... What if he had gone to her – he detested himself. He
was quite aware of it. She had wanted power.
258 / Astitva

How horrendous—he desired man hunt.

Kantam ... it was she who was strangling him to death ...
Was there no one? Had he no one? This wretched ... why had he
rushed along all this way?
It was as if he had understood, but hadn’t—become moist, stiff
... ... strange, astonishing, dispersed—chaotic memories—with images,
thoughts, conditions—
When did he slide into slumber?
***
There, somewhere at a distance, at a great distance, he could hear
M.S. Subbulakshmi’s voice singing, “Bhaja Govindam.” Sometimes
in a low tone ...
He opened his eyes and looked ... “Moodhamate” (O, foolish
minded one!) ... where was he? Unchanged four walls—roof on top—
a dimly lit tube light—the VCR had stopped on its own.
The birds outside were making a horrendous noise.
His entire body was paining. Was tired—as if the snowy
mountains were melting—as if he did not know what to say—in
streaks and streaks, in circles and circles—the short scene dimmed—
and had become big—he got up slowly ... his knees creaked—he got
up and came out.
Outside at a distance the commotion of devotees—on the right
the bottom of the hill shone due to sunrays as if sprinkled with gold
dust. All along the way that looked like the twisting and turning of a
snake, vehicles were moving up. Far away, villages beyond the ruined
Chandragiri fort ... perhaps only people like him would come to such
places! They would then go away. Would all of them have houses?
Where was the place that he could go to? The leaf that fell off the tree
branch—floating away in the wind—no. The security for the leaf. It
ought not to fly in the way it wanted to.
The armed guards were doing their rounds outside. They
appeared to be in a big number. Outside a circle of security. Inside he
was scared—he could not save himself. His opponent without any
security—they would shoot him if he were to be seen outside. Inside
lakhs of adivasis ... Who was there in the river of life of the people?
Was he his opponent? It was the security guards who had killed
erstwhile leaders like him.
Over the hills light torn asunder—light that slid down the valleys
...
 Opponents / 259

By then, at a distance, important political leaders who had come

to see him—reporters—photographers—they were waiting anxiously
at the police picket.
He yawned and then paced up and down outside the guest
house. Normally, he would walk in the mornings listening to music
on his walkman. Today, he had skipped that practice.
Had to forget everything. Must forget. Where to—down? Or
above? Again he wanted routine news ...
They brought him all the newspapers ... did not feel like opening
them. He simply held them. His photo in all the papers ... The photos
that had been taken under Iyer’s supervision for the TV ...
Even as walked up and down, he signalled asking them to send
the news reporters.
The officers came running.
“Security problem, sir,” muttered the officer.
He stared into his face.
“We received a message from the Home department, sir—it
seems a number of people were waiting in Delhi for you—it seems a
special plane is waiting for you at Renigunta, sir.”
The officers bowed their heads. Without wanting to.
Perhaps Pai was having secret negotiations with Kurlas in
Bombay? In Delhi ...
“Send the reporters.” ... looking at a distance, sitting down on a
chair.
The officers did not give permission to all of them. Two
photographers—four reporters—the sweet clicking sound of photos.
“Sit down, young men,” with his habitual smile ...
There was no life in the smile. There was no habitual hypocrisy
either.
The reporters sat down. Some asked questions. What they
wanted. What he never said. He had no interest. ...
A slightly squinted, slim reporter asked in a mischievous voice—
“There is discussion going on as to whether to allot hundred
armed police to guard your old house, right?’
“Is that so?”
“Already five crores have been spent say—the opponents.”
“They are always a step ahead in counting.”
“People of the village are saying that spending so much money
on the old house—that so many police were only to torture the people,
260 / Astitva

that you had not spent even a rupee for the development of that
village. What do you say?”
“How many thousands of villages are there in the country? Our
goal is the development of all those villages.”
“Even though you are ruling the country as a leader—in your
village the rule is that of the naxalites—that some extremists had gone
underground from your village ...” another reporter.
He looked at the reporter’s face. Did they know everything? It
seemed as if they were not aware that the leader had come from there.
“Violence is not good for anyone. We can’t achieve anything
with violence!” Outwardly. To suppress the anger and movements
that have come up all over the world with such a huge army,
massacring them was unavoidable. Paritranaya Sadhunam (in order
to deliver the pious ... ) ... it was not good for the people ... But he
needed it now ...
“In the early hours of the morning, at two, extremists shot dead
your village sarpanch, Gangareddy, calling him an informer.” The
squint eyed reporter in a provocative tone.
His face paled. Somewhere he had a jolt. He took leave of them
and went in.
Was he the victor? Were the people in the village the victors?
Was he the defeated?
What he had been indecisive about—as if he knew which way
to go—as if a solution was found for everything—he swayed his legs
and went into the room, into himself.
Whether he loses or wins, he could not turn back. He would not
be able to put a step on his native place ... he was the one who had
bloodied it with vengeance—it was he who had wounded it—from
that motherland to Delhi—in Delhi there were Indian and foreign
insects. They would suck all the blood and leave only the flesh. In
this game, the middleman—his face began to shrivel more and more.
He had no choice but to stand in the battle field—in the country
that had been torn asunder—in the people that yearned for freedom—
those who had lost because of people like him—different kinds of
agents—in the shadow of the hoods of the cobras that had amassed
crores—in the movements of the hoods—making them dance—
dancing, had to move.
On the other side, the masses who were becoming armed were
his opponents—people of the soil—
 Opponents / 261

They caught Chiang Kai Shek who was running away with
bloodied feet, emaciated. Trembling, on behalf of the national
government—being made to sign forcibly by the united communist
party—all this appeared before his eyes.
He did not come out of the room.
The officers walked up and down like a cat on hot coals.
“I believe it is not possible to spend the night here,” the cook.
“It’s not possible to be anywhere. Everything was blood ridden.
Every inch was a battle field.”
He heard the noise of the helicopter.
At four in the evening the man who had come in left the room
the same way.
There was no worry on his face ... there was no happiness either
... the wrinkled face looked further shrivelled—it appeared as if it
was getting prepared for some treachery.
He walked briskly and got on to the helicopter.
The helicopter set out with a rumbling noise over the hills.

“Pratyarthulu”
1997 Translated by Alladi Uma and
M. Sridhar
262 / Astitva

War-Zone

Kaluva Mallaiah

It was not yet sunrise. The chirpings of birds that were resting on
branches of trees could be heard. The waking prayers, “Allah Hu!
Akbar” have stopped. People were getting ready for morning walk.
Manohar woke an hour ago, got dressed up and sitting in a chair
waiting for his friend.
Thirumal crossed the threshold and sat in the chair opposite
Manohar. “We cannot find a place on the earth which is not a war
zone,” said he as soon as he sat. “If only that great poet (Sri Sri) is
alive today he would have said that one cannot find a village where
encounters are not taking place, the soil of North Telangana is wet
with blood of radical youth,” he continued.
Thirumal and Manohar were close friends. Not only classmates,
they were working at the same place for the last fifteen years, and
also living in the same colony. Between the two of them there were
no secrets.
Manohar looked at his friend appreciatively. He had been
struggling for some time now to reconcile his personal convictions
and social relations.
“Are you talking about Palakurthy incident? I was a witness to
that. It moved me. Encounters have become common nowadays. The
sounds of police shoes, bomb explosions, harassments and bandhs
 War-Zone / 263

have become routine for us. Telangana region, especially North

Telangana is like a fireball for last twenty years. Every day is asking
questions, posing new ones. It’s like snake and mongoose game,”
said Manohar. He continued: “Entire Telangana region is now a land
of agitations. During the Razakars times, Nalgonda was in the
forefront, but now North Telangana has become centre of struggles.”
Thirumal replied, “There are differences between that struggle,
and the ones that are taking place now. Though it revolved around
land issue in the past, main goal ultimately was to seek liberation
from Razakars. That’s why, after the Razakars had gone, the struggle
came to an end. But the struggles taking place now are around the
axis of land issue.”
“Not exactly, Thirumal. At that time too land distribution took
place. There are different opinions as to why the struggle was
withdrawn. From Razakars to Naxalite struggles, the Telangana
people have participated heroically. In fact, I am surprised to see the
Telangana people. The innocents who used to say, “Ayya, nee banchen”
have left a legacy of land struggles to the country. Later, they suffered
the exploitation of doras. Lived the life of slaves. Now rejuvenated,
they are waging struggles again. Telangana land is now on the boil.”
“This is like a Yagna. In this, sacrifices are inevitable. For
liberation of motherland, bloodshed too is needed. But Manohar, you
are so fond of land struggles, strange that you are becoming totally
landless now. I feel really sorry ...”
Sharada was listening to their conversation leaning against the
doorway of kitchen. With his friend’s words, the colours of Manohar’s
face changed. Agony was writ large on his face. His efforts to suppress
the anxiety did not bear fruit. Tears rolled down his eyes.
Thirumal, who was about to get up, settled in his chair again.
“Manohar ... don’t get excited ... just a passing reference. In these days,
could persons like us own and maintain lands? Except those farmers
who are tilling lands, we don’t get any returns,” affirmed Thirumal.
“I don’t intend to sell the land. But there is no alternative. And
you know the reasons for it. But how much land do I have?” Manohar
looked at the side of Sharada.
“Annayya! Same conflict since our wedding took place. I don’t
understand his psychology. Sometimes I feel like committing suicide
by hanging. Children are very young,” Sharada said.
264 / Astitva

“Chellemma! Truly speaking, there should not be any problems

in your married life. No issues at all, in fact. Still, both of you find
arguments. Because of his convictions, you are afraid that something
would happen to your family. Manohar thinks that because of you he
could not do what he desired. It’s a question of misunderstanding.
Manohar has some ideals. He has sympathy for the struggles going
on around in the society. But he cannot contribute to those in any
substantial manner. So, a conflict rages in his mind. A condition
imposed by his job. Family and children weigh on his mind like any
common man. Even for this, your insecurity makes you feel
threatened. You get agitated. Confined as you are to your family, he
always finds fault with you unable to appreciate your feelings.”
Without uttering a word, Manohar and Sharada were looking
at Thirumal who made explicit their respective psychologies.
“Chellemma! Ours is a land of struggles. There is so much
conflict, crisis here. Conditions are such we are not in a position to
decide on which side we are. When war is going on we have to take
some impediments into our stride. You are educated, so need to
understand these issues. You can utilize your learning and awareness
to resolve the misunderstandings in your family. I know you love
each other immensely. Without love, it is not possible for you to live
together all these years despite your arguments. In your anger, you
may think you are like enemies but on the other hand, you cannot
live without the other,” Thirumal further explained.
Both of them were thinking about the words of Thirumal whether
all he said was true. After a few minutes Sharada said, “Annayya! Seems
you’ve forgotten that both of you have to go to the village.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Chellemma! How long will it take on a
scooter? At the most two hours. If we halt on the way, two and half
hours. And before we go, we have to think from all angles. Manohar!
If this selling process is completed, you don’t have anything of your
own in the village, right?” asked Thirumal.
“Yes, in the village I was born and grew up, I will not have any
land to claim as my own. I’ll be hundred percent landless,” Manohar
said with a smile tinged with grief.
Thirumal and Sharada were agape. “If you’ve so much
attachment to your land, shouldn’t have ventured to sell it,” he said.
Manohar didn’t utter anything.
 War-Zone / 265

“Annayya! I don’t understand what’s happening to him. He

worries saying, ‘In my native place I’ll not have anything. The village
hounds me out.’ I don’t understand his psychology. Sometimes I fear
he’ll go mad,” said Sharada.
“You need not be worried, Chellemma! Nothing will happen to
Manohar. He is very much attached to his village. Loved his land.
Selfishness of his people or circumstances, or whatever, Manohar is
alienating himself from his land. But he cannot give up his love for
his land, attachment to his village, and also his concern for his people.
From the beginning, he dreamt of living in an ideal society. It does
not mean that he would dare to cut off all his family bonds. Nor
would he dare participate in the struggles that he sympathizes with.
What you find is the result of that conflict!”
Manohar knows that Thirumal had the knack of going through
the problems with x-ray eyes. He was looking with surprise at
Thirumal who was explaining his self.
“Manohar! You love your land, still you want to sell it, many
reasons maybe there, but will you deny that it is also because of the
business mentality that entered your mind? If you retain that land,
you’ve to invest on it. The yield may not be up to your expectations.
Even if you get some profit, it’ll be far less than the interest you get
on the interest of the amount you’ll get by selling. After selling the
land if you deposit the amount in any bank it’ll be useful to your
children. We, ordinary people, think on these lines. Take the case of a
farmer. Even if the crop is not beneficial, he’ll refuse to part with his
land. He feels ashamed to sell the land. Right?”
His inner thoughts were laid bare by Thirumal. What else could
he say except nodding? “Let’s go. If we don’t find them by the time
we go there, it won’t look good.” Manohar stood up. “We said we’ll
come. They may not go,” Thirumal said while getting up.
“Chellemma, don’t blame us later. From this day you won’t have
anything in that village.”
“Let it go annayya! From that land we haven’t gained in any
way, even with few bags of grains,” bemoaned Sharada.
While coming out, Manohar muttered: “What will you lose?
Loss will be mine.” Sharada was about to say something when
Thirumal interrupted her. Both of them came out tying white towels
around their heads as headbands to avoid the heat.
266 / Astitva

The blood orb like Sun was coming out of the eastern hills. From
the slowly emerging sun the red rays were losing their sheen.
As Manohar was about to start his scooter, Thirumal said,
“You’re a moody fellow. Let me drive it,” and he kick-started it. With
Manohar behind him as pillion rider Thirumal was on his way. Many
thoughts were lingering in Manohar’s mind.
One day Thirumal asked him, “Many people have individual
problems. Family burdens. Especially if there is no compatibility
between wife and husband, these are inevitable. Bu then, progressive
minded people like you have to resolve these personal conflicts. By
the way, why are issues cropping between the two of you?”
Manohar replied: “Sharada says that why we should tolerate those
who have no love left for us. ‘When they are wasting away whatever
land there is why don’t you ask them? We too have children. What’ll
you bequeath to them?’ Whenever it comes to our family, there is an
argument.” Thirumal knows everything about the family of Manohar.
“Your parents have all along been engaged in agriculture. They
faced many hurdles in their journey. They educated you, helped you
in getting a job so that you would be settled and be happy. Although
your sister’s financial position is not that bad, still theirs is an
agricultural family. Your parents may think that you are holding a
job, so you are happy, and your sister’s family is not that financially
sound even while working hard in the fields. A feeling of jealousy
entered their psyche that their daughter-in-law who came from
somewhere had trapped you in her fold. In addition, your wife’s
civilized looks and their daughter’s rugged appearance might have
added up to their dislike. On account of your job, you are living at a
distance, but your sister is living in the same vicinity must have
brought more proximity between them. Another reason must be your
attitude giving the impression of neglecting them. By the time you
became aware of these, the distance has already increased.”
“If you want to correct all these, you have to struggle a lot. You
need to take your wife to your village frequently, and bring them to
your home. Also you need to remove the feeling that you are
neglecting them. Have to take part of their lives. If possible, try this,
or reconcile to whatever you get from the land.”
‘Is he capable of all these things?’ He asked himself. He even
tried his bit. Soon he came to know that he could not pressurize both
 War-Zone / 267

of them to bring together. He was not aware of the fact a part of the
land in the village was sold and the money was given to his sister for
a long time. He thought it would be better to not argue with his wife
on that score.
Once he informed his friend: “Thirumal, Sharada says that I
had to confine myself to her and our children. Except his moderate
salary, they don’t have much income to support the family, so
something has to be done to earn extra money, she advised. I don’t
know what to do.” Thirumal just looked at him as if implying that
these things were all common.
“Don’t think I am supporting her. Nor saying that all people are
like this. But from the standpoint of Sharada, I don’t find fault with
her. Although we deny it, the fact remains that family burden is borne
by her. In some families, if husbands go the wrong way getting
addicted to certain bad habits, it’s the wives who support their
families. But majority of men confine their women to respective homes
only. Same is the case with those who are involved in social activities.
Those men involved in revolutionary struggles, alive or dead, will
get fame, at least. But what about the women in those families? How
many agonies they have to undergo? They’ll get nothing, no
recognition. Progressive minded intellectuals too will not let their
wives go out. At least, have you asked your wife before doing
anything?” Thirumal asked.
“No ...” replied Manohar.
“When you set her aside in all your activities why should she
concur with you in everything that you do? Whether good or bad if
you had consulted her and let her take part in decision-making she
would not have felt alienated. Problems would not have cropped up,
but that is not taking place.”
“But how do women take part in everything,” asked Manohar.
“Why not? If it is barred for her why should we be allowed to
take part? If the women think they are merely confined to kitchen,
their thinking would not be broader. If they are made part of decision
making, they would feel responsible, and we get support from them.
This is applicable to both.”
“Even if I ask her, she’ll not oblige. She wants me too to confine
to the family only,” Manohar said.
Thirumal replied: “That’s why she looks like an enemy to you.
Perhaps you didn’t make her a part of your decision from the
268 / Astitva

beginning. You might not have informed her anything about your
plans and activities. If so, she would not have become an obstruction
to you. The environment in which they live will not allow them to
think beyond it. The consumerism confines her thinking to sofa sets
and silk saris. People like you have awareness of social issues but
you too are haunted by fears of middleclass mentality. In a way, she
is better than you since she is clear in her goal, the family.”
Although he thought that the last words may not be correct, he
could not but agree with the rest of his expressions.
After this, he started to take her viewpoint into account. He had
so much sympathy for the ongoing revolutionary struggles, but he is
also frightened by the killings that are taking place. Growing children,
increasing expenses, meagre income, and a job without mobility have
made him complacent. He began to fear for his life. Sometimes he
would bemoan that he is increasingly becoming helpless and getting
deeper into middleclass mentality. His father died at that time. He
became further dejected. By that time, they had sold much of their
land. His inherited two-acre land was put for sale now.
The scooter was rushing towards Peddapally. Addressing
Manohar who was engrossed in thinking, Thirumal asked, “What
Manohar, seem to be thinking about something seriously.”
The Rajiv Rahadari was not completed yet. Although cool breeze
was blowing with the weight of thoughts, his mind was heating. With
Thirumal’s words, his whirlpool of thoughts came to an end.
“Nothing much. Mind is an anthill of thoughts! Once, our district
didn’t have any industries. Except the beedi industry on Korutla side.
Later coal mines in Godavarikhani, Powerhouse, cement factory, Food
Corporation of India, and NTPC came up here. Industrial
development took place, and labour force got strengthened.
“In the meanwhile, struggles also intensified. The land we are
traversing, every inch of it, was soaked in blood. In these twenty and
twenty five years there is no village that has not experienced the
killings of youth. What is the result of their bloodshed? Although I
sympathise with the noble intentions behind the movement, I am
afraid of the violence and huge loss of life in this region,” said
Manohar.
That road is always busy. Thirumal was driving the scooter
carefully to avoid the traffic coming from the opposite side.
 War-Zone / 269

“Manohar, sacrifices will not go waste any time. We are also

observing the effects of the movement. Twenty years ago, in the
villages, did our people dare to walk with footwear in front of the
doras? His appearance is enough, people used to offer greetings
bowing before him with kerchiefs in their hands. Vetti was a common
thing. Was there any protection to the security of working class
women? In some villages a girl was first sent to dora’s gadi soon after
she came of age. Workers wages were decided by them arbitrarily.
Now, the doras have left the villages. The few who remained are afraid
to be called doras. Are these changes not because of the struggles? At
least the movement acted as a catalyst for speeding up the changes
...”
“Exactly. Once, how horrible was the condition of dalits? Now
they’ve gained in confidence. In some villages these people are in
dominant positions,” replied Manohar.
“That’s true. But they say untouchability still exists in some
villages. In Jagityal villages, a centre of many movements, still
washermen don’t wash clothes of harijans unless those were first
washed by themselves,” Thirumal said.
“That’s why there is a need to analyse the argument that unless
caste problem is solved other problems will not be solved. Economic
struggles may not be the solution to all problems.”
“Those are big issues. We’ve reached Peddapally. In the cart
that was converted into a makeshift hotel, beneath the tree near the
bus stand Idli and Vada will be good. It’ll be good if we have a strong
dose of Idli and Vada there. Even if it is late for the lunch in the village,
it will not be much of a problem.”
“Let’s go ...”
Outside the bus stand, Thirumal parked his scooter in the shade
of a tree. Both of them adjusted on the bench.
“Rajaiah! Idli must be good. Vada must melt on our tongues,”
Thirumal addressed the hotel owner.
“Yes, it’ll be good sir. You are not seen nowadays?”
“If I go by scooter, my breakfast will be here only, got used to
the taste here. But started going by bus recently.”
“Bava! Look at that side, those people are celebrating Pochamma
Jatara. The women are dancing, waving neem branches. These
traditions haven’t gone, despite the many struggles,” said Manohar.
270 / Astitva

“Manohar, in our Telangana districts, there is a peculiar situation.

On one side, there are struggles ... on the other, these offerings are
taking place simultaneously. The working class has preserved a
unique culture from the beginning. Their songs are also unique.
Balladeers like Gaddar have borrowed their tunes from folk-songs
and composed excellent songs to become one with them. The
awareness these songs have created among the masses is also
immense.”
“True, Thirumal. Now Sammkka, Saralakka jataras are taking
place in every village. Recently installed the deities and celebrated in
our village too.
“It was common for these working class people to worship those
who waged heroic battles for them. We’ve seen how Budige Jangalu
and Sharada vallu narrate the valour of those who sacrificed their
lives in Telangana struggle.”
They were conversing while having their breakfast.
“Our villagers still follow many traditions: If mothers offer boore
to their sons, the sons, in turn, have to give saris as gifts; again, if the
sisters offer dry coconut shells (with kernel) and sugar, brothers have
to give return gifts of saris. Like this there are many practices that are
in vogue in the countryside. These must have been created to
strengthen healthy relationships between individuals and families,
to avoid distance used as they were to a mechanical life.”
Whatever the circumstances, Manohar remembered his own
people and his heart became heavy.
After completing breakfast they paid the amount to Rajaiah.
Women labourers were waiting for daily wage work under the tree
with tiffin boxes in their hands.
“A police officer was killed in this area and for one month the
nearby villages had borne the brunt. No young man was seen in these
villages,” said Thirumal while kick-starting the scooter.
“Yes. Telangana land is like Kurukshetra. If that war was for the
sake of empire, this war is for land. Better not to talk about it until we
cross the village,” said Manohar.
It was not yet nearing noon, still the heat was felt. Manohar was
surveying both sides of the road. Paddy crop was ripe, so was corn
field. So many thoughts were swirling in Manohar’s mind.
 War-Zone / 271

‘Fierce battles are taking place around. But how could people
like him have remained largely indifferent? He loves working class
culture. But many people negate it, caught in the vortex of middleclass
culture and values. People are used to comforts like colour TVs and
refrigerators. In these matters, women are finding fault with people
like him.
‘How he wished to lead a simple life! But what turns his life
journey has taken? In which direction is he going distancing himself
from his village and the land? Because of his job he could lead a
moderatly decent living. But his cousins are living attached to their
lands. Their children are still wearing battered knickers with running
noses. Why is he not concerned about them? Will these movements
realize the ideal society they are promising?’
“Again, you seem to have gone into your world!” With the words
of Thirumal he came back to the present. After a few seconds, he
said. “We’ve reached Sultanabad.”
“You are familiar with these villages since your childhood.
Gattepally village is there, nearby. Muralidhar Rao from the village
stood against Razakars and fought valiantly. Bullets pierced through
his two legs. He died recently.”
“Yes ... From Peddapally, Thakur Shyamsunder Singh
participated in the struggle against Razakars and died. Three villages
away, there is a village called Dhulikatta. Archaeological department
people found coins, clay utensils, figurines that belonged to the
Satavahana period. They say there was a royal fort there. Our village
was by the side of it.
“Once, these might be historical places. But in recent history,
oppression by doras reigned supreme here. I came to know that when
once an old man was crushed to death by the cartwheel of a dora son,
there was no one who dared to question him.”
“Yes. Those ‘Ayya, banchen,’ ‘avva banchen’ masses are now
fighting heroically. Because of these struggles, confidence was instilled
in working class people,” said Manohar.
“But some people say that the villages are destroyed because of
the movement.”
“It’s natural for them to talk like that. I find heroic soil in every
village of Telangana. But then, the bloodshed frightens me.”
272 / Astitva

“It’s like saying that you cherish going to war-Zone, but you are
afraid of swords. We’ve now reached the outskirts of your village.
It’s already late in the morning, I wonder whether we could find all
the elders,” said Thirumal.
Manohar gets emotional when he nears his village or hears the
name of it. He remembered the places where he had played in his
childhood, climbed hillocks, trees, and the soil where he had sung
and danced, the tank in which he used to swim, meandered along
green fields, and his heart became heavy. When he looked at some of
the places he felt happy. From the next day, it would be rare for him
to come back to his village, and this feeling hurt him. He had to come
to see his mother who however, rejected him. But his link with the
land will be severed which is painful to him. Tears welled up in his
eyes as he was reminded of so many people who have been alienated
from their lands.
“Manohar, you seem to be immensely happy looking at the
outskirts of your village, no words coming from you!” asked Thirumal.
After a few seconds, he said, “Look at that ... our school. We
built it with our own labour. By its side there is tank bund. We used
to play on that bund every day. Bathukamma festival was celebrated
there in the ground only. They say that the tank was built during the
reign of the Kakatiyas. It was the lifeline of our village. There is
Ramappa temple over the bund. It was also built by the Kakatiyas,”
Manohar said.
After a while, the scooter stopped in front of the house of his
father’s younger brother. “Bidda has come, it’s nearing noon. We
thought you would not come. If you had been late by a few minutes,
these people would have gone,” said Venkataiah, his uncle.
“Did I miss anytime once I said I would come? Even by scooter,
doesn’t it take a long time?” asked Manohar.
In the front yard, two cots were arranged with bed sheets, both
of them sat on one of those. Manohar’s mother came and leaned
against a pole.
“Amma! Hope you are doing well?” asked Thirumal.
“Bidda, what’s there? If only death comes early ...” she said
ironically.
Thirumal did not find any remorse on her face. But there was
anger in her voice with his son coming to not their house, but to the
 War-Zone / 273

house of her maridi. Agony was writ large on her face. But there was
no trace of sorrow at depriving his son of a house in the village.
Sometime ago, Thirumal shared the same view with her. He
was reminded of her words then: “For my daughter-in-law, our
presence itself is unbearable. When my husband was bedridden, it
was my daughter who looked after him, did all the service. She didn’t
have a house. She will look after me too. My son has got a job in the
town. They own a house there. That’s why gave the house to our
daughter. What’s wrong in giving?”
To the question why she gave land too, she replied: “Will my
son come here and plough the land? That’s why gave some land too
to our daughter. What’s wrong? He also got two acres of land. What’ll
he do with it? Sell it and take the money!”
Manohar was head-bent, raging with the thought that he was
alienated from his land, now further distanced from his village.
Thirumal was observing Manohar’s mother. He could see the
anxiety of so many years, and the heart turned into a stone.
Venkataiah came accompanied by the person who was ready to
buy the two acres of land along with three elders of the village. Those
elders sat on the other cot.
“Chinnamma will prepare food. You’ll have lunch here only,”
said Venkataiah.
Manohar nodded.
His mother looked at him. Unable to forget the recent events,
he could not look at her. “Sell your share of land, and go away from
your mother. Take the money and don’t look back at the village,” she
said.
“You ordered me not to come to this side. It was you who made
me homeless in this village. Now you are the ones making me go
away from the village,” there was a note of anguish in Manohar’s
voice.
Thirumal intervened, “Manohar, why digging the past now, any
use crying over split milk?”
The summer heat was becoming more intense. Those who have
farming works had gone. The dog was licking water in the container
near the well. The she-hens were hatching eggs making the dry patch
of land wet.
274 / Astitva

“Manohar, have you received the entire amount?” asked

Rajireddy.
“Another ten thousand rupees is due,” replied Manohar.
Komraiah took out ten thousand rupees and handed over to
Rajireddy. He, in turn, gave the amount to Manohar.
It took another half an hour to complete the formalities of writing
the sale deed and other details of the land. Their signatures were
attested.
“Complete your lunch early and go to Sultanabad Registration
office. It’ll take one hour formalities there,” the former Patwari said.
Thirumal replied, “We’ll come by scooter. You can come by scooter
or bus.”
Venkataiah and Manohar got up to have lunch. Meanwhile four
youths came there. Of them, two persons did not belong to that village.
One of them said, “We’ll not allow the land to be sold.”
It was like a stone thrown at the heart of Manohar. He could
recognise them.
He felt agitated because ideologically he was supportive of them,
but the same persons are interfering now in his transaction. On whose
side should he stand now?
“Why won’t you allow?” asked Venkataiah.
“Didn’t we say that lands should not be sold?”
Manohar said, “I am not a rich landlord nor a wealthy man as
you might have imagined. I’ve only these two acres, and how can
you obstruct this sale?”
“You have a job in the town!” said one of them.
“Yes, true. But it’s like a nose that goes off with a sneeze. Ok, I’ll
give up this land, will you ensure the future of my children?” Manohar
asked.
“Why should we give guarantee? What will you do with this
amount? You’ll do a fixed deposit in a bank. Will that be enough for
your children’s future?”
Manohar was at a loss for words. “By doing the job, I didn’t
save anything. And I didn’t inherit any property. This is the only
property that was handed down to me by my father. And you know
better what value this amount of sixty thousand rupees has got in
these days.
“I am also a sympathizer of the movement. As my financial
position is not that good I put this land for sale. Not that I want more.
 War-Zone / 275

The seller and the buyer here, I and Komraiah come within the
purview of your land ceiling. Even then if you insist on not selling
the land, let it be so. I already took advance amount. I also spent
something out of it. But I’ll repay it, come whatever may. So far, I
didn’t get any income from this land. Do you wish to keep it like
that? Is it your practice to harass people like me who are not rich, but
below middleclass?” asked Manohar with sarcasm.
The youths went aside and discussed among themselves.
“Who’ll look after your mother, then?” asked one of them.
“I am not saying that it is not my responsibility. Even if I asked
her to come with me, she had refused. That’s why, according to her
wish, we gave our house and some land to my sister on the condition
that she has to look after our mother. Even now, I am ready to take
my mother with me. Or, if she stays here, let the house be given to
me,” said Manohar.
“Avva! Is what you son saying true? Where do you want to stay?”
“Yes, true. I wish to remain with my daughter here.”
After that there was some discussion. They explained their
ideology. Thirumal and Manohar also responded with their views
and observations. Those youths went away.
Venkataiah said, “Abba! A big danger is averted!”
By the time they completed their lunch and reached Registration
office at Sultanabad it was two in the afternoon.
Paper work was completed soon. While signing the papers, tears
rolled down the eyes of Manohar. Holding Thirumal with his arms,
he wept.
“I am now completely landless. Not an inch of land is there for
me. The village has chased me out. My own family members chased
me out.” Thirumal responded by saying many consolatory words.
Komraiah, Rajireddy, and former Patwari were looking agape at
Manohar.
Komraiah later offered tiffins to them at a hotel.
“Thirumal ... I feel sorry because now I am landless. Since I love
my land, it is natural. But I didn’t work in the field much. Komraiah
has more attachment with his land. He worked as a farm labourer in
our fields for many years. I feel happy that he is the owner of that
land now. What else do I wish except that the land should go to the
sons of the soil? Many people who cannot cultivate their lands on
276 / Astitva

their own, and who have leased their lands until now are selling their
lands. And the hard working people are buying those lands. Is it not
a good change? I feel all this is an indirect result of the struggles
taking place in our region. This is the stark reality in our war field.
That’s why this land looks like a place of dharma,” Manohar expressed
his view in a somewhat relaxed manner before the scooter was started.
Thirumal while taking pillion rider’s seat was thinking about
the words of Manohar who on the one hand was feeling sorry for
selling his land, but was also happy on the other since the land is
now owned by the right claimant.
The sun was spreading crimson rays while going to take rest in
his nest.

“Yuddha Bhoomi”
1997 Translated by K. Damodar Rao
 The Dispossessed

P. Chand

The Godavarikhani Open Cast Project-3 mine is right next to

Godavarikhani town. Sometime ago, there used to be a G.D.K.-7
incline well. Now, after the well has been closed, after the
commencement of the O.C.P. project run with foreign technical know-
how, the atmosphere there has changed completely. Modern machines
like sand draglines scoop up the overburdened sand and pour them
into huge heaps. On the other side, hollow pits have been formed. To
transport the coal that emerge there, heavy machines like dumpers,
showers and loaders are constantly on the move.
Next to the watchman’s shelter that leans onto the road on which
the dumpers operating on the Open Cast Project-3 mine move, under
the shade of the tumma tree is a small tea stall. Kunda Mallaiah, who
runs that stall, is over sixty. His hair has greyed completely like a
basket of white flour. Nothing on him other than the unkempt beard
and the pancha. The boy with him is his grandson, named Raju. Raju
is a sprightly kid. Though the tea stall is really Mallaiah’s, it is Raju
who does all the work. Mallaiah cannot see properly. He is able to
see vaguely, hazily. But he cannot see clearly. Short-sight increasing
with age has blurred his vision.
Both the grandfather and grandson reach that spot very early in
the morning. In the morning, lighting the coal stove, the first shift of
278 / Astitva

workers would stop for a while there on their way and those who so
desired chitchatted for a while over tea. The small stall is open from
before the first shift till the night shift takes place. Sometime after
midnight, after washing the tea vessels, the grandfather and grandson
would trudge back home. There, the afternoon lunch and all else too.
From boiling some rice over the coal stove, eating it with some curry
or pickle, Mallaiah taking a short nap under the shade of that dirty
tumma tree in the afternoon, all things happen right there around ten
or sometime in the afternoon. Around three in the afternoon, some
activity begins with the second shift workers.
That day too as usual, just as Mallaiah is about to relax on the
gunny sack under the dirty tumma tree, watchman Rangaiah too
reached the shade of that tree.
“What, thatha getting ready to sleep, already?” Saying this and
displaying all his teeth, he sits on the edge of the gunny sack spread
below.
Examining Rangaiah’s face, Mallaiah replies, “Sleep, my child?
Where’s even a wink of it? Because of my health, I lie down like this
for a while,” and stretches out his hand towards Rangaiah for a beedi.
Rangaiah gives Mallaiah a beedi, takes one and lights it. Looking
towards the road, feeling that all is well, Rangaiah enters into a
conversation with Mallaiah.
“Since the shift the night before till twelve I have been here and,
feeling a rumbling in my stomach, I went towards the pump for some
water when Francis, the jamedar came, spotted me and created a big
fuss as to where I was roaming about having absconded from work.
One who works doesn’t care if it’s night or day. One who doesn’t go
around like the fan. Can’t blame anyone. We are in the lower rungs.
We have to put up with anything the higher-ups say.” Saying this, he
shares his pain.
Nodding, and saying, “My child, the relationship is one of
indebtedness! Whatever is fated will happen to a person. Who can
change one’s fate?” Mallaiah heaves a worried sigh.
If you just shake Mallaiah a bit, he will unfold his bundle of
troubles. Though he always tells the same things he keeps telling
them over and over again.
“There, under the mud heap poured like a mound, I used to
have a field of two acres. The water hole on this side of the mud heap
 The Dispossessed / 279

was the Maredupaka lake. If it filled up, we could easily harvest two
crops. Now, that lake is not there. There is no field. If only I had my
field, would I have to do this wretched job of washing used dishes?
We must think it’s all fated. Whatever is written will happen.”
Mallaiah casts a glance on the mud road that goes towards
Maredupaka. The mud road towards Maredupaka appears hazily as
if it is squeezed in-between huge mud heaps. The dumper whirs ahead
with a loud noise. But as the high tyres make their imprint on the
mud road, it goes ahead raising dust. The red dust ray suddenly surges
up, descends where they are sitting and showers dust in Mallaiah’s
eyes. As the dust falls in his eyes, Mallaiah rubs his eyes, and starts
again worried, “Look here, after their project began, our lives have
been swept away like dust.”
Rangaiah gets up to leave. Though he does not have much
interest in what Mallaiah is saying repeatedly, he would have sat for
a while but as it is time for his superior officer to go on rounds, he
decides to move on.
At the same time, Raju cries out loud to Mallaiah, “Thatha,
thatha.” He cries out once again, “The rice is ready. Eat and lie down.”
Mallaiah now casts a glance towards his grandson. When
Mallaiah looks at him, his heart is once again heavy. When children
of his age are going to school in coloured clothes, he is toiling hard
day and night anxious to feed them. No sooner does Mallaiah become
conscious of this, than tears well up in his sunken eyes.
By then, Raju comes near him to take his grandfather for food.
On observing tears in his grandfather’s eyes, he asks sorrowfully,
“Thatha, crying again?” Raju had often seen his grandfather’s eyes
filled with tears. He is aware of occasions when his grandfather woke
up at midnight and shed tears, sitting next to him, worried. Seeing
tears once again in his grandfather’s eyes makes him sad.
“Nothing really, didn’t the dumper go by that way? The dust
caused the tears.” Saying this, he takes the edge of his pancha and
wipes his eyes.
“I know you’re crying.” Sitting on his toes, he wipes his
grandfather’s cheeks with his tender hands.
“Abbey! I’m not crying. My eyes are watering because dust has
got into them. That’s all. Come on, come on. Let’s eat¾it’s already
very late. You haven’t eaten anything since morning.” Mallaiah jerks
up and takes his grandson to the coal stove at the edge of the road.
280 / Astitva

Raju places steaming rice on two silvery stoned plates. He puts

the tomato chutney he made with ground green chillies the previous
evening onto the two plates, hands over one plate to his grandfather
and takes the other.
Mallaiah’s heart is numb with worry and he is unable to swallow
his food. But not wanting to displease his grandson, he forces himself
to swallow each mouthful.
The heat of the sun increases. A slight hot breeze begins to blow.
Without any greenery around till the eyes could see, it appears bald.
The mud heaps blaze in the sun. As they are about to wash their
hands after the meal, Kallu Poshavva comes carrying her basket of
eatables.
Kallu Poshavva is about forty. She ekes out her living selling the
eatables at the toddy shop nearby. She is dark and fat. A red bottu on
her broad face. Her teeth are stained red with constant use of tobacco
stuffed betel leaves. She is a very shrewd person. If she weren’t shrewd
she would not be selling eatables to drunkards at the toddy shop.
She has no livelihood other than this. It’s her philosophy that to live
one must do something.
At mid-day, Kallu Poshavva comes carrying her basket of
eatables. When the first shift workers return from duty, the business
gets going in the toddy shop. The business that begins then continues
until pitch darkness envelops the night. She sells her eatables till then
and treads back home. Just like she carries the basket of eatables each
day to the toddy shop, Kallu Poshavva comes there as usual with her
basket. By the time she reaches, they have eaten their meal.
“My child, what curry did you make?” She asks Raju in a familiar
and teasing manner. She has inexplicable love and affection for Raju.
She does not exactly know why she loves him. Is it because he has no
parents? Or is it because she sees the trouble Raju takes to eke out a
livelihood at such a tender age? Or is it because she has no children?
Or is it because she views Raju with maternal love? Whatever the
reason, her coming there daily, having a cup of tea and leaving have
become a part of her routine.
“I made tomato chutney today,” Raju replies.
“Chutney, yesterday too. Today too, chutney? If you eat chutney
everyday your stomach will get spoilt.” She places the basket of
 The Dispossessed / 281

eatables a little away from the stove and gets into a conversation with
Mallaiah.
“How is the old man’s health?” Kallu Poshavva, strikes a
conversation.
“What’s new, my child? I’ll be just like this. The failing light is
bound to end sometime or the other. My only worry is about him.
My heart wilts whenever I think of what he’ll do when I’m no more.”
Once again, the same worry overwhelms him. In fact, Mallaiah’s words
are like the words of a man filled with immense sorrow.
“There’s no point in your grieving like that. What is bound to
happen will happen. Though I’m alone, am I not doing something to
fill my stomach?” Kallu Poshavva’s face is filled with sorrow. But
like one lifting up her spirits, she says, “What’s the point in feeling
defeated? Don’t you have to raise your grandson, get him married,
relax with your legs crossed and play with your great grandsons?”
Kallu Poshavva’s eyes shine as if she has seen a beautiful dream.
Mallaiah laughs heartily, “So lucky, my child?”
“If you’re not a lucky man, what else are you? You’ve a grandson
at least.” Kallu Poshavva’s voice is filled with sorrow once again.
Raju gets tea and hands it to her. She takes the tea and starts to
sip slowly. Kallu Poshavva is also from Maredupaka village. Mallaiah
knows her from her childhood. Kallu Poshavva’s husband was a
wretched drunkard. He drank so much that his liver was eaten up
and he died. She suffered when her husband was alive. For a little
while, she made her living working as a coolie. After sometime, unable
to find work as a coolie, she turned to this business.
She drinks her tea and hands over the glass to Raju. He takes
the glass and looks longingly at the basket of eatables for a while. She
takes out the tucked in hand purse and gives him a rupee coin. She
takes a fistful of seasoned gudalu and places it in Raju’s palm. She is
used to handing over a fistful of gudalu to Raju after she has tea
every day. She does not take any money for that.
Seeing his grandson savour the gudalu happily, Mallaiah says,
“Poshavva, why do you spoil him like that? If the sun rises to the top,
his eyes are all on the road looking out for you.” Saying this, Mallaiah
bursts into a toothless grin.
“What’s wrong with that? If I go without coming here, I feel I’ve
lost something,” says Poshavva. As if remembering something, she
282 / Astitva

says, “Peddayya! I believe the Collector sir will come to our village in
a day or two for settling the cases of those who have lost their lands.”
As soon as he hears those words, he feels an inexplicable
annoyance. “Why, is it to see whether they are dead or alive?”
Poshavva does not pay any attention to it. She continues to speak.
“The entire village thinks that this time something or the other will
be resolved. Pedda Venkati and Rajalingam sir are saying this to the
village people. I believe everyone should be there! If it’s not resolved
this time, they don’t know how long it’ll take.”
Mallaiah’s anger increases as if chilli powder is thrown on the
wound.
“What the hell will happen? It’s been eight years since the lands
have been lost. Half the people have left the village. The rest of them
are merely surviving, hardly breathing. Just the other day, when the
Speaker came and the entire village fell all over him, garlanded him,
beat the dappus and took him in a procession, what did he say at the
meeting? Saying they’ll do something in a week or ten days they
tempted us with a piece of jaggery only to leave us cheated! Not just
a week, six months have gone by. What happened, not a hair moved!
Our Rajesam told us a long time ago. With those wells coming up,
our lives will mingle with the dust. It happened just as he told us.
They have buried us even as we are alive. Look, what do you think
those mud heaps are all about?” Saying this, he pointed to the mound-
like mud heaps. “Our lives!” Mallaiah’s voice is filled with sadness.
As his son comes to mind, his heart overflows with grief. Unable to
speak. Grief pours out. “That’s why, my child, they didn’t allow our
Rajesam to live. All of them beat him to death.” Mallaiah sobs
uncontrollably.
On hearing Rajesam’s name, Kallu Posavva’s heart too becomes
heavy. She firmly believes that if anyone can be called a human being,
it is only Rajesam. She hides her sorrow in her heart and tries to
console Mallaiah saying, “Rajesam is not like others. He’s like God.
That’s why God doesn’t let good people live long in this world.”
Raju is stunned and is unable to swallow the cooked seeds he
had put in his mouth. The tense atmosphere troubles his tiny heart.
On hearing his father’s name, he recalls vaguely, how in his childhood,
his father used to pull him close with his two hands, snuggle him to
his chest and put him to sleep.
 The Dispossessed / 283

Poshavva’s heart stirs on seeing the stunned boy. “My child, why
do you look so stunned? Eat.” Saying this, she pulls him close
affectionately and places his head close to her chest. With the maternal
touch, Raju’s heart is a little relieved.
Poshavva gets up slowly, lifts the basket of eatables, and gets
ready to leave. “Peddayya, there’s no point in thinking about things
that happen or don’t and getting upset. What is fated for us will
happen. We’ve got to harden our hearts for what is to follow.” Saying
this, she takes a short cut to the toddy shop.
The dumper’s driver, Sayabali comes there to drink tea. “Arey,
chote abba chai banaore! (Arey, chote abba, make tea!)” Saying this, he
sits on a boulder there. Raju pours milk into the vessel used for boiling
tea and puts it on the stove. He puts a few tea leaves and sugar in it
and boils it.
Sayabali, sitting on the boulder, spreads out his legs and stretches
himself. Mallaiah gets up again, walks towards the dirty tumma tree
and lies down on the gunny sack.
Taking the tea Raju brings him, he asks, “Raju, did you happen
to see Komaraiah?”
“Which Komaraiah, sir?”
“That fellow who sells diesel in Venkataraopalli.”
“I didn’t see him today, sir.”
“If you see him, ask him to meet me once.”
“Okay.”
Drinking his tea, Sayabali starts thinking. As Komaraiah has not
been seen the last week, he is a little worried. There are small deals
between Komaraiah who sells diesel near Venkatraopalli and the
dumper driver. If one stealthily takes out a hundred or two litres of
diesel from the dumper during the night shift, it is hardly noticeable.
That way about four or five hundreds reach the pockets. Komaraiah
puts the diesel collected in this manner in tins and sells it at
Venkatraopalli. After paying off the police and the security men,
Komaraiah makes about five or six hundred. Once the Open Cast
wells have begun to operate, the higher-ups are swallowing money
according to their own capacity.
Sayabali pays the money for the tea and leaves.
The tea business is brisk with first shift workers going back home
at two in the afternoon and the second shift workers coming to work.
284 / Astitva

Raju boils tea in the big vessel. After a short nap, Mallaiah gets up
and immerses himself in work.
Somewhere in the Open Cast a loud noise of a blast. Immediately,
dust rises to the sky. As is their habit, all the people look at the rising
dust. From the pipe of the fertilizer factory, adjacent to the Open Cast
dense black smoke is rising.
At that moment, Rayamallu comes there with four people. “Hey,
brother! Are you fine?” He greets and orders for five teas.
Raju is thrilled to see Rayamallu. The co-workers too like
Rayamallu who speaks in a friendly manner with everyone. He speaks
in a forthright manner on anything. He does not have the nature of
hurting others. Has an oval face. Must be forty. Slightly graying hair.
Long nose. Thick black moustaches. Smiling face. Just speaking to
him once is enough, it gives a feeling of having known him for a very
long time. Rayamallu has sympathy and love for Raju. How Mallaiah’s
family has been ruined, about Rajesam being killed, the woes of the
dispossessed¾all move him. He is moved by the way Raju and his
old grandfather are battling for survival. A kind of sympathy, pity
having filled his heart, he would come to have a word whenever he
was free. He used to become a small boy in front of the boy and
converse with him. When he spoke to Mallaiah, he would speak like
an experienced person who knew hard times and happiness.
That day Rayamallu is speaking seriously with the ones who
came with him. “If he has suspended the worker for having plucked
the rose in front of the office, you can imagine what kind of a person
the project manager is,” he is saying.
“He’s very cunning, anna. When he was in Eleven, he sent back
twenty workers home for not wearing knickers.”
“Then what to do with him? There’s not even a naya paisa’s work.
Has only been thinking of making money from the day he joined.
When he was in Eleven he was in league with the contractors and
swallowed lakhs and was sent here and now he is swallowing crores.
It seems as if he’s got a golden opportunity.”
“Crores? Unbelievable,” another asks naively.
“It’s not a lie,” Rayamallu says in a clanging voice. In the
meanwhile, as Raju hands over the glasses, he begins to speak again
sipping his tea: “Do you know how many crores are needed to run
the project? They have put in a capital of about five to six hundred
 The Dispossessed / 285

crores. Every bit of work on the mud heaps are done only by machines.
Men only to run them. They send reports to higher authorities that
they want some spare part or the other. When they are informed that
the work may stop, the spare parts have to be sent with the utmost
speed. Each spare part costs not tens or hundreds or thousands but
lakhs. They join hands with such suppliers and swallow lakhs.”
Sipping his tea, he continues, “That’s a big scam. Though everyone
knows, they turn a blind eye. That’s because all of them too are
thieves.” He drinks his tea and keeps the glass down.
“Then what are the Union people doing? They can bring out
their corrupt acts out into the open, can’t they?”
“Some woman once said if my man is a good man, why will I go
out with the barber? Such crooks know how to deal with different
officials. If they know that their existence is at stake because of you,
they’ll try to win you over by hook or by crook. Which of our Union
leaders finds money distasteful? Not that everyone is like that. At the
lower level, though there are a few who want to work for the good of
the workers; their words go unheeded.”
Rayamallu is so involved in the conversation, that he pays for
the tea and leaves without spending much time.
As the second shift starts, Mallaiah gets up and gets immersed
in work. By the time the milk the grandson and grandfather had
bought is over, it is seven in the evening. The dusky evening gives
way to darkness. It must be eight by the time they wash up the vessels
and bowls, pack up and leave for home.
The road to Maredupaka is a very narrow uneven mud path
between huge mud heaps. As Mallaiah walks ahead with the bowls
tied in the gunny sack on his head, Raju walks behind him carrying a
sack each in his hands. Dense darkness. It’s even darker in-between
the mud heaps. As it is his usual route, Mallaiah is walking briskly
though he cannot see anything in front of him. He rests for a minute
against the old culvert of the lake for his grandson, turns back and
looks. His grandson is hazily visible a little distance away. Mallaiah
waits there till Raju comes. As soon as Raju comes near him, he begins
to speak in his usual manner.
“Next to this culvert, there used to be a big rela tree. Your father
used to play here. He used to swim in this lake.” Saying this, he is
lost in memories.
286 / Astitva

Here there is no tree, no nothing. A dilapidated culvert swamped

with mud on one side. On the other side, two big boulders of the
culvert half visible. Nothing is clearly visible in that darkness.
“There used to be a slide on this side of this culvert. Now this
stone is buried under the mud heap.” Saying this he points to another
mud heap in front. Actually, Mallaiah sees a high mud heap hazily as
if everything is merged together. He turns this gaze towards that mud
heap and remains fixed there.
Raju is impatient, Grandfather repeats everything. On the one
hand, the little one is drained out having toiled all day in the sun. His
only thought is about when he can stretch himself in bed on reaching
home.
“Come thatha, it’s getting late, let’s go home.” Saying this, Raju
hurries him.
Mallaiah does not move from there. Placing his bundle on the
culvert stone, saying, “It’s only to our place, we’ll go. Wait, let us take
a breath for a while,” he slumps on to the boulder.
As Raju cannot do anything else, he sits next to his grandfather.
Mallaiah continues, “Look, here the culvert is leaning against
the slide. Four fields away was our land.” In the darkness, Mallaiah
lifts his hand and points towards the mud heap.
“If this lake was full, we would easily have had two crops. Your
father doted on the fields. We had two bullocks. He used to take them
and be on the fields before the first rain drops. After digging,
ploughing, levelling the fields, he would sow seeds when the lake
was full. Looking at his optimism, the entire village would be
surprised. He believed in the land more than in anything else. They
feel that there is no point in having faith in this land and are getting
fixed in jobs at the well. Your father was not interested in the well-
job. We had a little land. He used to say that if this mother was kind,
we won’t have any dearth of food. If only he had taken up the well-
job, we wouldn’t be facing these difficulties.” Mallaiah remains silent
for a moment. Old memories do not allow him to utter a word. He
sighs hard, gets up slowly and moves ahead. Carrying the sacks in
both his hands, Raju walks behind his grandfather.
As the village of Maredupaka is surrounded by the open cast
mud heaps that are of mountainous proportions, from outside it does
not appear as if a village exists in there. Unable to drive away the
 The Dispossessed / 287

dense darkness, here and there some dimly lit kerosene lamps are
left flickering like the lingering hopes of those villagers.
There are about four hundred homes in that village. About half
the homes are thatched huts. Among the remaining, a few are made
of earthen tiles ... There are a couple of storeyed houses. Though
almost all the houses there are chipped off by the blasts at the Open
Cast, have cracks in them, and are about to crumble any time, the
families are unwilling to leave such houses, and represent human
existence in that darkness. Before the village was occupied by the
company in the name of the Open Cast well, it had electricity. When
the company was ready to occupy it, with the disputes not being
settled over the last seven, eight years, the villagers have not left the
village. With that the company uprooted the poles providing
electricity to the village. Since then, the village has been filled with
darkness. Because the high mud heaps have covered the village, the
entire village is becoming a slushy place. Though there are some
families that work in the coal mine, they too have not moved out of
the village. That is because the company has not provided any kind
of accommodation for ninety percent of the workers. That is why,
people who have been living in that village for many years and work
in the mine have not moved out. Because compensation has not been
settled, they stick on to the village and continue to live there.
Except for the village, the company has taken over the fields
and the fallow lands of the village. Half of those who lost out on their
living were on the roads. Lots of families were left without a
livelihood. Many among them are fighting the war of existence
working as daily labourers, contract workers, road workers or doing
any kind of coolie work.
Through the big dust track both the grandfather and grandson
proceed and reach their house at the edge of the village. Mallaiah’s is
a two-roomed earthen tiled house. At some point, there used to be a
shed in front and one behind the house for cattle. There used to be a
fence with woven bamboo sticks surrounding the house. At that time
Mallaiah lived reasonably well without taking loans. Since the last
few years, as he could not maintain the house, it looks like a
dilapidated house. To add to this the house is about to crumble
because of the cracks caused by the Open Cast mine’s blasts. Just ten
yards away from Mallaiah’s house, the mud heap from the Open Cast
288 / Astitva

has formed like a mountain. After the field work has stopped, the
cattle too have left. The huts too have disappeared. Next, a miserable
situation where he had to sell the buffalo that gave two seers of milk
to the household, to be able to eat. Finally, there was nothing left at
home to sell. He was forced on to the road to eke out an existence.
By the time Mallaiah reaches home, the next door neighbour,
Jangam Papaiah is there. “They came this morning, mama,” he begins
to say. Raju takes the match box from his grandfather and lights the
lamp in the niche. A dim light envelopes the house. Jangam Papaiah
comes and stands at the entrance. Mallaiah spreads out the string cot
and sits down.
“I believe the Collector will come again. I hope things are settled
this time at least.” Papaiah comes and sits on the edge of the cot.
From the time Papaiah has come to know that the Collector is
coming, he is unable to think clearly. He is anxious that things must
be settled one way or the other. Like everyone Papaiah too is annoyed
about this. Earlier, Papaiah had an acre of land below the Maredupaka
lake. He had two more acres of fallow land. Before losing the land,
he used to lead a life of ups and downs. It was not as tough as now.
He would lead his life on the crops he grew six to seven months a
year. For the remaining months, he would do some kind of coolie
work. Now, he does not have even that much. He feels that if things
are settled somehow and he receives his money, he can do something
and lead his life.
“Yesterday morning Rajalingam sir and Pedda Venkataiah called
every one. They say it will be resolved somehow. Lawyer
Ramachandram too came.”
As soon as he hears their names, Mallaiah is angry as if chilli
powder has been sprinkled on the wound. “They are trying to collect
money thrown over corpses,” he mutters impatiently.
“One with the crowd! Whether good or bad, along with
everyone!” Papaiah replies.
It is not that Papaiah does not know about lobbyists like Pedda
Venkataiah and Rajalingam. He cannot see any other way out.
“What Rajesam said has come true.” Papaiah says in a heavy
tone. Even if you break your back and work hard, you do not get
even twenty five rupees. You get it only on the day you find work.
On the day you do not have work, you have nothing. He cannot
 The Dispossessed / 289

understand how to get along every day. He reveals his inner thoughts
that if something is settled, he will take what he gets and then manage
to live somehow.
When Papaiah mentions his son’s name, Mallaiah’s sorrow
overwhelms him.
“God alone knows how we have been living these last eight
years. Now it’s over. There, the money will come¾years and years
have gone by. Whenever we meet lawyer Ramachandram, he says
the case will be settled in a week or ten days. How much longer can
we live like this? Our debt to this land is over. However much we
shout or break our heads, no one will listen to us. What then can we
do?” says Papaiah.
As they are immersed in their conversation, Raju serves the food
he had saved for the night from the afternoon in plates and places
them in front of his grandfather. “Get up and eat, thatha.” Saying
this, he brings the plate in which he had served his food and sits
down to eat.
After the meal, Papaiah keeps speaking to Mallaiah for a very
long time. As sleep overpowers Raju after his meal, he slides next to
his grandfather on the string cot. The minute he lies down, sleep
overtakes him.
Even after Papaiah leaves, Mallaiah is unable to sleep. In the
surrounding darkness, the dim light in the niche flickers just like the
hope in Mallaiah’s heart. How much longer these trials and
tribulations! He begins to feel that, as Papaiah says, some kind of
settlement will be good. He looks at his grandson sleeping blissfully.
If everything were all right, he would be studying in the sixth or
seventh. Once again memories of the past surround him.
He still remembers that day eight years ago. That day the
company officers came with Kamaanpur Mandal Officer to the square
of the village panchayat. They gathered all the people in the village.
It was about eleven. That morning, even when it was dark Rajesam
went to the fields to work. When he heard that the officers had come,
he went directly from there to the village square. For the officers,
chairs had been placed in the village square. The villagers were
huddled together under the shade of the neem tree.
The Sarpanch of the village, Pedda Venkati got up and told them
what the matter was, “For many years, from the time of our great
290 / Astitva

grand fathers we have been living in this village. But today we have
to vacate the village.” When he began like this, the villagers felt as if
a huge boulder had been placed on their hearts. With disturbed hearts,
each began to speak agitatedly. Rajesam was standing in front of
everyone. His pale face was very agitated.
“Why should we vacate?” Someone shouted angrily. Pedda
Venkati gave a piercing look in the direction from where the words
came. Guessing that Yellaiah had said those words, Venkati began to
speak looking at him, “True, none of us would like to leave this land
that we depend on. But there’s no way out. But you all know this is
government’s order. As our village and some others around us have
been taken over by Open Cast-8 well, the government has decided
that all these villages must be vacated.” Pedda Venkati looks towards
the MRO. The MRO nodded as if to say yes.
“How do we live, leaving the village?” Rajesam yelled. With
clenched teeth, his thin cheeks and chin paled.
“Aa ... aa, how do we live?” Someone from behind echoed.
“The government will give us compensation for vacating our
houses and lands. Our MRO will give us the details.” Saying this,
Pedda Venkati stopped speaking and sat down in his chair.
By the time the fat and rotund MRO got up, everyone waited
with bated breath. The MRO had a round face, puffed-up cheeks and
slightly gray hair. As his thin lips moved, he began to speak. “For
losing your lands and vacating your houses, the government will
compensate you, depending on the price of your lands. You need not
vacate your lands and houses till the compensation is paid. All of you
know that coal deposits are there on the banks of the Godavari. All of
us know that there are coal mines that are in operation right next to
your village. All our surrounding villages have coal deposits
underground. Coal is very much necessary for our country. If there is
no coal, there is no electricity. Rails won’t run. Factories won’t run. You
know, that ten years ago your village didn’t have electricity. Now you
have electricity. If you needed water for the fields you would build
pumps near the well. Now if you switch on the motor, the water will
come up. If you turn on the switch like this, the lights come on. What
does that mean? Electricity has become a part of our lives. The situation
has arisen that we can’t run our lives without electricity. But the amount
of electricity produced is not enough for the needs of our country. There
 The Dispossessed / 291

are still many villages without electricity. If we want to provide

electricity to all villages, we must produce it in surplus. If we want to
produce electricity, we need coal. If we want coal, we have to dig
wherever it’s available. That’s why the government is prepared to spend
thousands of crores to dig for coal. As citizens of this country, we must
cooperate with the government.” He said this and much more.
After that, the company officer spoke. He said that the matter of
compensation would be resolved soon. Not just that, those who lost
a living, would be given, along with compensation, jobs in the
company under the land displaced category.
There was commotion in the entire village.
Some said that as the company had taken away their lands, they
should be provided lands in compensation elsewhere.
The company officer said clearly that this was not possible. He
repeated that they would get a job along with the compensation.
Some felt it would be all right if jobs were given. Because of that
there was a difference of opinion among the villagers.
The night all this happened, Rajesam could not sleep for a long
time. He placed his cot in the front yard and was lost in thought
staring at the sky. Rajyalakshmi, the daughter-in-law, waited a long
while, took the sleeping child from the cot and went in. Rajesam was
not able to think clearly. What he did not want was happening. He
never liked working in the mine. How to live if the lands were lost? If
he had really wanted a job in the mine he could have easily got it in
the past. But because he did not like it, he did not go for it. Now, if
the lands were lost, there was no option but to work in the mine.
Thinking that it was all for the best, he consoled himself.
Six months passed by before they knew it. Assuming that the
company would take over the land any time, quite a few neglected
the rainy season crop. Some others felt why wait till the lands were
taken away and started tilling the lands and other related work.
In between Maredupaka and Veerlapalli villages, work on the
Open Cast wells began near the seven incline well. Huge heavy
machines appeared there. Cranes, bull-dozers and dumpers arrived.
They installed high tents and had the company’s highest officer
perform bhoomi puja. The work was proceeding at a brisk pace.
Before the compensation was settled the company sent notices
to the villagers to vacate their lands. There was no mention of jobs
for the dispossessed in it.
292 / Astitva

Time was passing by. With the introduction of mechanization

in the company, its policy changed. The company announced that
the existing workers themselves were too many and as the
underground mines running so far at a loss were closed down, the
present workers themselves were in excess. With this, the company
got ready plans on how to get rid of the excess workers. There were
rumours that there would no longer be “dependent” employment.
Along with this, with the company deciding not to have women in
“dependent” employment, it would remove the excess workers. These
rumours gained strength. When this was the situation, notices were
issued to the villagers to vacate their lands.
There was once again commotion in the entire village. They all
began to be troubled as to what they should do now. As soon as the
notices reached them, all the villagers ran to the village square.
By then the entire village was there. Pedda Venkati is unable to
pacify them. “Look, don’t be hasty. I spoke to the higher authorities.
There is no change in the matter regarding giving jobs to the
dispossessed.” Saying this he was trying to pacify them.
“The compensatory money hasn’t been given. They say they
won’t give the promised jobs. Then, how can we vacate our lands.”
Nalla Mallaiah spoke as his dark face shriveled up further.”
“Since the last one year, our lives have become extremely
miserable. Without things being resolved, even if we lose our lives,
we won’t vacate our lands,” Rajesam said angrily.
“That’s it,” said many.
All the men and women were anxiously waiting to hear what
Pedda Venkati would say. On his stupid face no emotion was clearly
visible.
He opened his mouth slowly and said, “If such a situation arises,
we should all stand on one word. This is not routine business. If we
object, the company fellow will not agree. The government is behind
him. The police are with him. They will even forcibly evict us. They
had sixty villages evicted for NTPC. Then too this happened. But
they could not but vacate the villages. We have to resolve this matter
very delicately. We have to pull out a thorn only with a thorn. There
are laws. There are courts. Let’s go to the court for justice. Let it be
resolved for good or bad there.”
They all felt that all this was right to an extent.
 The Dispossessed / 293

But they decided something had to be resolved soon. Next day,

Pedda Venkati went along with two others to the city to look into the
court matters.
The third day, the company officials came with two vans full of
police to take possession of the lands. Pedda Venkati who had gone
to the city had not yet returned. They did not know what to do. Then
Rajesam came forward.
“Till something is resolved we are not vacating our lands, even
if we have to die,” he said, going up to the officials.
Everyone in the village agreed to what he said. With no
distinction between young and old, they reached their fields like files
of ants. Noticing that, Rajesam spoke addressing them, “We’ve lived
for a long while depending on these lands. Without showing us a
way out, if they ask us to vacate the lands right away, where can we
go? Like the company promised earlier, it must provide jobs for those
who have lost their lands. If it doesn’t, we are not going to leave our
fields. If we are asked to give up our lands without an alternative, it’s
like cutting off one’s head when one finds no water. How do we live
leaving these fields which are the source of our livelihood? We don’t
have any support. Instead of dying of hunger on leaving these lands,
let’s fight to retain these fields.” He spoke in an agitated manner as
his muscles in his thin face expanded.
The company officials and the police men who had come with
them did not understand a thing. They began to be scared when they
realised that when the villagers had had revolted in unison, the
situation was becoming critical. But, for Circle Inspector Khan, his
entire body began to burn as if chilli powder had been sprinkled on a
sore. That the common people were talking without paying scant
respect to the police tested his patience. But his gaze turned towards
Rajesam who was standing in their midst and speaking. Looking at
Rajesam with sharp angry looks, he warned, “You should all leave
this place in ten minutes. Otherwise, things will get out of hand. I’ll
have to throw you in jail for disobeying government orders.”
But these words did not frighten the villagers. Old Challa
Kanakamma could not see properly. Her back was bent. She rushed
forward through the crowd, looked into the Circle Inspector’s face,
and shielding her hazy eyes with her hands said, “My child, how do
we live? Did we steal anything? Did we debauch? We’ve been living
294 / Astitva

like this for ages. We’ve faith in this land. If you suddenly ask us to
leave, where can we go? You’re the bosses. Show us a way out. We’ll
go away.”
The villagers were looking with bated breath. The old woman’s
words were like chili powder sprinkled on the sore on the Circle
Inspector who was already angry. He lifted his large and heavy hand
on her.
Rajesam and a few others suddenly pulled her back. Women
started crying. A few others started showering abuses on the police
men.
Rajesam shouted angrily, “What’s this violence? Why don’t you
kill all of us at one go? Then nobody will come in your way.” Saying
this, he tore his shirt and ran towards the Circle Inspector.
Circle Inspector Khan stepped back in fear and shouted, “Maro!
(Beat them!)” In one go, lathis, and rifle butts were lifted. The land
that had so far been wetted by the sweat of the villagers now became
wet with blood.
The police who had dispersed the villagers put Rajesam and a
few other youth in the van and took them away.
That evening, no fire was lit in any of the houses for cooking in
the village. The houses were filled with cries and shouts. A few were
very badly injured. Some heads were broken. Some had their legs and
feet broken. Nothing was known about those who were taken away.
Mallaiah’s heart became numb. His daughter-in-law,
Rajyalakshmi was crying non-stop. The young Raju, was so scared,
he clung on to his mother and began to cry. There was a scarcity of
people who could console each other in the village. The night passed
heavily and Pedda Venkati, on hearing the news, the next morning,
came to the village. By the time he left for Godavarikhani in haste,
got hold of Congress leaders, took them to the police station and got
those arrested released, it was the next morning.
The police gave a sound thrashing to all those arrested. More
than anyone else, they beat Rajesam black and blue. Because of that,
it took Rajesam more than a week to get well.
For another ten to fifteen days the company people did not come
to Maredupaka. Like the embers of a fire, everything was simmering.
Something like a graveyard-like calmness engulfed the village.
A week after this incident, one midnight, when the entire village
was in deep slumber, Mallaiah, who was sleeping under a pandal in
 The Dispossessed / 295

front of the house, heard a slight sound. He had just fallen asleep.
Rajesam and Rajyalakshmi were sleeping inside the house. The noise
disturbed Mallaiah’s sleep. Though he had just slept, he looked in
the direction of the sound. He could see hazily someone was stealthily
trying to open the wicket gate. He sat up and shouted loud, “Who’s
that?”
In the meanwhile, it took just a second for four five men to open
the wicket gate and run quickly into the house and for Mallaiah to
shout out, “Thieves, thieves!”
It took just a few seconds for those who came rushing in to fall
on him with heavy lathis and for him to fall writhing in pain on the
cot.
Even in that dusky darkness, Mallaiah was able to recognise the
face of the man bending over him. Mallaiah was able to recognise
that this was the man standing with a pistol next to the Circle Inspector
when the company people came with police force the other day to
have them vacate the lands. By the time Mallaiah realised that it was
the police who had come he cried so loud as if his life was fleeing. He
got up in one go and saying, “Sir, I’m your slave, what are you going
to do to my son?” he fell at the feet of the man who was standing. He
shook him off in one go and ordered, “Hey you, you go and call your
son.”
“I’ll fall at your feet. I’m your slave. Why?” He fell at his feet a
second time. Then, when another hit him on the back with the rifle
butt, he toppled over with a loud sound. Right at that moment,
Rajesam woke up at the commotion, opened the door quickly and
came out. “Oh, Rajesam, the police have come for you. Run.” Mallaiah
shouted loud.
But it was of no use. The police who had surrounded Rajesam
when he came out fell on him before he could gauge the situation.
The neighbours woke up to Rajesam’s screams and moans. As the
police outside threatened the people, none of the people outside were
able to come in. Rajyalakshmi understood what was happening and
came out crying. A plainclothes man held both her shoulders, pushed
her into the room and bolted it. Terrified by Rajyalakshmi’s screams,
the child got up and started crying loud.
Everything was over in seconds. The plainclothes policemen
carried the unconscious Rajesam away. When Mallaiah got up and
296 / Astitva

embraced his son, they pulled him forcibly and threw him. Mallaiah
collapsed because of that push and could not get up.
Mallaiah got hold of one leader after another and went around
Peddapalli, Sultanabad and Manthani police stations. He had no clue
of Rajesam anywhere.
After Rajesam disappeared, the situation in the village changed.
Some kind of terror-filled atmosphere enveloped it. No one spoke
out. Everyone felt agitated within. The village Sarpanch, Pedda
Venkati too did not have the old enthusiasm. He left the burden on
god that Rajesam should be found; and in order to get compensation
from the company soon, he started going round the sitting MLA.
This time when the company people came with the police to
vacate the lands, it went off without much protest. The village elders
themselves were there and said there was nothing they could do.
“We cannot live by opposing the government. We should finalise
things somehow.” It was like the saying, the blanket stays wherever
it is placed, the cases remained wherever they had been filed.
Mallaiah’s family condition deteriorated further. The
whereabouts of his son who had been taken away by the police was
not known. There were rumours that they turned him into an
unrecognisable corpse and cremated him. With a son who was old
enough to take care of him turning to be of no help, Mallaiah’s situation
worsened. Rajyalakshmi, who would burst into tears at the slightest
pretext, became mere bones in a short while. Mallaiah’s heart would
wilt looking at the innocent child, Raju. Not knowing what to do, not
knowing how to live, the man was torn asunder with sorrow. The cattle
and the valuables at home disappeared one by one. A situation arose
where living even part of a day became a mountainous task. Even before
six months had passed after Rajesam’s disappearance, Rajyalakshmi
jumped into the drinking water well and committed suicide. To save
the little one’s life, Mallaiah strengthened his resolve, and to pull along
the life-cart, he opened a tea stall.
The day is agog with excitement in Maredupaka village. That
the Collector was to come to settle the cases of the dispossessed is
something everyone was looking forward to for a long time. The hopes
of the villagers once again begin to sprout on the day of the Collector’s
arrival.
There’s only one hope among all the villagers. They are very
anxious and hopeful that at least this time the cases will be settled. In
 The Dispossessed / 297

spite of Sarpanch, Pedda Venkati’s tremendous efforts the Collector

had not come so far to the camp. That the Collector has finally decided
to come, everyone was hopeful that the cases would be settled
somehow or the other. No matter where one sees, one finds villagers
gathering in groups and discussing the same matter.
Even in villages which had lost the lands, the villagers had gone
through a lot of hardship. In a village which used to be prosperous
with green fields now has a death-like look. They had held on to
those lands for generations together and led their lives. On that day,
no one from Maredupaka has gone to work. The entire village is
excited. Everyone is hopeful that there will be a solution to the
problem that they have been undergoing for a long time.
Sarpanch, Venkati and the middleman, Rajalingam have been
busy since morning. They have discussed things they need to talk
about in the meeting with the Collector in the evening.
The meeting that was to begin at four has not begun till six as
the Collector has been preoccupied with some work. In the village
square, tents have been put up. Petty leaders have turned up. There
is police protection. Due to the meeting, electricity having been
specifically provided, the village is once again brightly lit up. For the
Collectors arrival, dust tracks have been smoothened. Some kind of
new brightness has enveloped the village.
The people who have gathered there, are involved in different
kinds of discussion. Jangam Papaiah has a prolonged discussion with
Kola Mallaiah. Kallu Poshavva is asking someone how much
compensation she will get for the one acre of land submerged under
the mud heaps. Everyone’s problem is the same. In the hearts of those
who have attended the meetings and listened to the speeches of
political leaders, a sense of disbelief. Mallaiah sits with his grandson
in front of him on a boulder in a corner.
At six fifteen in the evening cars and jeep whir in raising a cloud
of dust. In a rush, police and officials occupy the venue of the meeting.
The meeting begins. The Collector who is like a washed ironed
cloth adorns the dais. Next to him sit some officers, village Sarpanch,
Venkati and some elders.
The dark short statured Revenue Officer stands up and speaks
first. Speaking in detail about the initiatives the Collector has taken
to solve the land cases, he then goes on to say how lucky they are to
298 / Astitva

have a Collector like him. After him, Sarpanch, Venkati speaks. He

begins talking with examples of the hardships faced by the villagers
from the time they lost their lands, ends by thanking the Collector
for coming to the rescue of the villagers, and hoping that everyone
will be happy if the problem is solved this way.
After two or three others speak, the Collector finally gets up to
speak. All of a sudden silence surrounds the place. Someone comes
and moves the mike close to him. He starts to speak slowly moving
his thin lips. “My dear people,” he begins. “It’s very unfortunate that
the long pending issue of the dispossessed has not been solved quickly.
I am not going into the details as to why it happened like that. Just
now the Sarpanch had narrated in details the problems faced by you
for having lost your lands. But all of us must remember one thing.
You know why you have lost the lands. That coal is available under
these lands, the necessity to increase the production of coal for the
needs of the country, and that under those circumstances it was
inevitable to vacate some villages are well-known. The problem has
become complex because there has been no coordination between
various departments in settling the land cases and because some
greedy people have gone to the extent of going to court. Because of
all these there has been delay in resolving the issue of the dispossessed.
Thinking that it is already too late and that there ought to be some
solution, we have examined your matter.”
Somebody interrupts his words from the crowd and shouts,
“You said you will provide jobs to those who have lost their lands.
Let us know what has happened to that.”
Everyone looks in that direction. But it is not clear who spoke.
The Collector looks in that direction and once again continues in his
own vein. “There is no firm direction regarding jobs for the
dispossessed from the government. That matter concerns the
company. We do not have the authority to interfere in that. We will
do all that is within our purview and have decided to solve the
problem of compensation at the earliest.”
When the matter of compensation comes up, the entire crowd
is silent enough to hear an ant’s movement
“For an acre of paddy field thirty thousand. For fallow land
twenty thousand— the government will pay as compensation.”
 The Dispossessed / 299

That’s it, there is sudden commotion. Those words raze their

hopes to the ground. Then their anger breaks barriers.
“For fields thirty, for fallow land twenty, in whose ar ... should
you keep it?
“To follow up cases we have spent thousands.”
“It’s singing mountain-length tune in a bramble pit. If something
is to be resolved, is this the solution? For useless land, the Kamanpur
zamindar took a lakh and twenty five thousand. Mine is golden land
— it seems they’ll give thirty thousand, thirty thousand,” a peasant
shouts in anger.
“Must provide jobs,” another shouts.
The Collector, stunned at those sudden incidents, cannot utter
another word. Realising this, the official next to him, takes hold of
the mike, begins to say something, gesticulating with both his hands,
“Don’t get angry. Everything will be for the good.”
It is then that Kunda Mallaiah gets up. Don’t know which corner
he was sitting in till then, he suddenly comes up to the dais. He is
shouting in an agitated and angry manner.
“Kill us all at one go. Instead of tearing each of us up in pieces,
shoot us at one go. What sin have we committed that you are torturing
us like this? You snatched away my land. I kept quiet on losing it.
When my son asked why this, you killed him I swallowed that sorrow
somehow and am living with this child hoping that there will be a
solution sometime and god will take care of us. Look this dora came.
I thought he would do some good. But this dora didn’t come to find
a solution to the problem. He came to see if we were still alive or
dead. Kill us. Bury us under the mud heaps and bury us all at one go.
Then your eyes will cool down. We lived for years depending on
these lands. We shared our difficulties and losses with this soil. You
said our land would yield coal. We thought we could have a share of
our land’s wealth. What did we get? We’ve lost our lands. The wealth
born of our land has gone. Who are they doing this for? Who will this
benefit? Our curse will not go waste.” Mallaiah is shouting in an
agitated manner. He is angrily shouting abuses and showering curses.
He is weeping copiously shouting abuses. There is total confusion.
Coming to terms with this sudden incident, the police indulge
in a lathi charge. The butt of the rifle hits the mouth of Mallaiah who
is crying and shouting. He collapses all of a sudden. The blood from
300 / Astitva

his mouth touches mother earth’s lap. Unable to take the lathi charge
each runs in a different direction. A stone that someone has thrown
makes darkness envelop the entire place. Nobody knows what is
happening.
Raju searches for his grandfather, calling out to him in the
darkness. He is scared to death and sorrow. Someone running hits
Raju hard. He falls down with that blow, gets up and runs towards
the heaps crying. He gets onto that high mud heap and goes on to the
other side.
On the other side of the mud heap, near the parked dumper,
dumper operator Sayabali and diesel seller Komaraiah are immersed
in their work. Raju reaches there. Unaware of the happenings in
Maredupaka, Sayabali and Komaraiah, as is their usual practice, are
taking diesel from the tanker and filling the cans stealthily. Seeing
Raju come, Komaraiah, in his usual fashion, says, “Hey, you, take
this can and put this in the bullock cart there.”
Raju takes the diesel can and goes forward.
As soon as the work is over, immersed in stealing, Komaraiah
forgets the can he has given Raju, and goes away driving the bullock
cart. As everything goes off well, Sayabali, mentally calculating the
amount he would get the next day, throws the half burnt cigarette
away irritated, and deciding to have a cup of tea till the engine cools,
moves ahead from there.
He may not have guessed that the reason for the twenty lakh
dumper being burnt a little later is the can of diesel and a half burnt
cigarette.
There is a kind of contentment in the little heart of Raju. The
flames arising from the dumper are reflecting in the eyes of Raju who
huddles in the mountainous mud heaps.

“Nirvaasitulu”
2000 Translated by Alladi Uma and
M. Sridhar
 One-legged Siva

Bejjarapu Ravinder

“Grandfather Mallanna wore the anklet bells again!!”

The boy came rushing and informed them, gasping for breath.
Suddenly, commotion arose among the people who sat around
me. Tension was writ large on all faces, but I did not understand why
it was so special.
As I was doing research on folk arts I came searching for their
address. I was interested in interviewing the artistes of the previous
generation who handed over their legacy to the artistes of this day. I
wanted to record their art forms, genres, narrative technique, singing
style, the instruments and the changes and the reactions that came
into the field of cultural life over the years.
I was disappointed to know that the person who narrates the
Oggu Katha was not there–he went to the nearby Mandal headquarters
on some work. I was told that Mallaiah’s son also narrated the stories
and I went to see him, tried to collect as much information as possible.
Komaraiah did not inherit much property but he got the legacy
of the art of Oggu Katha narration from his father. Since his childhood
he used to tour with his father and got it without much effort or
training. As soon as they saw me there was a glitter of hope in them.
When they came to know I was neither a revenue official nor an animal
husbandry official, their interest died down.
302 / Astitva

Komaraiah inherited an acre of land from his father and he had

been visiting the revenue officials again and again for getting the
boundaries fixed and possession of documents for the last one year.
Komaraiah told me that his father went to Mandal Revenue Officer
only to enquire about it. Komaraiah’s son worked in a hotel. He shared
his personal problems and difficulties to me.
A thatched hut ... parted into two, in one portion Mallaiah lived
and the other half belonged to Komaraiah. A rocky compound was
built around the hut and a small wooden entrance fixed to it. There
was a big tamarind tree beside it with a small wooden scaffolding
under it, and cleanly washed utensils were put upside down on it. I
became nostalgic of the rural atmosphere and went into my childhood
memories.
I sat on a blanket that was spread on a cot. All the family members
surrounded me. They seem to have liked me because of my interest
and love for Oggu Katha. They ordered a cup of tea from the nearby
hotel.
Komaraiah described the glory and popularity of Oggu Katha
during his childhood days. He told me about the performance of his
father in a trance. He told about the storytelling method now, how
story telling time was shortened and other changes that crept into it.
Despite all the changes, the tradition continued and educated people
and employees continued the tradition by inviting them to narrate
the story, so the demand for their storytelling did not wane. He
informed it with a sense of pride. I wrote all the points in the form of
notes. Unable to control his passion he started singing:
“The mango groves bloom
Where the mango trees bloom
Man ... As a man
Tied the pusthe
The melody and rhythm of the song relieved me of all fret and
uneasiness, and I felt relaxed.
Meanwhile a fourteen year old boy came pushing the wooden
gate and said,
“Grandfather Mallanna tied anklet bells”
“Where is grandfather now, Anjiga?” Komaraiah asked the boy
in a hurry.
 One-legged Siva / 303

“In front of the MRO office” said the boy panting for breath. He
was sweating profusely. He must have remembered something, so
started weeping by embracing his father Komaraiah.
All of them started rushing towards Tahasil Office at once. Some
men rode on bicycles. Women started running beating their chests. I
did not know why they were in panic. I set out on my scooter. I turned
my two-wheeler and caught hold of the boy Anji. He sat behind me
as a pillion rider and I stopped my scooter on the outskirts of the
village. I asked him what has happened. He started narrating ... .
“My grandfather went to Mandal Revenue Officer for the Patta
of the land. The MRO did not respond at all whenever my grandfather
asked him about the Patta. A few days ago he asked five hundred
rupees bribe for the issuance of the certificate. My grandfather did
not give. He was angry and my grandfather was disgusted with his
behaviour and one day he said:
“What sir? Is my talk that sour, you are not paying any attention?
If I open my mouth and start telling Oggu Katha, hundreds of people
gather around to listen to me with rapt attention. If I sing, people
eulogise me, but you are turning your head to other side and paying
a deaf ear to me.” The boy paused and said to me, “Sir, please tell me,
with how much agony my grandfather would have talked like that.”
“The Officer got angry and said, ‘You are talking too much. Ok,
people offered accolades to you, have I to watch you like a movie
when you talk and dance? If people felicitated you, what should I
do? Shall I wrap a shawl around your neck, give awards or touch
your feet? You are posing as if you are a great classical singer or a
pop star?’ The officer abused my grandfather sir!” said Anji.
Anji’s face became red with anger and insult. Perhaps he loved
his grandfather very much. The boy continued, “Yes sir, you are
downplaying my art. If you think my stories are useless, why the officers
are encouraging my children to narrate the stories in Janmabhoomi
programmes sponsored by the Government? Why are we asked to
compose songs on subjects like joining the children in school,
afforestation and family planning? Why are you not inviting the
classical singers for such kind of programmes and make them go round
the villages? For such kind of programmes we are used to compose
songs. They may be great. But how is that we are inferior to them? In
what way our songs are inferior to their art?” said my grandfather.
304 / Astitva

“The official got enraged, picked the paperweight on the table

and threw it on the ground and shouted, ‘Orey! Drag this fellow out.’
Then my father’s glare was serious. The fury of it had to be seen. I
thought the official would be burnt to ashes even without my
grandfather having the third eye! Then we came and stood outside.
The new bells I bought for the anklets were with me. He took them,
tied the ankle bells and started the story, dancing, in hot sun.
While Anji was narrating what has happened, especially at the
end, he started sobbing and tears rolled down his cheeks.
I was surprised at Mallayya’s self respect. When his art was
insulted he must have been hurt badly. Though he was not educated
much he lived for the sake of art. Everything in his life was entwined
with his art, the sorrow, happiness and pleasure were expressed
through his art.
I was awestruck at his defiance. I abhorred the discrimination
in art in vogue much like in caste system. An Oggu Katha narrator
and a Chindu artiste are as great as classical Hindustani singers.
“I think your grandfather gave many shows in the past ...” I
said to him.
His face glowed.
“I was not born then. There was a lot of demand for his shows.
They say every woman was enamoured of his talent, histrionics, dance
and his style of storytelling. My grandfather used to whisper those
things in those days. My grandmother used to complain to him about
this,” said Anji.
As we both reached the Mandal Office, we found there was a
big crowd. We made our way through somehow.
I was taken aback to see the old man singing and dancing amidst
a thick crowd. He did not have a leg; he had an artificial Jaipur limb
in its place. The anklet bells meant for that leg were lying on the
ground.
“My grandfather lost one leg in a jeep accident” said Anji, crying.
Mallaiah was dancing with one leg. His body was wet with sweat
flow! It appeared as if Ganga was flowing down Siva’s head! With
one leg his movements were breathtaking! Wearing a Khaddar dhothi,
baniyan he was looking like Lord Siva dancing on one foot on the
doomsday.
 One-legged Siva / 305

I followed the story cascading out of his mouth. It was the story
of Renuka Yellamma. He had rich experience in his art life. He was
dancing on one foot like Nataraja, singing a folk song that smelled
like soil.
It was a wonderful sight to behold!
He was gasping, walking in a gingerly manner with agony, as if
he was rolling like a stone falling down from a mountain. I felt pity
for him. He did not have any riches with him. Not any political clout.
What all he knew was Oggu Katha. He was expressing his anger,
anguish, and helplessness in the art form he was groomed.
I thought he was drifting in a single mood, a trance. With every
moment he was becoming weaker. He never failed on stage, but today
he is trembling. He should not be defeated, I said to myself repeatedly
in my mind.
I went into the office. It smelt sarkar. I wished all along I would
not visit a government office, a police station or hospital on some
work.
I gatecrashed into the MRO’s office. I was surprised when I saw
the person who was sitting in the office. He was my classmate in the
University ... Shastri. We met after a long time but that happiness
was not reflected in our faces. He greeted me grudgingly.
Without any formal introduction I asked him “Shastri! What is
this?”
“You saw the free show outside. What do you expect me to do?”
he said with a note of arrogance.
Shastri’s father was a popular classical singer. He received a
number awards, felicitations and accolades from the Government.
There was a rumour in the University in those days that Shastri got
the job because of his father’s influence in the Government circles.
“Why are you torturing the old man, Mallaiah? As part of your
duty you can do the needful to him. There should be a limit to one’s
greed,” I said in a harsh tone.
Shastri saw into my eyes directly and said putting an indifferent
face, “You are like this from the beginning. You always poke your
nose into others affairs”.
Both of us were poles apart in the University. We were
representatives of two different ideologies and had diametrically
306 / Astitva

opposite views on social issues. We were from different unions and

the meetings we attended were different.
He tore my thoughts apart and said about the story teller, “He
begs by making a few dance movements and thinks of himself as a
great artiste boasting before me. Perhaps he did not know about me
and my family. When I drove him out of the office, he is dancing outside;
let him jump till he breaks his other leg” he said contemptuously.
I felt nauseated. I was unable to control my anger. I closed my
fists and sat there without moving. What to do? I don’t have
Pashupathasthra or Lord Siva’s Trishool.
His face indicated that he did not like my presence.
“I have some work,” he said. It meant that I must leave the place.
I did not move. A few minutes elapsed. Probably he thought that
there was no use. “How is that you are here? What are you doing
here? In college days you roamed like Awara. Is it the same now?
May I know on what work did you come here?” He asked sarcastically.
“Why do you worry about my job and vocation? At present I am
engaged in a project work on the impact of social change on folk arts.
After I came here I came to know about your great deeds,” I said.
“What more do you want? Go and see the live show and do
your research,” he said carelessly.
I laughed looking at Shastri. An idea started taking shape in my
mind.
I said, “Mr. Shastri, I should give you an example. Imagine there
is a doctor and some rude people are beating an innocent man. What
is the duty of the doctor? If the doctor thinks that he had to wait till
the man gets beaten up resulting in injuries all over his body, and
then only he would treat him, then he is an obdurate one. I do not
belong to that category. I may be doing research in folk arts, but my
immediate aim is saving the life of an artist. I try my best. Whether I
win or lose is a different thing,” I said and walked out without waiting
for Shastri’s reply.
Many people gathered in front of the office. Komaraiah was
requesting his father to stop singing. Mallaiah did not heed to him,
went on singing.
His throat became sour and his foot became unsteady.
I pulled Komaraiah aside and told about Shastri, also about
possible solution. Komaraiah and Anji rushed to the village.
Komaraiah asked his relatives to keep vigil at the office so that Shastri
would not flee.
 One-legged Siva / 307

Shastri came out of the office twice or thrice and went inside.
He must have shuddered to see the large crowd. An hour passed.
Meanwhile Komaraiah and Anji got down from autos along with
some men and they had drums and anklet bells to their feet.
Komaraiah climbed the office compound wall and beating the drums
said loudly: “Please listen! The MRO sir asked for bribe to show our
land and give Patta passbook. He also insulted our art. The Oggu
Katha is our flesh and blood. We tolerate if someone abuses us but we
can’t tolerate if our art is insulted, we won’t keep quiet. Even if we
die, we don’t stop narrating the story. If my father stops, I will take
up and if I stop, my son will continue. In the process we die but we
never stop the story. Unless justice is done to us, we’ll not stop.”
All the people who gathered there now understood the issue.
To the beating of drums Komaraiah started the show. It was like a
performance festival. Songs bloomed there. When reporters arrived
the office became alert. While I was taking photos, policemen came
there. Perhaps Shastri must have telephoned them.
Pushing people aside, they entered the office. What deliberations
had taken place inside, nobody knew. They came back. I met the Sub
Inspector of police and told him everything. I cautioned that if the
authorities continue to neglect the issue, all artistes would gather
there and give their shows continuously.
It was six in the evening. Mallaiah collapsed. He got up and played
time and again but collapsed again. Komaraiah’s dance with his troupe
looked like Lord Siva dancing with his devotees. Others sat in silence.
Police were looking angrily at me and at the audience. But what could
they do! They too must have a soft corner for these artistes.
It was seven in the evening. Darkness enveloped. Even in the
darkness Komaraiah lost himself in the storytelling. People watched
him with rapt attention. Others were pouring in.
After considerable period of time, Shastri came out of office.
His feelings were not clear but it appeared he was shaken.
Shastri came near Mallaiah and greeted him with folded hands.
There was satisfaction in Mallaiah’s eyes! People clapped and
whistled. The place was full of commotion as if Dakshavadha was
taking place.
I walked towards my scooter.

“Onti Kali Shivudu”

2003 Translated by Thota Srinivas
308 / Astitva

The Introvert

Jaathasri

It is not yet sunrise. Thick snow was falling. Bhoodevamma after

collecting milk from the buffalo tied in the front yard saw her husband.
He was getting ready to go to tap the date palm trees. “Wait a while.
I will make some tea,” so saying she went to the earthen stove.
Mallesham already had the tapping equipment like belt on, and
a loincloth tied and said “Make it quick.” While sharpening the sickle
(to exploit the fruit from the palm) with a piece of cane, said, “What
is the elder one up to?”
“He repeated the same thing over and over again, ‘Have patience
and all our problems will be over.’ Does not listen to me. I am tired of
pleading with him,” Bhoodevamma said.
“Who will lend fifty thousand? Where can I get!” said
Mallesham.
“This fellow is daydreaming. Every time he says “Kuit Kuit
(Kuwait).” Except the thought of flying he does not entertain any
other,” said Bhoodevamma.
“Before he sits in the flight, I am sure he’ll arrange for my last
journey.” He touched the sickle with his thumb to test the sharpness,
put it aside and picked up the knife.
“You sharpened it last night,” said Bhoodevamma, nearing her
husband with the glass of tea.
 The Introvert / 309

“Ok. Ok,” said Mallesham, keeping the knife aside and taking
the tea glass.
Bhoodevamma sat on the ground at the feet of her husband and
touching softly on the wound with her right pointing finger, asked
“Pus is there still. Didn’t you take injection, so far?” Three days ago
the bark of the date palm cut into him making a big wound.
“Ah, Doctor charged me twenty,” said Mallesham.
“Why, it is always ten only. Yesterday he charged the same for
Komuranna. It is ten for all. Same injection. He cannot charge a
different rate for each,” said Bhoodevamma.
“Let it go. We have children in the house. Whenever we call, he
visits.”
“He does not come for free. Are we not paying him every time?
Wait, I will ask him”.
“Don’t. All infections are not same. What do we know?”
“And you pay him whatever he demands?”
“Don’t shout. Let it go at that.” So saying he gave the glass to his
wife, got up from the cot, collected ropes from the wooden peg, pulled
them once (to test the tightness) and gathered other equipment.
“Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Yesterday evening, your brother
Kotesham visited ...”
“What’s the matter?”
“Eldest girl has come of age. Wants a thousand rupees,”
informed Bhoodevamma.
“What did you say?”
“I told him I will have to ask you. Thought I could give right
away, but thought it better first to tell you ...”
“What is there to tell me? You could have given. If piled at home,
money doesn’t hatch chicks. If we don’t help near and dear in
emergencies, what is the point in keeping the money? We are not of
this generation, money does not make us go crazy ...”
“Ok. I’ll go and present the girl with two coconut halves, jiggery,
and give money to Kotesham” said Bhoodevamma.
“Then, why standing here, fetch me the pots” said Mallesham.
“Ok. Totally forget about it. Because of this boy, I do not
remember anything these days” So saying, cleaned the pots at the
earthen vat in the backyard and handed them to her husband.
310 / Astitva

As Mallesham was looking at the stick “Be careful, it is snowing,”

cautioned Bhoodevamma softly touching her husband in the back.
“Don’t bother about me, talk to the elder one,” said Mallesham.
“That is alright. But what did Rajanna say?” asked
Bhoodevamma.
“He said he will decide after Sankranti. It seems even the
government went broke. Chandrababu ordered that unless last year’s
outstanding amounts are repaid no new loans will be sanctioned.”
“What, he does not want poor people to live or what? However,
we have repaid entire dues, is it not?” said Bhoodevamma.
“It is not just us. All members of the society should repay. And
that money has to be credited in the bank by the secretary. Only after
the accounts are cleared, applications for new loans will be
entertained. This will be publicly announced” said Mallesham.
“So many troubles ... .This boy is creating hell for me. He does
not even let me swallow a morsel of food ... pestering incessantly.
Wants to sell away two acres ...” Said Bhoodevamma.
Mallesham was startled. Such a big jolt. Felt paralysed. “What
... wants to sell away land? What will he do with that money?”
“In less than a year he will buy four acres- That’s what he says.”
“Nonsense! Big talk. Don’t I know his pretence? Because we are
illiterate, he is taking advantage of it. Is it not because of this fellow,
that TV vendor fellow from Kothagudem is harassing us for
repayment? Our good name is tarnished. I told that fellow not to buy
on installments. He did not care for my word. Now it has become a
big loan. He cannot spend time without TV. Rs.1500 every month!
Where do I get that much money!” said Mallesham with a little anger.
“Why make an issue of it? He wanted to have it because
everybody in the village was buying ... Any way we are not new to
loans. This is one more. Three more installments and it will be over,”
replied Bhoodevamma pacifying her husband.
“Very clever of you. Stop now. What is our priority? Our elder
daughter has given birth to a baby girl and still I have not paid them
the twenty thousand promised at her marriage. Doesn’t he know this?
Is he still suckling milk at mother’s breast? Make this clear to him. If
things improve, he can leave when we get some money after
harvesting cotton. If he wants it now it is impossible. Arre, if an
associate has cut his thigh, have we to slit our throat? He claims he is
educated. Doesn’t he understand this?” said Mallesham.
 The Introvert / 311

“Ok. I will try to convince him. Don’t let your worries get better
of you” said Bhoodevamma.
Still murmuring something. Mallesham collecting the tapping
equipment and putting on slippers, left her saying “Will be back ... .”
In the street, sprinkling cow dung water, decorating the ground
with Muggulu, women folk were busy. Another five or six Gouds
having started for the date palm groves, were busy in some
conversation on the road by the school. As he saw them Mallesham
remembered about the tapping cess to be paid. He kept that sum
aside but, because of the eldest boy’s money demands, he is not able
to remember anything. “Tomorrow I will pay the cess,” Mallesham
told himself and moved ahead.
Many people feel it a little difficult to pay the cess each year. The
time of payment coincides with other urgent needs like children’s school
dresses, bus passes, books etc. if someone has a little cultivable land
other than toddy tapping he will not feel that hard pressed. But those
who depend exclusively on toddy tapping really have a hard time.
Like it or not, at least one is forced to borrow not less than three or four
thousand rupees. Till it is repaid one had to pay interest on that.
Mallesham did not exclusively depend on toddy tapping. He
has inherited three acres of agricultural land and another four acres
of banjar land. In his caste, he is considered a ‘well to do’ man.
However, for the past five or six years his agricultural efforts are not
yielding good results. If the village tank fills up, he can have two
crops and harvest at least seventy to eighty bags of paddy. After
deducting expenses towards fertilizers and pesticides etc. he can at
least have a year’s food supply of rice and about twenty to five
thousand rupees of cash. But, from such a position, he gradually slid
into poverty.
And to increase the misery, a number of middlemen who cheat
farmers have increased. Last year, 16 quintals of cotton was consigned
to the Guntur mill though a middleman, but that fellow had not paid
the money for the cotton sold. When four or five farmers demanded
an explanation, they scared the formers by telling that the receipts
were fake ones. A police case was registered but the person who
bought the cotton could not be traced.
Prospects looked bleak. Mallesham is at a loss as to what to do.
Couldn’t figure out anything, but expenses are increasing by the day.
312 / Astitva

What went wrong? Where? Same food. Same hut like dwelling. No
wasteful spending. Still what little he earns is draining away. Can’t
save even ten rupees. In the fertilizer store and cloth store, he was
not able to settle the dues. He used to repay the entire debt every
Ugadi and open a new account. However, for the last two years, he
had been adding interest to the old outstanding dues and renewing
the account. It is quite painful. Eldest boy, after completing ITI has
not tried for a job and is going wayward. With education, he thought
the boy would learn how to get on in this world. But unfortunately,
he is ‘smart’ in all other respects except in making a living.
Tapping is their profession by caste. Should not educated boys
take up this job? Should not till the land? Who will give him a
sedentary job of sitting and earning? He says the times have changed
but should he not change with the times?” so thought Mallesham.
He is not able to figure out as to what his son was planning to
do. For the last two years he tried for a job in Singareni. Made rounds
to company offices and union leaders and wasted about twenty
thousand rupees. Having lost hope of Singareni, he took up the tune
of “Kuwait” and Mallesham does not know what to do about it. “Give
me 50 thousand and in less than a year, I will earn lakhs,” is what he
boasts. If Mallesham says he can’t provide that much money, the boy
cries and shouts, plays tantrums and raises hell at home.
Nobody knows whether he gets lakhs or not but for now half a
lakh has to be given to him. And Mallesham is clueless about it. He
has three more daughters. For the present they may be mere children
but soon they will grow and they have to be married off. Even a poor
groom would demand not less than half a lakh. Mallesham is scared
and this very prospect made him restless.
As Mallesham passed the street corner and approached the
house of Naramdas, he saw Eethakula Thulisemma pouring the foamy
toddy from the earthen pot in to the drain.
That hurt him. ‘That toddy will cost a minimum of two hundred
rupees. And now it is in the drain. How can people who depend
exclusively on toddy tapping make a living?’
“What happened sister, has the toddy gone sour? Why are you
throwing it away?” asked Mallesham.
Lifting her head a little, “Don’t you know all this brother,
Nobody is consuming toddy these days. And the toddy turns sour.
 The Introvert / 313

That Bania Narshimha brought Coca Cola. When that is available for
ten, who will spend twenty five?” replied Thulisemma, removing
the left over foam from the pot. Mallesham nodded his head but did
not say anything.
Thulisemma came close to Mallesham and asked in a low voice,
“Brother, it seems Bandolla Enkanna’s wife got money?” as though it
is a secret.
“Don’t know sister.”
“It is already four days since they got that amount. After all the
expenses, it seems they got eighty thousand.”
“What is the use? Money cannot bring Enkanna back to life. To
get three daughters married. God knows how many hardships she
has to undergo ... .”
“No more hardships. Except that she lost her husband, she did
not have to worry about anything with that money. She can get the
daughters married. What he could not do while alive, he is able to do
after dying. Every time they looked for an alliance, the groom people
used to complain about the bride. Now the same fellows will be after
them. Strange world. These days not human beings do not count, but
money matters most ... .” Said Thulisemma.
“Let them live.” So saying, Mallesham moved ahead, taking
leave of Thulisemma. Somehow, he kept thinking of Bandi Enkanna.
Bandi Enkanna was not a well to do man but everybody
considered him a trustworthy person. Though quite young, he was
good in dealings and was active and enthusiastic. For that reason, he
was entrusted with the responsibilities of the ‘toddy workers
cooperative society.’ His job was to recover the arrears. While settling
disputes in the caste panchayats, he stood for what is just and was
not influenced by monetary considerations. Four months ago, while,
extracting date palm fruits form the tree, a poisonous scorpion bit
him. Wailing in pain, he fell down form that height. And before any
help could come, he breathed his last. Government might announce
a compensation of one lakh rupees, but when one is not sure of
returning from toddy tapping, what kind of life is that! Are such
professions only for compensations?
His thoughts were like a whirlpool. His heart was heavy. Despair
was taking over. By the time he reached the palm grove, Korra Ramulu
was already there. ‘Be careful uncle. It is slippery. Tie yourself well.
With the night snow, tree is totally wet” said Ramulu.
314 / Astitva

Mallesham wanted to laugh. But he could not. For quite some

time, for the past four or five years, laughter has become alien to him.
He could not have a hearty laugh all these years.
“Are you teaching me about tapping? Hey, Ramu, my boy is
your friend. Why don’t you convince him – He is pestering us with
“Kuwait ... Kuwait” said Mallesham.
“When is he leaving uncle?”
“Has it become such a laughing matter or what? Is it that easy
to go to Kuwait ... One needs 50 thousand. Where do I get that much
sum?”
“Have you not paid money yet! Your boy told me he was going
to fly this month end. Once he goes, you will roll in money ... .” smiled
Ramulu.
“Stop it. Dirty money. Did we live this long because we had
money? This epidemic of money had been spreading recently ... .”
said Mallesham.
“Why talk of that, uncle? Those old days can be recounted only
as tales. The courtesies and affections of those days – we won’t get
back. People have changed totally, uncle” said Ramulu.
“We are consuming food from crops raised with pesticides. And
we are acquiring the mindset of pests” said Mallesham.
“Very true, uncle.” These days, one who has money is Man. One
without money is equal to a worm.”
“Ramu, I don’t understand these things. Leaving one’s place,
away from parents living in distant lands– can you call it life! If you
have to consume only gruel, it is ok. But live with your people. That
is what our ancestors taught us. To live like animals, amassing money
– No. That is not life,” said Mallesham scratching his head.
“Unlce, those days are gone. Now, money is everything. Mother
or sister, everybody is treated in terms of money alone. How he is
going to fare we don’t know. Somehow, send him. Even by not sending
him, you don’t gain anything,” said Rumulu.
“Is that so?”
Nodding his head, Ramulu moved away.
Watching Ramulu, Mallesham stood still. After some time, as
though he came to senses, “What a strange thing! He was drowned
in a whirlpool of chaotic thoughts. A boy of my son’s age was advising
me. What happened to my wisdom!” So thinking, he walked towards
the palm tree.
 The Introvert / 315

Mallesham was restless. His mind was not still. Simultaneously

moving in several directions. He thought of his life. Tried to count all
the debts he has incurred so far. The sum came to forty thousand.
Everyday, expenses are mounting but income is nil. Land is getting
fallow. Clouds don’t rain anymore. Nobody is interested in buying
pure, unadulterated toddy. Adulterated toddy of Doobagunta, and
the Gudumba made with black jiggery have become the curse of toddy
tappers – Gowds! Only if you have an investment, you can expect
income. If elder boy goes to Kuwait, things may look up. Let him
seek his destiny there!
And a new scare makes him weak. ‘In a new, unknown place
will he not encounter new hardships? Even if something untoward
happens, we don’t come to know. But firstly, where is the money, he
is demanding! Even if you want sell the Banjar land there are no
buyers. Nobody has got money in the village. Suppose you borrow
at an exorbitant rate of interest? And don’t repay ... When the loan
amount together with interest amount mounts, the family can only
consume pesticides – to save their honor.’
“Let anything happen. That would be better than this everyday
death,” Mallesham decided to send his son to Kuwait.
Now, his thoughts moved along the ways of getting the money.
Someone to lend. A few traders or some employee. But who will lend
such a huge amount?
So far, no one has said ‘no’ to him. He is known as a man who
will stand on his word. A good ryot. People who lent money for
agricultural operations all these years now prefer traders and other
businessmen. Suppose he asks someone but he refuses to lend! He
can’t withstand such a humiliation. With wild, unruly thoughts he
had a reeling sensation in the head. Prayed to the God of his caste,
Katamaiah “Oh, lord, only you can save me from this ordeal. I will
give a goat in sacrifice.”
He stood at the foot of the palm tree, kept the equipment aside,
hooked the pot to his belt. Touched the knives. He touched the belt,
moved it around over his shoulders, then across his waist, finally
tying it around the palm tree with a hook. He pulled it to check for
the required tightness.
And with right foot, he started climbing the tree. But when he
reached half the height he felt tired. Nothing new. Toddy tapper’s
316 / Astitva

life is like this. Every day, every tree, one has to climb three times to
change the pot at the cluster of palm fruit. If you fail even once, you
don’t get toddy. Without toddy there is no life. Tiredness increased
with the rush of thoughts. He says he can earn lakhs. With that booty
at least, children will benefit ... ..
“Where is the money ... . Where from to get Rs.50,000? With
these thoughts he climbed a little higher and at that moment he
thought of Bandi Enkanna. “What if one has to die? Anyway, who is
happy with this life! He has helped children settle well. If people
consider him a worthy man, is it not enough! If not, today tomorrow,
one has to die” thought Mallesham.
And steadily he climbed to the top. The tree has shaken. Night
snow melted with sunlight. As the tree shook, the water from the
branch has fallen on his head.
“Is toddy tappers life worth living? Climbing up and down.
People who bid for palm trees in auction have prospered but not the
tapper. One who falls from the tree gets more money than the one
who taps toddy – As he was untying the pot from the cluster he had
a reeling sensation in the head.
Felt as though the tree was shaking with a wild force. Earth
seemed spinning. Tree is falling. He is flying in the air. Sweat covered
his face. A burning in the heart ... someone is scraping his heart with
a stalk of palm leaf.
Mallesham made an effort to regain his control. Something was
happening. He tried to clutch the tree but could not. And he slipped.
Feet were not firm. And he fell down.
At that moment, “Elder boy ... Kuwait ... Be careful ...” shouted
Mallesham.

“Antarmukham”
2003 Translated by Mukthavarm Parthasarathy
 Ordi (Half Wages)

Amballa Janardan

Armoor–Renjarla bus stopped at Gandhi statue in Dharmora.

Dharmapuri got down from the bus with a bag on his shoulder and a
water bottle in his hand.
“Coming from the city just now?”
“Yes, thatha!”
“So, you’ve finished your studies?” enquired old man Lingaiah.
“Not finished yet thatha. These days who will give work after
degree? I have to study for at least two more years”
“Will you do B. Ed?” Prabhakar sir who was beside him asked.
“I will appear for entrance tests of both B. Ed and M. Com. I
will join in whichever I secure seat.”
“Good. Your mother has been waiting since yesterday. Go home.
Perhaps you have holidays, now. We will talk tomorrow,” Lingaiah
said smoking the cheroot. Dharmapuri stepped towards his home.
Balavva, who has been eagerly waiting for her son, was very happy
to see Dharmapuri. She hugged and snuggled him. With tears rolling
down her eyes, she asked “How emaciated you are, my son! It seems
you are not eating food properly.”
“I ate fairly well. But during exams I didn’t have proper sleep
and timely food and I am afraid, I became a bit slim. Now I am home.
If I eat food cooked by you for a week, will I not become like before?”
Dharmapuri replied with moist eyes.
318 / Astitva

“Good. Wash your hands and legs. I will serve you food. I cooked
masala dal and soup, since you like it very much,” Balavva was very
eager to serve food cooked by her to her son.
“How are you? Has cutting the leaves finished?”
“Not yet. It needs one more hour. Today, when I went to give
beedies back, they rejected many from them. They embezzled nearly
three hundred beedies. Hence, the delay.”
“These commission agents are resorting to exploitation. If we
question them, they give less tobacco or don’t accept beedies prepared
by us,” Balavva said.
“I have holidays for three months. I will talk to them,”
Dharmapuri said sitting before the plate. Balavva sat before her son
and served him food again and again. Giving ear to his mother while
she was telling about the happenings in the village, Dharmapuri
finished his lunch telling about the happenings in Hyderabad.
“I am afraid you woke up early today. Take a nap. I have to cut
the leaves,” saying, Balavva arranged the bed.
***
Dharmapuri reached Gandhi statue at about five o’ clock in the
evening to meet his friends. The Hanmandla temple was the
Rachabanda for Dharmora people. While it was the centre for the
aged men for discussing the issues of the village, the dhaba hotel
nearby served the same purpose for youngsters. As the nearby bus
stand became a hub for gamblers, the people waiting for bus are taking
refuge under the eaves of the houses there. After greeting the elders
at the Hanmandla temple and answering their questions, Dharmapuri
mingled with his peer group at the dhaba hotel. After explaining about
the happenings in Hyderabad to his friends, he learnt about the
present political ‘stars’ of the village. Among them, a discussion about
village development works also took place. Though tar roads were
laid to the surrounding villages, they discussed the hurdles in the
work of five kilometer tar road between Donkal and Dharmora. He
learnt that RTC did not ply buses to the village for two months in the
rainy season due to bad condition of roads. They talked about primary
and secondary school teachers commuting from nearby towns and
their indifference towards the students. Attractive girls and movies
also found place in their conversation. As it became late in the night,
each took his way to home. On the next day, after eating the idlies
 Ordi (Half Wages) / 319

cooked by Amrutha for his breakfast, Dharmapuri sat near his mother
Balavva.
“Avva, even after resignation you are rolling beedies! Did you
take a new card?”
“No son! Who will issue a new card to a person like me now? I
am doing it for ordi. I gave resignation to meet the expenses of your
college fees. It is only with that money that your studies advanced.
Your father has no worries, he is happy in the heaven. The troubles
fell upon me. Somehow we have to get on and work.
“Don’t worry. I will also do some work in addition to pursuing
my studies. I will find a teacher’s job or some office work if I study
further for two or three years. Then I will not allow you to roll beedies
like this.”
“You are my good boy, my nice boy. I know about you my son!
What more do I need if by the grace of Lord Venkateshwara you get
a good job? I will live a comfortable life.”
“Though you are saying so now, you will again roll beedies.
How much money are you getting now by rolling beedies? You are
toiling so much for ordi to make both ends meet. Your labour is equal
to that of the provident fund card holders but you are doing it for
half the pay,” Amrutha interfered.
“Let the wages be meagre. What work will earn this much for
people like me?” said Balavva.
“They are giving less tobacco to provident fund card holders
like us because people like you are rolling beedies for ordi. I make
fifteen hundred beedies a day, but they are giving tobacco hardly
sufficient for a thousand. Moreover they are not giving any work on
four days a month,” Amrutha said with anguish.
“Now, where are the people smoking so much beedies as they
used to, in the past? Most of the men now smoke cigarettes. How
beedies will be sold then? Due to this, they give us less. And it is not
to get beedies made for ordi.
“You always talk like this as they give you tobacco for ordi. Do
you know how much benefit they get from our labor?”
“We should see what we are getting. If we stop work saying
that they are getting more benefit, how would the house run? Who
will give tobacco to an old woman like me even for ordi? As I have
been making beedies in Bhumaiah Karkhana for many years, they
320 / Astitva

are giving this much tobacco and leaves sufficient for a thousand
beedies. We must be happy with this share. Since you often speak
like this, they are reducing your quota of beedies” Balavva rebuked
her daughter.
“They want to reduce the quota of beedies, I know. Now my
brother has come. By talking to their Youth Association, he will take
on the commission agents. Their foul play will now be exposed.”
“Yes, sister, we will arrange a meeting of beedi commission
agents. You do not worry. We will meet the depot managers and beedi
sellers of Nizamabad,” Dharmapuri assured his sister Amrita. Next
day, Dharmapuri broached the issue of ordi when he met his friends.
“Ordi has not begun just today. It has been in vogue for many
years. Since the wages for making beedies increased to more than
fifty rupees, there has been a great increase in getting beedies done
for ordi. There is so much profit for the commission agents,” said
Golla Mallesh.
“This is injustice, you know! We should stop this method of
giving less tobacco to the provident fund card holders, giving their
share of work to others and getting beedies made for ordi.”
“Yes, it should be stopped” Sambaiah supported the new
proposal.
“It is easy to say it should be stopped, but do you know how
much loss the coolies will suffer in this?” Limbagiri said.
“If ordi is stopped, beedi workers will get benefit. How can it
result in loss?” Haridas expressed his doubt.
“Perhaps it would benefit the provident fund card bearers but
it also adversely affects the livelihood of others. The field labourers
get six months of coolie work a year. They fill their stomach by making
ordi beedies for the remaining six months. After resignation of those,
who need money, they will not get the card again. Ordi beedi is all in
for such people. In our village, where could the young women at
home, get the offer of cards? They too depend on the ordi beedies”
Namdev said.
“Is it good to do injustice to the provident fund card holders for
the sake of needy people of this kind?” Sambaiah questioned.
“The government made an act to provide Provident Fund to all
the beedi workers. Then, is it not necessary to think about the beedi
workers’ welfare? If we calculate properly, they would not get fund
pension, so they should be paid higher wages.”
 Ordi (Half Wages) / 321

“Even if sufficient wages are not paid or the government decides

to pay the wages, talking amongst ourselves will not solve the
problem. Something should be finalised by arranging a meeting of
commission agents and talking to them,” Dharmapuri proposed.
Agreeing that this will be okay, everyone went his home.
***
On a Sunday evening, Dharmora Youth Association arranged a
meeting of beedi commission agents at Grama Panchayat conference
hall. Besides village Sarpanch and other Panchayati members, beedi
commission agents and their leaders from neighbouring villages like
Shetpally, Renjarla, Palem, Donkal, Poshampally, Anksapur, Vannel
and Padgal attended the meeting.
The convener of the Youth Association, after his welcome
address to invitees, asked Dharmapuri to expatiate the purpose of
the meeting.
“I salute all the elderly people. I thank you all for attending this
meeting by giving respect to our invitation. In the recent times, in
our district, getting beedies done is increased beyond the level. They
are giving less tobacco than their usual share, to the fund card bearers.
With this share of tobacco, they are paying twenty two rupees less
per thousand and getting the beedies done by the temporary beedi
workers. Due to this, the fund card holders are being put to loss for
not having sufficient work, and the people working for Ordi too, are
not getting enough wages. This system is not proper. We all belong
to the workers’ community. As you get the commission for getting
beedies done, we get wages for it. Therefore, we need to talk amongst
ourselves to find an agreeable solution to this problem. I request you
all to ponder over this” Dharmapuri concluded his speech.
Sudarshan, the leader of the district beedi commission agents,
got up and said: “Dear brothers and sisters! Today I am very happy
that the youth of this village has organized this meeting. There are
some youths in every village who waste time in gossip, tease young
girls and pass the time by playing cards. But the boys of this village
organized a meeting of beedi workers. This impressed me very much.
Now we need to tell about our troubles regarding Ordi beedies. We
are not, with our own will, making them do beedies for lesser wages.
These are the orders received from our head office in Nizamabad.
The payment of twenty two rupees less wages per thousand beedies
322 / Astitva

in case of Ordi is true. But, not all this money will go into our pockets.
Half of this goes to head office. We need to pay some to depot managers.
Excluding all these, we get just two rupees extra. Shouldn’t we get
even this much for all the strain that we are subjected to? I leave it to
your consideration. Sudarshan gave his argumentative version.
“Their version is also true. If tobacco is given for Ordi to the
people not having cards, you think commission agents get much
benefit. Do you know how much risk is there in this for them? If any
inspector comes and checks, the agents will lose their agency. The
inspector doesn’t leave them unless he is bribed heavily. Also, much
money has to be spent to provide food and drinks to him. Don’t they
deserve at least this much benefit after taking so many troubles? You
are all well read people. Think a bit”, the village Sarpanch gave
support to the commission agents. Why wouldn’t he support? In the
previous night, the beedi commission agents gave a booze party with
fried chicken to the Sarpanch and other village elders.
“Yes, what Sarpanch saab said is right. Our women get six
months work in paddy fields in a year. They do beedies during the
other six months. They get no fund card. It is because we are giving
work to them that they are able to eke out their lives. How then, if
there is a demand for equal wages to card bearers and to those without
it” Golla Govind asked.
“The question here is not that why they are making them do
beedies for Ordi. The question is – is it right to pay them so less wages?
If an amount of five rupees is deducted, it would be okay. Is it right to
pay them twenty two rupees less in all?” Golla Mallesham added.
“As our secretary saab mentioned earlier, it is not we who are
getting the entire difference of amount. We have to give a part of it to
the Seths who supply us sufficient leaves and tobacco and we have to
give some amount to Kammarapally depot managers and others. In
this work of getting the beedies prepared on Ordi, we have to undergo
many headaches. You don’t know them” explained beedila Bhumaiah.
“Don’t give false accounts as if you are morally upright. Don’t
we know the profit you get by embezzling the beedies? My uncle is
also a commission agent in Metpally. One day, in an inebriated state,
he revealed to me all the methods by which you can make money”
Sambaiah spilled the beans before everybody.
 Ordi (Half Wages) / 323

“Yes, you get certain amount of leaves and tobacco for a thousand
beedies. You do not give the whole of it to workers. You are experts
in selling the remaining leaves and tobacco. We know that besides
this earning which is illegal, you have a good profit in Ordi beedies
also. If we bring all these deeds of yours to the notice of head office in
Nizamabad, one or two of you may even lose agency. To avoid such a
situation, we are requesting you to increase the wages of Ordi
workers” Dharmapuri said.
“You know how to ridicule us for our illegal earning but who
should we explain our troubles to? Will our commission increase in
proportion with the hike in wages? We are faced with reduction in
daily supply of leaves and tobacco on one hand, and decrease in selling
beedies, increment of holidays on other. With this there is a fall in
our income. Our income is not increasing proportionately with the
raising rates of commodities. Getting done the beedies by these
people, we need to dispatch the baskets to the depots. Basket bearer
should be paid. Our cutting the leaves is clear. But are you aware of
the fact that these baskets also get reduced. If you bring this matter
for the notice of higher authorities, we lose that is in hand and also
that is at the hand. Ordi beedies will be totally banned. Now it is up
to you. Jagannatham, a B.Com pass, is an unemployed commission
agent in Shetpally. He put his arguments; the agents agreed upon the
increment of two rupees for Ordi workers. The meeting is over. Next
day, Dharmora Youth Association activists held a meeting. They
discussed abetment of village elders with the commission agents.
Knowing that the matter cannot be finalised in the village, they
decided to try for the solution of this matter at the higher level. Along
with Dharmapuri they formed a group of four members to discuss
the Ordi matter.
***
The Dharmapuri group consulted the managers of different depots.
But they did not agree so easily of getting beedies done by Ordi
workers. After producing some evidence, they said, they are having
it done by the Ordi worker as per the orders from the head office. But
they requested to take care not to divulge this to anybody. After that,
Dharmapuri and others visited some companies in Nizamabad. They
spoke as if they are completely unaware of Ordi beedies. They averred
that they don’t know anything about Ordi and their company
324 / Astitva

administrators follow the rules and instructions strictly. Thus, they

met with failure.
When enquired with some of the familiar staff members, it
became known that the matter of Ordi beedi is completely against
the law and that in this matter there has been an escapism from excise
tax to a great extent. The Dharmapuri group understood that it was
not easy to unearth the scam. They changed their strategy. They visited
all the village of beedi labourers in the district in batches and brought
awareness in beedi labourers and youth. They explained about the
Ordi workers loss and labour before the district authorities for
consideration including wages cutting with the reason of scanty
tobacco and leaves and the cutting process of beedies.
Ordi took a form of revolution. The newspapers, by publishing
the ordeals of beedi workers gave support to the revolution. Heart
beat of beedi company owners and commission agent increased. They
consulted the union leaders of beedi labourers. Bribing, village elder
asked them to control the village youth. The union leaders entered
the field with a view that if the Ordi revolution succeeds their
existence would be endangered. The leader lured the workers with
words by saying Ordi is a boon to some of the labourers and they
would put their problems before the government for consideration
and do justice. Yet the Dharmapuri group did not yield. Youth and
beedi workers were on one side and village elders and commission
agents were on the other. The bickering between them increased very
much. Having no hopes of agreeable solution to the problem, union
leaders created ruckus/problem at places randomly. Some villages
needed the intervention of police. The company owners assumed the
role of spectators by bribing people.

***
On the way back to Dharmora on bikes after attending a meeting at
Ankusapur, some masked hooligans attacked Dharmapuri group.
Dharmapuri and Sambaiah received some injuries. They were
hospitalized at Armoor.
Balavva’s sorrow broke the bounds as she saw her son all in
bandages. She began crying by beating her chest.
“Damned this Ordi beedies. Your life got ruined, my son. Though
you faced many obstructions, you dedicated yourself for the welfare
 Ordi (Half Wages) / 325

of the people. I thought you would join a big job and see me as a
queen, my son.” She went on lamenting in various ways. Amrita was
also crying with hiccups. She felt sad with the thought of guilty, that
her brother took part in the agitation for her sake. By the support of
company owners, the newspapers highlighted the image of the district
leaders of the workers and condemned the Dharmapuri group. The
news of Ordi revolution spread to the other districts in the state.
People, youth, leaders and politicians from various places came to
console Dharmapuri. The supporters of Dharmapuri were telling
about the revolution to all the visitors. The revolution got support
from the neighbouring district like Karimnagar, Adilabad and
Warangal where there was an Ordi beedi problem.
Dharmapuri got a host of thoughts being confined to the bed in
bandages. Like the proverb “Man proposes and God disposes” are
my ambitions all futile? He introspected within himself.
Expressing grief when Prabhakar approached to console,
Dharmapuri said, “Are not it is you that encouraged us? Is it wrong
that we did? Is it great to treat us like this for peacefully struggling
for justice? You yourself tell, when beseeched not to beat on the
stomach of beedi labourers they beat us. Is not there end to their
hooliganism? Should this injustice go along? Tell sir! Tell us.”
“End is certain to everything, Dharmapuri! But for this, it needs
sometime. One maybe rich, still wants to have more of it. One likes to
amass the wealth not by one’s hard work but without any labour.
Everyone here is with a mind to become millionaire in a day. But he
never does proper work for it. Thus he desires to acquire everything
through wrong methods. Why does an officer with thousands of
rupees of salary take bribe? A Political leader who has assets worth
crores of rupees, desires to amass wealth worth some more crores of
rupees by illegal means, why? An agent who gets some commission
per thousand beedies, illegally sells tobacco, why? To make revelry,
to amass wealth sufficient for generations, still knowing that these
assets will not come with us, man always wallows in the desires of
wealth. Selfishness with its growth revives this kind of hooliganism.
The aphorism, like covetous leads to misfortune” learnt in childhood
days goes wafting in the air. Should all these have their usual run? If
asked this, the answer ‘no’ comes out. To stop this, people like us
should always strive. In this deed, I do not know how many men like
326 / Astitva

you it needs to be sacrificed. As my part, I will try to solve this problem

by sending appeals to the higher authorities. Take care of your health.
Prabhakar sir took leave. Mentally tired Dharmapuri slipped into
sleep.
***
Ordi agitation brought a movement in the government. Casual
labourers took retirement. An act was formulated to stop the misdeeds
of commission agents who took advantage of helpless old beedi
workers for their own benefits. Some laws were formulated to
regularize the process of beedi work without fund cards. An order
was issued to punish them who do not follow the rules. Officials
from Village Secretary to Mandal level and district level officials made
it clear to take actions on the complaints against those who do wrong
deeds. Dharmapuri’s heart was exhilarated on reading this news in
the newspaper. For fructification of his labour, he felt happy. Tears of
joy welled up in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks.
“Brother, aren’t you awake yet? Wake up and have some food.”
By this address of Amrita, Dharmapuri descended to this world ... so
... is all this a dream? Yes, it is a dream, thought to become a realization.
Having completely woken up, he asked Amrita about the happenings
in the village.
Is there anything unknown to you brother? The teeth of those
who are in the front will fall. They pursued you. With the thought,
we should do this and do that. After your hospitalization, many a
man came giving you courage. Now everyone slipped out calmly.
They left our fate to us. Today there is bandh for us. To meet the
expenses of your medicine, mother brought tobacco for Ordi. Due to
this, she did not come to see you.
For my medicines, Ordi wages!
A strong emotion surged in Dharmapuri!

“Ordi”
2004 Translated by Jaiwanth Rao Chalurkar and
Adi Ramesh Babu
 9/11 Love Story

Mudiganti Sujata Reddy

At the back, dust and ashes were rising high up to the sky. Flames of
fire! ... The flames were touching the sky. Smoke like black clouds!
Unbearable heat! Glasses that were breaking and bursting with chat
chat sounds! Iron pillars that were scalding red like rods heated up
in fire!
Abba! Such heat! ... Flames! Shrieks of distress, “Save, save!”
Dust all around! Ashes! Black smoke! Nothing was visible. Phat, phat
sound of glasses splintering! ... Shouts of haa ... haa! Shrieks of distress!
... Shouts of run ... run! ... Calls of save ... save me! Cries! People
running leaving everything behind! Scampering! Each running in the
direction they found! Each running in the direction they felt! Very,
very hot dust under the feet! Dust! Ashes! Glass pieces! Wounds!
Blood! The moaning of human beings! Weeping! Shouts! Nothing
was visible! Unbearable heat as if lava was flowing under the feet!
Heat as if flames of fire were hounding! Nothing was visible! Running!
Running! Could not think of anything!
What was this? What was all this?
Was it a strike of planes? War? Had they hurled a bomb? ... like
in Hiroshima and Nagasaki? ... Was it like the strikes on Berlin? ...
Who would come? Who would hurl it? Had Russia attacked? ... Was
it Russia—no! No, it wasn’t! ... Who then was this new enemy?
328 / Astitva

Everything was destroyed! Annihilation! Did the bombs rain like this
in Vietnam? Was it the same rain of bombs? Was it the attacks of
rockets? Was it mass murder? Was entire New York ablaze? Were all
the skyscrapers collapsing? Was entire New York burning down and
turning to ashes? ... Was Manhattan drowning in the ocean? ... The
Statue of Liberty? ... Had it also collapsed? Been blasted? ...
Anxiety! ... Fear! ... Running! ... Had never seen such confusion
before! Such a huge ocean! ... How were attacks possible crossing
such a peaceful massive ocean? Whose strikes? How audacious of
them! Even so, how come they were so courageous! How come they
were so skilful! What strategy they needed! Unconquerable, wasn’t
it! ... Whose brains was it to conquer the unconquerable, to make
possible the impossible? Where did they get all that intelligence from?
A stupendous attack! ... Strategy! ... How long has this strategy been
planned out! ... Conspiracy! Plot! ... What were FBI and CIA doing?
Weren’t they proud that there wasn’t anything they didn’t know!
Whose was this strike that was tearing that arrogance to pieces? Who
had evolved this flawless strategy? This had not happened in a day.
How long had this plan been in the making? The complete failure of
FBI and CIA! Who were responsible for this treachery? Deceit!
Conspiracy! Deceit? How this deceit? A plan made cleverly and with
no holds barred! Strategy! Who in fact got that idea? ... How did that
thought occur? ... Ought to appreciate them! Chee! Appreciate! Why?
Why not? For sleeping thinking no one could infiltrate us! Arrogance
that no one else had the technical know-how and power that we had
... For it splintering, phat phat to pieces like those glasses! For it
breaking through chaat chaat! The brains of those who had scripted
this strategy were not ordinary ones! Ought to be praised! This was
an oriental mind! This was the blow of the oriental that surpassed
Spartacus warriors at the gateway of fire and lost! Had it won now?
Oriental! Oriental! One looked down upon them! Some fear! ... Some
attraction! ... Some fear in that attraction! She had observed and found
out many times in her boss, Art’s words and behaviour.
Sushma’s thoughts were racing. She was running. Art was
running. Art’s hand was in Sushma’s. Sushma in front and Art
behind—were running. Art was running in the same direction as
Sushma. This thing was unimaginable a few seconds or a few minutes
earlier! In the office, everyone was terrified of Art! In the office, Art
 9/11 Love Story / 329

was the master of all slaves. Dictator! Fear! Terror ! Work! Work! His
whip lashes! He would not tolerate anyone breathing!
“Don’t waste time!” Saying this, he would swish his whip.
But that did not mean Art was a devil. He did not resemble an
ogre. He was in fact like a prince all young girls dreamt of. An
uncrushed suit! Undishevelled hair! A face that did not show
tiredness! Shining shoes! Dress, appearance, language—untouched
by dust or mud!
Sushma had set foot in New York with an MCA degree from
India. She had overcome horrible monster-hurdles like visas and such.
She had worked here and there in USA for six months. She had earned
experience. She had been able to grasp the nuances of the language
and accents. Her goal had been WTC! Her dream had been to work
in that place which was the centre of the world! When she had stepped
into the WTC and had seen the devil of an officer called Art, her
reaction had been, “How handsome he is!” ... Sushma had been able
to withstand the questions which were like a volley of shots from the
AK 47 rifle! The job had fallen in her lap. As her goal had been fulfilled
she had jumped up ecstatic. Sushma was a good worker. She was
intelligent enough to do her work. But it was human nature to make
mistakes occasionally. That too when one had a boss who would find
fault with commas and semicolons, what else could one expect but
mistakes and mistakes? The first time Art caught Sushma that she
had missed out on a comma.
“I’m sorry for the mistake, Mr. Cornwallis!” Sushma had said
forcing a smile. Inside she had been seething with anger about his
cruel dictatorship.
“Cornwallis! ...” Art had raised his eyebrows. He would raise
them like that when he was surprised or angry.
“Ya! He was our viceroy ... once upon a time!” Sushma forced a
smile!
Cornwallis was Art’s family name. On hearing that name Sushma
had realised that it was the name of one of the British viceroys who
had ruled India. He might be one of that family, she had thought
with animosity!
“Colonial ruler! Slave driver! ...” Sushma had gritted her teeth.
“I know! I know! ... History. He was my great, great, great
grandfather.” Art’s face had become serious once more.
330 / Astitva

“Oh! A descendant of the colonial ruler! New slave driver!”

Sushma had grumbled gritting her teeth.
“What did you say?” Art raised his eyebrows. Sushma’s words
had not been audible to him.
“Mr. Cornwallis!” Sushma had been about to say.
“No! No! Just Art. No formalities please!” Art had corrected
Sushma.
‘New manifestation of a colonial ruler!’ Sushma had again gritted
her teeth and said this to herself with vengeance.
“Okay! Art! I’m sorry for the comma,” Sushma had said with a
feigned smile.
“Okay! Next time no mistake.” Art had gone away without
waiting.
‘Colonial brute! White super race complex! Just superiority
complex! I know!’ She thought to herself with vengeance.
The hand of such an Art in her hand now. Bleeding ... He was
running weakly in whichever direction she pulled him. Did she ever
think ... that Art would be in her hands like this! Sushma’s apartment
was very close to WTC, in the tiny lane four streets away from there.
Sushma was very lucky to find that apartment. She could walk to
WTC! If one crossed the alley on the way, in the next lane was Ajjoo
dada’s coffee shop. Parathas made of ghee. Alu gobi ... panneer masala
curries. If she had a paratha and a cup of coffee, there was no need of
food till the afternoon. Ajju’s real name was Ajay Mishra. It seems he
had come from Bihar and had driven a taxi for a while. Later, he
found a little place near WTC and was running a coffee corner.
“Ajju dada, how did you come to America?” Sushma had asked
him one day. The folds of smile had merged with his wrinkled face.
“Sab taqdeer! Amreka mujhe kheench ke laya! Bas, yahan pahunch
gaya! (All fate! America pulled me here! That’s it, I came here!)” he
had said.
Everyone wanted to come to America! Dream! Free land!
Country of freedom! Everyone desired to test their luck in this land
of opportunities and become extremely rich! Some kind of attraction!
From the time the ship, May Flower had set out. Otherwise Art
Cornwallis ... at one time the family of the viceroy of India! What was
it about coming here?
Sushma reached her apartment pulling Art along. It was just
one room! Kitchen in that itself! Bedroom! Drawing room! –all! ... On
 9/11 Love Story / 331

one side a spacious washroom. In it a bath tub, washing machine etc.

No sooner did Sushma enter the room than she made Art lie down
on the bed. Perhaps glass pieces had pierced the forehead and the
face! Would those have pierced the hand tearing the coat and the
shirt? The blood was flowing.
Art’s suit was drenched with blood. First she had to stop the
flow of blood! Sushma ran to the washroom. She ran bringing the
cotton, Dettol bottle and antiseptic cream tube. With difficulty she
took off Art’s coat and shirt. Art, who was a bit conscious, cooperated.
Art, who was a lion, was so weak that he was doing whatever
she asked him to. Seeing that, Sushma felt sorry for him.
Poor Art, she thought.
Today was the day mother would call her from India. Mother’s
phone would come in the morning before eight. But it had been nine
... the phone had not come even though it was ten.
Sushma had been worried.
When Sushma had tried to call, she could not get through.
‘Perhaps mother too was not able to connect! Perhaps the lines
were not clear! Even so I’ll wait for another quarter of an hour or half
an hour,’ Sushma had thought. Finally the phone had rung, tring,
tring, at quarter past ten. When she had picked it up, it was mother.
She had spoken with mother only for ten minutes.
“Amma! It’s getting late for office,” Sushma had said.
“Okay, I’ll call tomorrow, Sushi,” mother had said.
Sushma had put down the phone, and locked the apartment
door in a rush. She had come down from the tenth floor in the lift
and walked briskly on to the street. Crowded as usual! ... She had put
quick steps and crossed the lane. Had entered the alley. She had
crossed the alley and entered another lane.
‘I’m late today. Art may look at me as if to swallow me up. I
know.’ Thinking in this manner Sushma had continued on her run
like walk. She had had no time to stop at Ajju dada’s to have paratha
and coffee. She had gone ahead without stopping at the coffee corner.
“Sushmaji! Coffee!” Ajju had called out to her from behind.
“Not now, bhayya! Our lion will get angry. It’s late. Do paharko
avungi (I’ll come in the afternoon).” Saying this, Sushma had gone
ahead in her run like walk.
332 / Astitva

‘Fasting today! ... No breakfast ... a day when I am not blessed to

have breakfast ... if I am further delayed, Art will swallow me up.’
Sushma had run.
There WTC ... four steps ... On climbing the steps in front and
going in, lifts right there! In two minutes the hundred and second
floor! She would be at the office. Art would glare at her! Inevitable!
Sushma had climbed the steps. Overhead the roar of aeroplanes! That
horrendous noise was always there. Every five seconds a jet would
pierce the sky from New York’s international airport. Sushma had
walked towards the lift. The lift had stopped. The doors had opened.
Sushma had looked at her wristwatch anxiously. Ten forty five! Indeed
very late! ‘Art would look at me red faced. I know.’ Thinking in that
manner, she had moved towards the lift. But wonder of wonders!
Surprise! In front of her Art who had come out of the lift! She had
looked into his eyes. Sushma had felt that smoldering embers had
dropped from his blue eyes ... She had trembled. She had felt as if her
mind had gone numb! In fear, she had opened her mouth slightly! ...
That’s it! She had not known what happened. The entire WTC
appeared to be shaking. Sushma had felt that it was Art’s anger that
had made her feel in that manner.
The earth had shaken as if there was an earthquake. Some
horrendous sound! Noises! Reverberations! The entire WTC swaying!
Art had such anger! Sushma had trembled! Again some boulder ...
no, no, noise as if a huge mountain had fallen on WTC! WTC had
been swaying! Collapsing! ... Had they showered bombs from the
planes that had been piercing WTC! Unbearable sound! WTC ‘s
foundation had been shaken. Earthquake? ‘This isn’t Art’s anger.
WTC’s towers are collapsing. The glasses are shattering.’ The fearsome
sounds of the shattering glass pieces. Darkness all around. Flames!
Smoke! Cries of anguish! Each one running in the direction they had
found. She had spotted Art in front of her, spewing thunder and
lightning into her eyes! She had not known what to do. Immediately,
she had taken Art’s hand in hers. She had run out into the street.
Chasing her—heat, dust, smoke! Running faster than them Sushma
holding Art’s hand! Sushma had not been in the state of mind to
observe that people—this side and that, behind and in front—too
had been running in the same manner! Sushma had run fast, very
fast pulling Art along ...
 9/11 Love Story / 333

On the bed, Art drenched in blood. With cotton dipped in Dettol,

Sushma wiped the blood off the body of Art who was semi-conscious.
She put the antiseptic cream on cotton and smeared it on the wounds.
Perhaps it was painful, Art moaned. The bleeding stopped.
“Pain ... pain ...” Art clenched his teeth and shouted softly. When
she examined him closely, she found no glass pieces on his skin. But
there were small and big wounds that they had made. They were
oozing blood in the form of sores on the skin. After she wiped them
with antiseptic cream the blood stopped oozing. Perhaps Art had
pain and was moaning continuously. It appeared as if he had become
numb and did not know what was happening around him. She made
Art swallow two painkiller tablets with mineral water.
‘Must find some doctor! ... My cousin, Murali is in New York.
Must call him. Will he be available now? ... ’ Thinking in this manner,
she picked up the phone. She could not get through to Murali, no
matter how much she tried. The phone lines were not okay. Sushma
looked out from her apartment window. Was shocked! The two WTC
towers that would pierce the sky that she could see every day were
not there! In their place she could see thick smoke rising up!
“Mio Dio! (My God!),” Sushma screamed out loud. Because of
the effect of the Italian she had been learning recently.
“What happened!” asked Art as if he was moaning.
Sushma turned towards Art. Art’s eyes were open. He was fully
conscious. It appeared as if he had come out a little bit from the shock.
“Both the towers are not there,” said Sushma stretching out her
hand and pointing her finger outside. Art raised himself up a bit on
the bed. He looked outside through the window.
“My God! Some catastrophe! I know! I know!” Art was getting
agitated. Sushma had never seen Art losing his self confidence. She
looked at Art who used to feel confident as if he had conquered the
world. But she now felt pity at Art’s agitation.
“Art! You must rest!” said Sushma. She touched him delicately
and made him lie down on the bed. She ran to the washroom and got
sleeping pills. She made him swallow them. In a few minutes, Art
slid into slumber. Sushma dialled the phone again. As she kept
dialling, she was finally able to get Murali’s number.
“Murali!” she screamed.
“Are you okay, Sushma,” Murali asked.
334 / Astitva

“I’m okay, Murali. Please come to my apartment. It is urgent,”

said Sushma, anxious and worried.
It did take a long time for Murali to reach Sushma in all that
heavy traffic. Murali examined Art. “Does not have major injuries!
No fractures also.” He took some medicines from his bag and gave
them to her. He asked her to give them after he regained
consciousness.
“He may have some relatives, wife or children. Contact them.
Tell them he is safe. They might be worried. The situation outside is
very terrifying. Everyone is being haunted by the fear of death.
Careful, Sushma! Take care!” Saying this, Murali left. Sushma was
silent for a while.
‘It didn’t strike me to contact people close to Art.’ Sushma looked
in Art’s direction.
Art had opened his eyes and was fixedly looking at her. How
long had he been looking? His eyes were severe as always like the
blue oceans.
“Art, if you have any of your people tell me ... parents ... wife ...
children ... I will call and inform them ... you are safe!” On hearing
Sushma’s words Art moaned with pain.
“Sush ... I don’t have anyone ... Can I call you Sush?” he asked.
‘What’s happening to Art, who used to call me by my full name,
Sushma? Why is he looking so weak?’ Sushma thought to herself.
“You can call me Sush. I’m your friend.” Sushma smiled, taking
Art’s hand in hers.
“That’s good!” Art’s eyes appeared serious. Sushma made Art
swallow the pills Murali had given her. In a second those blue eyes
closed weakly. Art slid into slumber once again.
All that had happened at WTC appeared in front of Sushma’s
eyes like a movie scene. She trembled. As she was waiting for her
mother’s call she got delayed. If she had gone early like usual she
would have been on the hundred and second floor. She would have
been burnt to ashes. Along with the hundreds and thousands of people
who had died! ... Her boss ... He too would have died! Why had Art
come down? Didn’t know! Didn’t know why but that had saved him.
His coming down the lift and her being there at that moment, running
into the alley pulling him along ... When she thought of all that now
it looked as if a miracle had happened.
 9/11 Love Story / 335

Sushma got up slowly and switched on the TV. The same news
... The attack on WTC! Two planes ... planes that had been hijacked ...
had struck WTC. In two seconds the two towers had collapsed! ...
Total destruction ... That was the work of terrorists ... A strategy that
had been planned out for many months ... a conspiracy ... a plot! ...
The news was continuously being broadcast. They were showing
repeatedly on TV the scenes that had been caught perchance on the
camera of some photographer. WTC employees caught in the flames,
in the red flames like in a furnace ... ran towards the windows and
were about to jump out! Crowds in the street! Without knowing what
had happened they were running! Some of the neighbouring
skyscrapers were burning! Interviews of those who were running! ...
It looked like mass murder. People were terrified. The entire world
was viewing the TV telecast at the same time. Were mother, father
and brother also viewing these scenes? She had to call and inform
them that she was safe. Otherwise, they would be worried ... There
was no end to Sushma’s thoughts.
But how could the hijackers breach the high security check and
get into the planes with deadly weapons? Without caring for their
lives they crashed the planes on to the towers. What a strange plan! A
well thought out plan like in the movies! What heroism! What a clever
plan! How wonderful! How surprising! Poor things! ... The passengers
too lost their lives. Everything was so astonishing! Wonderful! How
could the thought of crashing the planes on to the towers occur to
them! Chee! How could she appreciate the plan of those who crashed
the planes as wonderful and astonishing! In fact it was inhuman!
Demonic! But ... how could they do it so very skilfully? Sushma was
surprised again! ... What were the spies doing? How were they able
to blind the eyes of the spies and come up with this strategy? They
must have plotted this over many days and months. How were they
able to hoodwink the spies? ... Sushma was so lost in thoughts that
she was not aware of time.
“Sush! ... Sush!” Art’s weak voice reached Sushma’s ears.
Immediately she moved away from the TV and ran to Art.
“Ya! ... Art! ... I’m here,” she said calmly.
“What happened?” asked Art. His face was pale. It appeared
the pain has subsided a bit.
Sushma related all the news she had seen on the TV to Art.
336 / Astitva

“My God!! How horrible! How cleverly they have done this!
Oriental mind!” Surprise in Art’s voice.
‘Oriental?’ Sushma thought to herself ...
Once Art had found fault with something she had done.
“No Art, that is not a mistake,” she had said emphatically. She
had told him in detail how it was not a mistake. Then Art had looked
directly into her eyes.
“Okay! I agree with you!” Lifting his eyebrows, “Oriental mind
after all!” he had said, turning back and laughing sarcastically. She
had smiled with the pride of victory.
‘Oriental! Oriental! Why did Art have that complex? Or was it a
complex? ... Can’t say ... ’
Art ... did he have an admiration for the oriental mind in his
heart of hearts? An attraction with praise! Again disdain! Inside of
him being terrified of that attraction! ...
‘Why?’ wondered Sushma.
Even now the same surprise! Sarcasm! ... .because it was the
‘oriental mind’!
“Sush! What are you thinking?” Sushma came back to this world
at his question.
“No, nothing!” she was shaken.
“Art! Look outside, the two towers aren’t there anymore,”
Sushma indicated the direction of the window.
Art got up from bed, put his hand on Sushma’s shoulder and
walked slowly towards the window. He looked out through the
window.
Everything was empty in the sky! In place of the WTC, a thick
black smoke! Red flames! The stench of the burnt dead bodies
permeated inside through the closed window and entered Art’s
nostrils.
“Everything is destroyed,” Art mumbled.
“Sush! ... see if you were not there, I’d have been dead!” Art
trembled.
“Art! ...” Sushma said in an emotional tone. She held his hand.
“You saved me ...” Art lifted Sushma’s hand and kissed it.
‘Such a kiss didn’t mean a thing to westerners. But as for me,
I’m an Indian! Oriental! But I ought not to search for a meaning in
this kiss,’ thought Sushma. But suddenly, saying emotionally, “Sush!”
Art pulled her close tightly.
 9/11 Love Story / 337

“You saved my life! I like ... you ... no, no ... I’ve always loved
you.” Art hugged her tightly to his chest. Sushma could not breathe
in Art’s tight embrace. ‘Art is weak. That’s why all this,’ thought
Sushma.
“No! No! You are in an emotional state. I know you are feeling
like this out of gratitude. ... Come ... lie down!” said Sushma. She
made Art walk, took him to the bed and made him lie down. Art lay
down and kept looking at Sushma without blinking.
“Sush! I’m normal, feeling normal. I’ve always been attracted to
you. From the minute I saw you, you attracted me. But I was careful
not to let that attraction turn to love. I’ve controlled myself all these
days! But today, this incident has made me open my eyes! It was only
to cover my love that I would find fault with everything you did!
This incident has completely shattered my arrogance and my
superiority complex! It has made me realise that I am your equal.
Though my heart knew that I loved you all these days, I did not reveal
it. That might have been my superior race feeling! You’ve saved me!
You’ve opened the closed doors of my heart! I love you! Sush! It’s
time to admit those words openly! Now the superiority feeling in
my mind has vanished, Sush! Will you marry me? I love you!” Art
took the hand of Sushma, who was standing next to the bed, into his.
The brimming waves of the ocean in his blue eyes!
Sushma was stunned for a while. She had always liked Art! But
his severe appearance and his superior attitude terrified her. Now
Art had left behind his superior race feeling. He had opened his eyes.
He had opened the doors of his heart and accepted her love. She had
no objections to accepting his love. She had been attracted to him
from the day she saw him. She was not aware when that attraction
had turned into love. When Art told her now that he loved her, both
her mind and heart were overwhelmed! Waves of happiness surged
up high!
“Art! I love you too!” said Sushma sitting next to him on the bed
... She lay down on his chest. Art placed both his arms around Sushma
and hugged her to his chest.
***
The wedding of Art and Sushma took place. A year later they came to
New York for their first anniversary. There was a vacant space where
WTC stood! Both lay wreaths at the place there. At that vacant space
338 / Astitva

many placed wreaths in memory of their relatives and friends.

Everyone stood silent and sad. In everyone’s mind the horrible disaster
of September eleventh. Art and Sushma held hands and stood close
to each other. But in their hearts flowers of love were emanating
fragrance. Both had become close. Their eyes were shimmering.
‘Tomorrow peaks of peace will emerge here! They will become the
symbol of their bond of love! These peaks of peace will be the death
knell of self importance, of arrogance, of conceit, of feelings of
superiority, of the theories of superior race that talk of the ruler and
the ruled, of being intellectuals, of assuming that all modern
technological science rests with them!’ Sushma heaved a sigh of
happiness.
Art took her hand lovingly into his. WTC collapsed. Burnt to
ashes. But the Statue of Liberty was safe and secure! ... Sushma pressed
Art’s hand. Both moved away from there.

“9/11 Love Story”

2003 Translated by Alladi Uma and
M. Sridhar
 Nemalinara

B. Muralidhar

“I endeared myself to Lord Siva in Kailasam! I am the one who took

Indra as prisoner in Indraloka! I am the victor without a peer in these
three worlds! You! You could win over me? Ha! Hahha! ... .” Ravana
guffawed evoking fear.
“Hey, Ravana! Your eminence came to be known the day you
took another’s wife as captive! You, the one who abducted a helpless
woman claim to be a man of valour! You captured my wife by cunning,
are you a brave one? Stop your bragging! Save your lives!” Sri Rama
jeered at Ravana.
‘Sri Rama Pattabhishekam’ Yakshaganam was progressing with
full gusto captivating the audience. The confrontation between Rama
and Ravana was continuing in verse form for a while, and then in
dialogue mode. It was two in the night by that time. The slaying of
Ravana, ascension of Vibhishana and Seeta’s entering the fire would
be over by Brahmee muhurtam. Right at Brahmee muhurtam Sri
Rama’s coronation and Mangalaharathi ceremony would take place.
Even though it is just a drama, important ceremonies should take
place only at auspicious moments!
The two Petromax lights hanging on both flanks of the stage
were turning murky and Ravana pumped air into them. Lamps were
giving additional light. The shoulder adornments and diadems of
Rama and Ravana were shining bright in that light.
340 / Astitva

Viewers cherish especially the war scene. The rasa of valour, to

the accompaniment of Maddela Talams, the percussion instruments,
was unleashed. Children were rising on their knees to have a better
view. Since they would have to act out these scenes tomorrow before
their companions in some cattle shed or among haystacks, they were
not even blinking.
“Hey the little one! You asked to wake you up when the war
comes up. Look there! They are at war! Get up!” an old woman was
trying to wake up her grandchild.
“They would again scold if not woken up! They are not getting
up however much tried! Ravana has come! Get up! You!” another
granddad was waking up his grandchildren.
“Ravana! Beware of this Brahmastra!” as Rama said so, maddela
and the talams reached a crescendo. They were being played louder
to create an effect of thunderbolts on stage. With that sound those
that were till then half asleep and the ones who did not get up, are
now awake and attentive.
With the sounds of the instruments in the backdrop Rama took
out a special arrow that was glowing. Viewers were looking at it in
awe. Perhaps Ravana who put Sita to troubles in many ways would
die with that arrow! They were thinking in themselves and gazing
with eyes wide open. They were encouraging the artistes with shouts
and whistles.
Rama aimed the arrow. But someone came on to the stage and
whispered something into his ears. Rama immediately called Ravana
near and said something to him. Together they went behind the
curtain. Music also stopped!
Play stopped during the climax. All viewers went silent. ‘What
happened? What happened?’
Some words were audible from behind the screen! But not
clearly!
After a while, the person playing Rama was seen walking with
all his makeup along with the person who came on to the stage.
That scene reminded one of Rama walking along Vishwamitra
to turn Ahalya lying as a stone into human form. Though this Rama
was not so powerful, he is sure going in haste along that person to
recover a being that was caught in the clutches of death.
In a while the matter became known to all.
 Nemalinara / 341

“There is foam coming from the mouth of Katla Ashanna’s

plough bullock! It has fallen on the ground, is kicking its feet!”
“Narayanayya has gone there, no? The bullock will recover!”
this word of hope was heard from the mouth of everyone.
Then, since they very naturally thought that – the life of cattle is
greater than the play – the bullock is more important than their
entertainment – the villagers never exhibited any restlessness till Rama
returned.
Meanwhile, to make people laugh the character of Buddarikhan
came onto the stage. Those who slipped into sleep since the play
stopped got up saying “Buddarikhan has come!” on listening to the
music played on the drum.
The Buddarikhan sang four stanzas of a parody song and
stopped to talk to the people.
“Why are you sitting like that? To look how uncle Ravana would
die? Varevva! What if our uncle Ravana is a bad one? He after all said
he would give his daughter to me. He also promised half of his
kingdom. That’s enough for me. Why should I care what kind of man
he is? For me, he is after all good! If he promises to give you something
he would be good for you also!”
“You, Buddarikhan! All that later! Where did your Rama go off?”
someone shouted from among the crowd.
“Ayyo! Big brother! No one told you yet? The Muhurtam now, is
not good to kill Ravana, it looks! He went to Pantulayya to ask for
good muhurtam! He would come back once that is done. Why
worrying! Where have you to go? It is not even dawn yet! Already
the eagerness started, is it? That is why, there are not enough rains!
Horse gram does not grow properly!” Buddarikhan started singing
about the avarice of people.
Narayanayya who was donning the role of Rama was after all
truly Lord Narayana for the villagers! He had the knowledge of
medicine from his ancestors over generations. If a person or an animal
is sick, information would first go to Narayanayya! ‘If he administers
a medicine with his hands, even death should turn its face and go
away!’ the villagers developed this trust by experience.
At midnight or other odd times, people would keep coming to
Narayanayya. He would consider his expertise as pious, would cure
whether it is a person or cattle without expressing irritation.
342 / Astitva

Old people say they have not seen a medical man like
Narayanayya in the villages around for the last three generations. He
would find out the exact cause of the suffering of the mute creatures
and give the right medicine. He knows much about their illnesses.
What would be the effect of eating a particular plant? Which grass
would cause indigestion? The behavior of the animal on eating the
bur grass, he knows all the symptoms of that kind.
Not just that! He knows about the growth of plants around the
village that could harm the cattle. He also knows in which season the
plants would grow well and turn potentially harmful. That is why he
cautions the cattle owners of the village well in advance to not take
their cattle and goats to some of those places. All would follow his
advice. Even then the animals sometimes free themselves and in greed
masticate some of the harmful plants.
It appears the plough bullock of Katla Ashanna also ate some
harmful plant. That is why at the middle of the night it was having
trouble.
Narayanayya grows many plants, trees and shrubs in the
premises of his house, necessary for preparing his medicines. In the
half acre wide backyard many rare plants, not usually seen creepers,
trees with long peculiar fruits–there are many such. Narayanayya
collected them from different places. Symbiotic plants called
‘Vajanukas’ or ‘Badanikas’ are the main attractions in that medicinal
garden. They appear peculiar and make people wonder. They are the
small bushes that grow only on the branches of big trees. With colorful
flower bunches and branches in curious shapes these plants are very
special! Their medicinal character depends on the tree on which it
grows. One that grows on a neem tree is good for one ailment and
the one that grows on Vippa is good for another.
Only Narayanayya knows the medicinal secrets of these
symbiotic plants.
Early in the morning on getting up observing the plants in the
yard, clearing the place and watering the plants from the well is the
routine of Narayanayya.
Narayanayya would never extend his hand to demand anything
for the medicine he gives. He keeps telling if he takes any amount
towards fees, his medicines wouldn’t work. So, people keep track of
the needs of Narayanayya family and supply them. Every crop that
 Nemalinara / 343

grew in the village, every fruit and yield would reach his home more
than necessary. People of the village feel that supplying to
Narayanayya’s family is like supplying to their own family.
That is why when Narayanayya takes up the role of Rama,
villagers forget themselves looking in him the real Rama.
At last Narayanayya came back after treating the bullock and
killing of Ravana was over. In the auspicious Brahmee muhurtam
with the coronation ceremony and the Mangalaharathi, the show
ended in a grand manner.
***
The show of the universe going on for eons has not yet come to an
end. In the drama, curtains rose for another act.
The village that Narayanayya lives in, grew very big. With the
village, its population also grew. Along with them the three sons of
Narayanayya also grew up and became older. They have their own
families; own earnings also. Even then, all of them were living in the
same house all these days. But they have reached a stage where that
was not possible.
In the process of social transformation a family getting split into
smaller families is an inevitable, natural course of change.
The pair of sparrows that made a nest on the guava tree in the
backyard of Narayanayya noticed that the small birds in the nest have
grown their own wings. So the sparrows were trying to drive them
out from the nest. Small birds that got used to the free food brought
by the parents were adamant and not ready to leave. For a while they
pleaded with the parents. At last the parents pulled them by their
tails and threw out saying, “Go away! Go live anywhere in the world!”
Narayanayya could not say like that. Narayanayya’s children
who grew their own wings – unable to settle in the only nest – and
also unable to go out – planned at last to split the nest and share it.
The premises of the house were big enough. Leaving the present
house for the parents, the sons wanted to share the rest of the land
equally. They have come to a decision to build their respective houses.
They told the same to the father.
Initially Narayanayya looked at them in disbelief. But when the
sons told clearly he had to believe.
“But ... how is that possible? Is this an open place? Just to measure
by rope and share! What would happen to all the medicinal trees?
344 / Astitva

What would happen to all the twines and tubers? If it can’t be helped,
buy places in the village somewhere and build houses!” he told
somewhat bluntly.
“Can we afford to buy plots outside and then construct houses!
Is it practical, Ayya?”
“Not that! Would these herbs and shrubs be available again once
they are gone? Such symbiotic plants are nowhere found in fifty miles
area around!”
“Now for whose sake are these plants and medicines? Ok, if we
leave the place as it is, you would give medication as long as you are
there. Afterwards, who would do that? Who has that knowledge?”
the elder one asked.
“Why someone else? One of you can learn it. You have been
watching all these years. Haven’t you got the tinge of it?”
“Would administering this medicine feed our stomachs, Ayya?
Your zamana was different. Those people are different. Those minds
are different. Who is asking such traditional medicine now? Are
people coming to our home like earlier? In those days, they were
queuing up right before the daybreak. Now who is coming? For whom
do you say you will keep this garden?” second son said.
“Would it be fair if you say you will keep the place like this, putting
aside your son’s interests? Now for people, there are hospitals after all.
For the cattle there are veterinary hospitals. There are people to give
government medicines. Still for whom all this?” the younger one said.
“What can I say if you ask ‘for whom?’ Many hospitals and
medicines might have come – but those government people work
according to fixed time table. Diseases and pains would not come
based on their duty times. That’s why I am telling. There is the worry
of sending people who come to me back, but not the question of love
for you!” Narayanayya said with concern.
“Times have changed Ayya! With that, people too have changed!
With them, we also have to change. It would not be right if you deny,”
the elder one said in convincing tone.
“We are at the fag end of our life . What change now? You will
be there; won’t you? You better change. But wait till I die. I cannot see
my trees perish right before my eyes!”
“Father, if money is spent, medicines better than your herbal cures
are available; aren’t they? Those who lack that money come to you.”
 Nemalinara / 345

“Then those poor people deserve some help; don’t they?”

The younger one lost his patience. Father repeats the same thing,
despite their best efforts, he thought
“Look Ayya! We have told you this much. Now, it’s your wish.
Whether you go on giving medicines to poor people, or turn your
sons into poor people, it is for you. Think it over. If you are firm,
from tomorrow we would take up bowls and go begging. That would
be our fate.” The younger one talked acerbically.
In two days the matter came to be known to all the people in the
village. Two or three enthusiastic elders in the village purposefully
came to Narayanayya’s home and pronounced their judgments. The
essence of it was –
“Look Narayanayya! What the boys say is also right after all.
Whatever you did in your times it went off well. Without your asking,
provisions enough for a year usual came to your house. Are we living
still in those times? How is it if you say you would do injustice to
your children just for the sake of useless plants and trees? Where
should they go? You are the one who knows Dharmam. Is it not
injustice to say you would not give the share of land to your sons?
Haven’t we not given as per the custom? If you are patient enough,
buy an acre of land somewhere and grow your plants! Grow a forest
if you want! But how is it you grow trees in the middle of the village?
Distributing the land to your sons is justified!”
It is worth noting that among those who advised Narayanayya
thus there are those who sought medical help from him at the middle
of the night.
Narayanayya spent that night without a wink in the eye and
came to a decision “Who can stop the ways of the time?”
Early in the morning, he conveyed his half-acceptance in silence
before the sons who came for his decision. The sons who considered
it as full acceptance jumped into execution.
As a result, in the presence of two or three village elders, the
three divided the land into equal parts and took possession of them.
Saying there is an auspicious muhurtam the very next day, they
started leveling their plots.
There is a drinking water well in the land that came to the elders
share. It has a wide platform around the well, a separate place for
346 / Astitva

washing clothes and a small enclosure made of wicker mats for

bathing very next to it. With all of them, there is enough ground
around the well. If that land has to be used the well must be obliterated
by filling it with debris. Someone told that according to Vastu, the
well would be harmful to the elder one.
The elder one who grew up by drinking water from the same
well at last got ready to fill it up.
“Looks they would fill the well” the words came to
Narayanayya’s ears. The fear was as if none other than his own sons
would bury him alive. He felt hatred for his sons! The words of the
elder son from the day of partitions came to his mind.
“If we have to live in our time, it would not suit to be like you.
When the time comes we may have to dare for any eventuality. These
times are such that if you are soft, everybody would become a victim
of thrashing.”
They would go to any extent when there is a chance to do so.
Like hitting mother’s bosom, they would fill the well from which
they drank water. Is this what the times are teaching them?
Narayanayya felt the time has come when this world would put
soil upon itself and bury self.
Narayanayya was taking bath on the bathing stone next to the
wicker screen on another day. There came a sound of an axe hitting
on the trunk of a tree. Immediately with wet clothes he came out and
saw.
The younger son was cutting Nemalinara tree.
Narayanayya had goose pimples. He went into a tizzy!
“You, young one! Stop! Stop there! Why are you cutting
Nemalinara? What harm has it done to you?” he came with wet clothes
and pulled the axe from his son’s hand.
In the plot that came to the share of the younger one there is this
rare tree, Nemalinara. Just beside it, there is the Kanuga tree. In the
Nemalinara tree that grew under the shadow of Kanuga, it appears
the medicinal value would double up. That is why Narayanayya
planted them in the same place and took care of them.
Nemalinara tree is rarely seen even in the forest. The leaf
concoction of Nemalinara would work wonders for many diseases
that afflict cattle. Giving quick relief to many pains and diseases is its
specialty. Once in a while, Narayanayya uses it for human ailments
too.
 Nemalinara / 347

Tender branches at the end of the Nemalinara stems are turned

into half moon shape like the plume of the peacock. The arrangement
of leaves at that end resembles the pattern of the peacock tail. People
who gave such a name to the tree must be having a great artistic
mind and aesthetics.
“You, younger one! At least spare that Nemalinara! That is a
very good tree, my boy! It would give relief for any disease in a matter
of time! I brought it from afar and reared it. Leave it my boy!” he
pleaded.
“Ayya! You are saying Nemalinara again and again! Look at elder
brother! How well he has leveled his plot of land. He also filled the
well. Cut down curry leaf and pomegranate and all other trees. Now
you are asking me not to cut this tree!”
“No. Pomegranate and curry leaf would be available at any place.
But this Nemalinara would not be available like that. This single tree
is enough! It is half the strength for me! Leave it!”
“Look Ayya! If I leave this as it is, tomorrow children would
move around here. What if a branch comes down falling? Moreover,
it would be situated right in front of my future home. Would it be
good if such a big tree is visible from the main entrance? Then how is
it if you keep saying don’t cut that and don’t cut this? You would find
many such trees!” saying so, he picked the axe that was on the ground
and hit the tree three four times.
Pretending as if not hearing the words of Narayanayya the
younger one brought the Nemalinara tree down soon.
Nemalinara that gave life to many dumb cattle all these years!
Nemalinara so dear to Narayanayya came crashing down with a
sound. Next, the Kanuga tree is in line.
Narayanayya felt extremely anguished.
A feeling crept through his body that along with the tree, the
traditional knowledge and the medicine have come crashing down.
Going into his house Narayanayya closed the door.
In four days the contours of Narayanayya’s residence that was
spread in half an acre completely changed.
Looking at the precincts of his house that turned into a sand
dune of desert, Naraynayya’s heart felt the pinch.
The villagers had not given much importance to this incident.
The youth of the village that has least understanding of the past and
no plans for the future were busy organising rural cricket tournament.
348 / Astitva

But a few elders felt bad. They know what kind of treasure the
coming generation has lost! They made prophecies that not just their
village but the entire world would face ruination.
In fact, even in the remotest villages, at least one person like
Narayanayya would be there. With their traditional knowledge they
are capable of reviving either an animal or a human being or any
creature from the clutches of death. Traditional medical knowledge
that could give relief in minutes with their chitka methods is their
property. They could preserve this wonderful tradition continuing
orally over thousands of years. Thus they have kept it alive till now.
Their greatness is not amenable to recognitions or measurements.
Such greatness is gradually disappearing. How many
Narayanayyas, this transitional time would get rid of?
***
It was past midnight. Narayanayya who was not sleeping well for
many days got up and sat down because of a knocking sound on the
door.
“Who? Who’s that?”
“Ayya! Are you awake? It’s me! Your younger son!”
On hearing the younger son’s voice Narayanayya got up and
opened the door.
“What is the matter? Young one! Why did you come in the
middle of the night?”
“Ayya! Sukkeddu is behaving odd! I don’t know what happened
to it!”
“Is it? Let us go and have a look!”
Father and son came to the cattle shed and saw the sukkeddu in
torch light. It is moving around the peg to which it had been tied. On
seeing Narayanayya it made a sound with pain. On listening to the
sound Narayanayya understood half the problem. He looked at the
hind part of the ox. It was discharging watery dung. There was
dribbling from its mouth. Tears were flowing from its eyes.
“How many days is it like this? Is it eating the fodder and
drinking water properly?”
“Till yesterday it was normal only! Today I drove them into the
land beyond the rivulet. Whatever it ate there?”
“In its hurry to eat tall grass it appears the ox ate snake’s cast
skin. Let us see! Bring it out!”
 Nemalinara / 349

The ox was brought into the front yard and tied down. Unable
to stand, it dropped down. Tall ox thus falling at midnight made the
younger one’s heart sink. The ox was fidgeting on the land. The
younger one’s mind also was in turmoil.
Narayanayya went inside and brought some powder. Mixed it
with water and made the ox drink it with the help of a bamboo tube.
He advised his younger son to keep tapping the hump of the ox with
ridge gourd fibre.
It was about to dawn.
“Nemalinara leaf would have been a good antidote for this
affliction. If the concoction had been administered four times, the ox
would have been cured completely! What to do? I asked you to not
cut that tree but you never heeded my advice!” Narayanayya said
with anguish.
The elder one awoke due to the commotion and saw the
situation. “What is the use of thinking now? Whatever happened has
happened! But now the ox’s life is in danger,” the elder one said.
“Do something Ayya! We four are dependent entirely on the
oxen. They must live and till the land. We must raise the crop! If
something happens to them what would happen to my wife and
children?” there were tears in younger one’s eyes.
For one who trusts mother earth and the farm oxen for food
grains, both of them are equal to their life.
On seeing the grief of the younger one the elder one started to
console him.
“Why do you lose heart? What has happened now? By the hill
side of Rajulagudem, near the Jinkala Orre there are Nemalinara trees!
Our work will be done if we go and bring! What do you say Ayya?”
“That was the matter in the past! Now whether it is still there or
not? Whatever, go and see! Otherwise, I have no trust in other methods
of cure!”
“I shall go and check, Ayya! Keep watch on it till I come back
with Nemalinara,” said the younger one.
“Go, but take some overnight food with you! It is very far off!
Till then, lukewarm jaggery water may be given to the ox,”
Narayanayya told.
The younger one reached Rajulagudem in haste. He asked the
residents there about Nemalinara. They said they do not know. He
350 / Astitva

immediately rushed into the ‘Jinkala Orre’ valley adjoining the hillock.
Many green trees were seen on the slopes of the valley. But Nemalinara
trees were not seen.
The younger one knows Nemalinara tree very well. It was after
all in its shade that he played right from his childhood. Growing up,
he became ‘a man’ in its shade. The one who cut the tree mercilessly
that had given him shade was the same man!
A little away from the valley there were two green trees seen as
a pair. May be they are Nemalinara! Younger one ran towards them
fast. If they are Nemalinara trees he must fill the bag with the leaves
and start for home immediately! Wondered how the ox was. Younger
one came almost near the trees! Nemalinara! Yes! It is Nemalinara!
Yes! Is it the same? Is it? Or is it not? No! It is not! It is not Nemalinara!
Younger one felt as if all the blood in his body got evaporated!
They were both white Maddi Trees! From afar they appear
almost like Nemalinara trees!
There, another green Tree! Could that be! Who knows? Elder
one told that Nemalinara is there here around!
Looking at every tree that appeared green, walking, looking,
and walking the younger one went a long way!
Looking at every green tree he thought it was Nemalinara.
He slumped under a tree. The overnight meal that was brought
turned into a dry cake. He drank water from a bore well.
Sukkeddu was moving in his eyes! If anything happens to it
how do their lives go on? Recently he bought some more land on
lease and paid the sum taking loan. He felt that this time he can raise
better yield. But whatever happened broke his support system. Now,
is buying another ox as easy as words?
The younger one felt so angry with himself he felt like cutting
his hands that cut down Nemalinara.
Disheartened, he started for home.
At dusk he reached home exhausted.
The ox that recognized the body smell and the sound of feet of
the younger one from afar got up and stood with difficulty.
He felt as if the ox asked him whether Nemalinara was found.
There were tears coming from its eyes. The younger one felt as if his
heart was pierced.
“Did you find Nemalinara?” Narayanayya asked with anxiety.
 Nemalinara / 351

“Ayya! It is not found! Went all around the forest! Nowhere could
it be found!”
“Oh! Not found? Let us see! Now whatever is bound to happen,
would happen!”
On hearing those words the younger one slipped along the cart
wheel there and sat down. The ox also was looking at him with lost
hopes.
The younger one was able to see the empty place where he has
cut Nemalinara tree. ‘If only some deity had excused and shown
mercy on him, and Nemalinara had grown again, how good it would
have been?’ The younger one started praying to all the known gods.
But are these the times where such miracles happen? With his
own sinful hands he cut the tree off! Cutting the branches into pieces,
he shoved in the hearth. Remaining pieces were still lying there in
four bundles. In the semi darkness the Nemalinara bundles were
appearing like bundles of poisonous snakes! He thought he should
throw the bundles away the next day!
Behind the bundles of sticks something green appeared to
younger one. What it was not known.
On seeing after rubbing his eyes they appeared like leaves of
Nemalinara. ‘Since I have been looking for Nemalinara all the while,
everything appears like that plant” he scolded himself for his illusion.
But on looking carefully it became clear that it was not illusion
at all. He went fast there and had a look! That was a tender twig of
Nemalinara! At the end of it a bunch of green leaves!
He moved the bundles aside and looked. Two more tender
shoots were growing from the stump that he left after cutting the tree
– and fresh leaves at their ends!
That was the time the traditional medicinal knowledge that was
thought to have been buried away came up breaking the ground open!
“Ayya! Oh Ayya! Come quickly! Nemalinara! It’s Nemalinara!”
With the shouting of the younger one all came running including
Narayanayya.
“Ayya, Nemalinara is there! It is still alive! Look how it is
growing!” his happiness knew no bounds.
Narayanayya came wondering and saw.
“Enough. Think that your sukkeddu recovered! Nemalinara never
died! It is still alive!” said Narayanayya with passion.
352 / Astitva

True! Nemalinara never died. Even if someone cut it off, it is

coming up again breaking open the ground at some point or the other.
It would continue to do so. Anytime, a Narayanayya would be there
to draw water from his well and provide it to the plant nurturing and
making it grow!

“Nemali Naara”
2005 Translated by K. B. Gopalam
 The Virtual World

Kasturi Murali Krishna

Aengim, the fourteen year old boy, looked agitated. Feeling stressed.
Somebody was sending threatening messages to him. They were
warning they would kill him. In spite of making several efforts, he
could not trace where from these messages were coming. He sought
the help of Wreem, a Virtual Detective.
Yet his fear hasn’t diminished. He had heard of such threatening
calls from his friends earlier. In Interactive Virtual Games, people
can play the characters of the game from outside. Virtual Reality is a
magic world. A person physically stays before his computer but he
involves emotionally in the game as one of the characters. Now-a-
days, the virtual online games have become very popular the world
over. The main reason for this phenomenon is that the desires and
passions of the peoples’ subconscious are being fulfilled by these
games. In the past, people tended to gratify their play of emotions
through other actors’ enactment of roles in the visual medium. They
used to empathise with the characters. Dramas and cinemas as such,
became vehicles for people to journey into a dream world. But the
virtual games have surpassed all other art forms. These virtual games
are of various kinds. But one thing common in all these games is that
the spectators don the roles of characters. They can choose and play
a character and can continue to live that.
354 / Astitva

Then there is no dearth of adventurous games. There will be a

treasure hidden in a mansion and the players are challenged to find
it. In this game of treasure hunt, players across the world can play by
paying the required fee. One can choose his character and become it.
They can form into groups and fight with opponents to find the
treasure.
In fact, those who are not acquainted with one another, with
their places not known to others, play these games at the cost of their
lives. Although sociologists mention this might lead to social
camaraderie among the people, there are many unforeseen
eventualities and perils in these games. Those in the same group
become friends, but those in the opposite group are turning into bitter
foes. In these online games, the ones who are defeated, unable to
bear the humiliation are going after their rivals in order to kill them
in real life. Scientists have named such online violence as PK (Player
Killing). As a result of this, Virtual Detectives have emerged to save
the players from such real life player killings. There also emerged
virtual mercenaries who could be hired to kill one’s rivals on payment.
Aengim knows all this. That’s why he was panicked and could not
concentrate on the Win Chow virtual game.
He tried to recollect the previous games that he had played.
‘Had he defeated anybody? Killed anyone in the game?’ He couldn’t
remember at all.
Suddenly he remembered that he has to meet Judy. Looked at
his watch. Five minutes left. While his mind was diverted, the Win
Chow had cut his throat.
The game has now finished, he immediately opened the space
of Judy online. Judy is a virtual person, an illusion. But nobody
believed it looking at her charisma.
In addition, as the knowledge of Virtual Technology had
developed she looked real notwithstanding her imaginary form. As
billions of people across the world competed to spend time with her,
the company that created her had earned, in a way, authority over
the world. The waiting list for her company had crossed years. Though
there were many virtual persons online, the demand for Judy never
diminished, on the other, constantly on the rise. There is Judy on
screen. Aengim lost everything looking at her online.
***
 The Virtual World / 355

“Your time is over. Book me online for another appearance,” said

Judy teasingly. His heart ached with longing.
It is always like that with Judy. The time spent with Judy flies
away just like that. Heart brims with ecstasy. Rather than the person,
it is the experience that remains. But Judy is nonchalant and she does
not feel attached with anybody. There is no sense of belonging.
She speaks adorably as long as she is permitted online. Later
forgets everything, speaks charmingly with others in the same manner.
Aengim couldn’t forget her and waits for his turn to meet Judy.
He longs for her company. Spends his time reminiscing about her.
Though Judy is an illusion, billions of people continue to
maintain relationship with her. Aengim knows that he is one of them.
But ... Judy has gone now! Aengim felt a void in his world. The
virtual screen appeared, blinked at him. Sent a request to meet Judy
again. ‘Your number is 14167. Very soon you will get the information.’
A sudden flash of hope in him.
The company has planned a scheme to meet Judy personally on
the demand of the persons who are not satisfied with online virtual
acquaintance. Must register oneself by paying a fee. The company
will inform the person when his turn comes up so that he could meet
Judy in person. ‘He should meet Judy personally at least once in his
life. He could see her physically. Judy stands before me and I can see
into her eyes in reality.’
Aengim is unsteady ... thinking about Judy makes him nervous.
There is hardly a moment that he had not thought of her. Then he got
intimation about a message on his screen.
Got a chance to meet Judy, luckily so early! Frantically he looked
at the screen. But Aengim was frightened looking at the words on the
monitor.
“Judy is mine ... . If you go after her ... That’s it ...” Aengim slid
the keyboard into the mobile. His body started shivering!
Nowadays Virtual Technology has developed so much that the
keyboards could be inserted in a mobile. The keyboard itself is a
virtual one. The infrared rays in the mobile exhibits shape of the
keyboard. The movement of the fingers is perceived by the rays, and
grasps the matter typed on the computer. Soon after the work, if the
infrared light is put out, the keyboard will slide into the mobile. But
356 / Astitva

Aengim is not in a mood to acknowledge the development of

technology. He is haunted by the threatening calls.
‘So all these warnings are not owing to the virtual game, but it
is because of Judy’ Aengim thought in himself. ‘Will these threats
will stop here ... or lead to PK?’ Aengim came out of his room. Looked
into his parents’ room. As usual, they are playing ‘Happy Family’ an
online interactive game.
Aengim’s father is transformed into a twenty year old young
man while playing the game. His mother turned into a lady of the
opponent’s family. Both sat by the side of each other. But in the virtual
game they are different persons. Different worlds ... .! Different
experiences ... .!
Aengim knows that they are not in a mood to speak, even if he
tried to talk to them, they are not in a position to understand his
problem. With the immense popularity of virtual online games even
the government has ignored public interest. The virtual companies
are now controlling the lives of people. Once, parents used to worry
day and night about the future of their children. Now there is no
trace of such concern among them. No need to worry about their
future. They are deeply immersed in their virtual game and the
characters that they are associated with.
Peeped into his maternal grandparents’ room. They too are busy
playing interactive game. His grandmother must have failed in her
love affair, and she was weeping. In the other room, his paternal
grandparents are in a similar condition. Aengim felt like going crazy.
He wanted to share his sadness with someone. But nobody cares
here about him. Everybody lives in one’s own world. Aengim returned
to his room. No use. Somehow, had to share his pain with someone.
He opened the site of virtual site counselor. But he is not interested
in it. He wants to talk to Judy. In this world nobody except Judy can
provide a remedy for his suffering. But it’s not easy to meet Judy.
Must wait for his turn and Judy should spare her time too. He tried
to console himself by letting his feelings to other virtual ladies.
But other than Judy everyone looked artificial. Uttering “Judy
... Judy ... Aengim went to the virtual chatting room. ‘There, he might
meet somebody like him’ hoped Aengim.
Meanwhile there appeared a warning again on the screen.
 The Virtual World / 357

“You are not listening to my words. Judy is mine. If you think

about her, you will be finished ...” Seeing this Aengim had a shiver
run through his back. Immediately, he moved to the chatting room.
The room was full with customers. Most of them were aged just
between five and fifteen. Their topic was Judy. Aengim knows that
he cannot share his feelings with anyone there. Those who threatened
him might be among them. So he came out. He started playing another
virtual game to forget his worries.
In that game Aengim became an energetic and adventurous
warrior annihilating his enemies. Everybody looked afraid of his
character in the game.
Now he felt proud of himself. He felt satisfied while killing his
opponents in the game. Felt a kind of revenge.
Suddenly there flashed a message much to his joy.
“Judy will meet you. As the person who had booked an
appointment with Judy did not turn up, you will get opportunity.
Don’t leave the chance. Pay the fees immediately to own Judy.”
Aengim felt ecstatic.
He forgot that Judy was a virtual person. He only concentrated
on paying the fee. Only a few minutes left. Ran swiftly towards the
bubble room. He knows where the money is stashed in their home.
Once they used to compare life with a bubble that vanishes in seconds.
But now the scientists have created bubble cement which remains
stable for years. The money was stored secretly under these in the
bubble room. Aengim took enough money from there. He wanted to
inform his parents but they were quite busy with their online game.
They won’t come outside unless they too wanted money to pay for
such virtual games. First, he had to meet Judy. He kept the money
before the computer and it disappeared instantly. Credited to the
company account. The message flashed on the screen.
“Congrats ... Judy will meet you at table No. 15 in virtual palace
from 5 pm to 5.15 pm. Must come in time and leave in time. Judy has
got several other appointments. As soon as your time is finished, do
not plead for few more minutes. If so, you will not be allowed to get
Judy’s appointment in future. Your name will be deleted from Judy’s
friends list.”
Aengim has read it quickly. His heart was filled with joy. Fifteen
minutes with Judy. Felt his life was fulfilled.
358 / Astitva

Waited for long for these fifteen minutes with Judy. He knows
that meeting her only for fifteen minutes would not satisfy him at all.
But if he pleaded with her to wait for few more minutes, everything
would be spoiled. So he should not beseech her.
Aengim succeeded in convincing himself. Yet he felt wearied to
step out from his room. All the roads were busy crowds. At any given
time, there would be fifty thousand people on the road. Sometimes,
even these roads tend to be man-locked. At that time they are forced
to stay still for many hours. Therefore, the vehicles now are plying in
the sky.
The skyways are hundred feet above the pathways. These
flyovers stretch up to hundreds of miles. But to go out in a vehicle,
one needs to register the reason for travel and the destination. Aengim
was not interested in revealing the purpose of why he was going. So
he decided to walk.
He took his mobile. If need be he can play virtual games. Came
out quickly. Aengim felt as though a deaf man has heard the
thunderous roar of the ocean. The stream of people was moving on
the road with hoary noise. The sound of their movement was like
that of an earthquake. They are all in a hurry. It was not walking,
rather it was more like floating on the currents. Aengim too became a
part of the flow. He paced his speed with that of the crowd. If there
was any slowing down, the crowd behind shoved him forward. If
balance is lost and fell down ... nobody would stop ... could not afford.
Aengim in the crowd felt as if someone from the back was chasing
him. But who would chase anybody in this rush of crowd? Somehow,
Aengim felt it still.
At a turn which Aengim has to take he simply turned towards
the direction and he surged forth along with the crowd. He saw the
twinkling lights of the virtual palace at a distance. Aengims’ heart
started throbbing fast. He had only observed Judy as an illusion on
the virtual space. Now he was going to see her in real life ... by his
side. He looked at his image in the mirror as soon as he entered the
palace. In those days, it was said, children of his age used to
concentrate on studies. Used to make fun of girls. But now even two
year olds are aware of sex. At five they were discussing sex. Then
losing interest in girls, they are absorbed in virtual world. He is also
like that. Once again looked at his image in the mirror and walked
towards the allotted table. Most of the people at these tables were
 The Virtual World / 359

doing transactions in virtual world. It was difficult to differentiate

the real from the virtual world. The boundaries between the two are
blurred. Aengim reached his table in excitement. Five people
surrounded him as he was going to occupy his chair.
“Who is that?” Aengim asked nervously.
“You want to meet Judy”? asked one of them.
Aengim nodded his head. He understood the matter clearly.
They are the virtual criminals of PK game.
They opened their weapons. Aengim understood. Somebody
wanted to meet Judy, he could not wait further, so want to kill him
desperately. If he missed the opportunity, the next one can take the
chance of meeting Judy. And he could meet Judy fifteen minutes
before his allotted time. They started dragging Aengim from the table.
From behind, a five year old boy came to the table and sat where
Aengim should have been. He smiled wryly at Aengim. Though, they
dragged Aengim like an animal from there, nobody cared for him.
What is virtual and what is real ... nobody knows here.
Though he was scared and sad, Aengim looked at the table. His
eyes glittered. There stood Judy. He was happy he could see Judy in
his last moments. His life fulfilled. He filled his eyes with the beautiful
form of Judy.
Virtual goondas attacked Aengim. As the world disappeared
before him, only a fleeting thought in him ... would Judy ever come
to know there was someone like him.
Would virtual world realise truth? Could illusion be
appropriated in reality?
***
“This is all the conspiracy of a rival organisation. These virtual games
are played by two to eighteen year olds. They were all being killed in
a systematic way. Already the number of young men and women is
on the decline. If the rest of the people are killed like this, our
customers number would also decrease. Then we might go bankrupt.”
The MD of Illusion organization informed sadly.
“There is a steady increase of violence among children. Yesterday
a fourteen year old boy was killed. Later a five year old boy was
attacked. The perpetrators are found to be below nine year old
children. How this situation could be controlled is not known,” said
the Manager of the organization.
360 / Astitva

Meanwhile the officer from the creative department rushed into

the discussion room.
“I have created another virtual beauty to beat Judy. Come and
see. Those who see her would certainly go crazy. Now the reign of
Judy will come to an end.” Saying this, he exhibited the virtual person
that he has created.
Everybody was mesmerized on seeing her. Such was her beauty.
Now everybody kept aide the issue of controlling violence
among the children and started discussing the strategies to market
and promote their new ‘virtual beauty.’

“Maya Prapancham”
2006 Translated by N. Ramesh Chandra Shrikanth
 Categorical Imperative

Adepu Laxmipathi

“Why so much delay?” Sakuntala asked, receiving the packet from

my hands. In the packed open-air theatre, the hustle and bustle during
intermission rose to a crescendo that felt like shower of sparks. My
whole body was drenched in profuse sweat.
“The programmes commenced here rather late,” Kannadu
informed. “Your general manager and other officers delivered
speeches quickly, and left the place. Was there some accident in the
factory?”
They do occur now and then. Several causes are there. “Did
they make any announcement about me?” I asked.
Sakuntala looked into my face for a moment. “No. Rather, I
wanted to make an announcement half an hour ago.” She giggled
teasingly. “Anupama has taken all the costumes. But she forgot to
carry the white ribbons. I waited for you to hand them over to her.
You are neither at home nor outside. Finally, Kannadu took them
and handed over in the greenroom.”
“Yes, Akka is so beautiful and looking different in makeup,
Nanna! She will certainly get a prize in this play,” Kannadu informed
affectionately.
Lights were switched off in the theatre. As the flood lights spread
illumination, saffron coloured silk curtains created an illusion of the
362 / Astitva

stage turning into a rectangle saturated in red flames. A lady

compering the programme emerged through the curtains like thin
water jet and announced that the next item was a one act play titled
“The Last War” to be enacted by high school students.
She started narrating the theme briefly. “If there were to be a
third world war caused by racial and religious prejudices in which
various countries employ devastating nuclear arms, bio-chemical
ammunition against one another, at the end what survives on the
earth after the catastrophe? How would be the situation then?”
I decided not to listen to anymore words related to the
programme. I began contemplating with closed eyes. In human life
every step is a battle field. Continuous conflict between aspirations
and ambitions. A sharp clash between exhortation of the conscience
and temptations in one’s career.
“Samosas are so tasty and crisp. From which hotel did you get
them? Would you like to have a nibble?” One more samosa was sliced
between Sakuntala’s strong jaws. Kannadu was crushing spicy
doughnuts with his tender teeth. I turned my face suddenly. In my
facial structure of bones a rough grinding wheel started rapidly
rotating, cutting across the tissues creating painful internal music
once again.
After taking two gulps of water quickly Sakuntala stretched her
hand with water bottle towards me. I declined it. Terrible pain as
though a live coal rolling on my tongue scorched my jaws and
cranium. With my hands supporting my neck, I tried to sit in a relaxed
posture stretching my legs.
“When is your next appointment with the doctor?” Sakuntala
asked.
***
The walls reflected bright from the tube lights inside the room. Marble
flooring was so smooth. Thick green curtains were fluttering in the
air dispersed by fans. Through them were visible rooms, names of
departments and doctors. Despite the smell spread by disinfectants
and delicate perfumes, a sort of stale, pungent foul-smell common
near cattle sheds was wafting as gentle waves mixed with vapourised
spirit sprays. Some channel was showing wild life details on the T.V.
Stationed in a corner where water filter stood. There was a close-up
shot—long, open jaws with sharp knife like canines; grasping the
 Categorical Imperative / 363

hind part of a bison, a crocodile dragged it into the water. Distressed

and shocked, the bison struggled for a while and finally succumbed.
Stream of blood blended with the flowing water. I turned my head
and clenched my teeth.
“You are the next patient, Sir,” informed the lady at the
registration counter.
I moved, turned to the right and stepped into a spacious room.
Nodding his head with a smile the senior dentist showed the seat,
adjusting his mask and white coat. I sank into the dentist chair and
opened my mouth. With a torch light focused on my teeth, he gently
touched with his tools and struck on my teeth. He elicited information
as to how long I had been experiencing the pain, at which spot, along
with my habits and professional details. An x-ray of lower incisors
was taken. After fifteen minutes, examining the film he asked me,
“has anyone struck you with force?”
I could not understand. I spit into the tray and countered, “What
do you mean?”
“I mean,” gently smiled the dentist. “Was there any painful
blow?”
I tried to recollect, it was hazy. I nodded my head unable to
recall any such incident.
“Probably you might not have remembered. No need to attempt
recollecting it now.” The doctor said with an abiding smile.
“This is known as ‘Resorption.’ It happens when one trips
knocking a door frame or being hit by a rod or stump, or when a
punch lands culminating in a strong blow above the chin. As a result
the roots of incisors get detached.”
A lady patient who arrived earlier was seated in another chair.
A young dentist, who examined her teeth, pushed the injection needle
into her lower jaw, maybe as a part of protocol. She whined like a
sheep whose neck was chopped. My heartbeat increased and nerves
in my neck pained.
“My problem started just from day before yesterday doctor!” I
said.
“That’s ok. The blow and bruise you got in childhood have
healed. But the blood clot within, along with bacteria formed a cyst
now. It destroys roots of your tooth. Now, the problem is manifestation
of that only.”
364 / Astitva

“What is to be done now?”

“Don’t be scared. No need for tooth extraction. I will start root
canal treatment for the four teeth. Afterwards I will fix crowns there.
You may have to attend five or six sittings regularly,” the dentist had
advised.
***
“He prescribed antibiotics and pain relieving medicines. Asked me
to meet him the next day. That means, today’s first sitting is missed
by me,” I said.
“Let it be. You may visit him regularly from tomorrow,”
Sakuntala said. “I think the pain might have subsided slightly. How
can you be like that without eating at least a little quantity of food?”
“It can wait. Just don’t bother.”
“Ok. I will leave two samosas with Kannadu. Otherwise I may
be tempted to eat them all. So tasty they are” Sakuntala said as she
was turning towards Kannadu.
Gazing at the stars I started wondering how an item on cooking
acquires good flavor and taste. How does a pleasant form gain some
shape? How does a work of art assume beauty and artistic appeal?
At the far end of the shopping complex, near the Kanuga tree,
there is a small restaurant always shrouded in veils of transparent
smoke. Beneath the fan hanging from the ceiling of the shed there
was an endless extension of customers’ congregation. It was like light
insects flocking at night in rainy season and winter. That young waiter
with curly hair, who handled all orders as though extracting from an
inexhaustible vessel; the proprietor wearing wooly cap who bent over
the counter and spoke in docile manner like a cow; a huge black
cauldron with boiling oil perched on a hearth with soaring flames
fixed on a cooking platform occupying half of the pavement. The
cook without moustache who skillfully fried samosas, ‘bajjis’ without
an expression, listening to Begum Akhtar’s ghazal on a tape recorder
“Is darja badgumaan hain khulusse bashar se hum/
Apnon ko dekhte hain paraayi nazar se hum” was seated behind a soot
coated iron sheet erected to block passage of air from outside. It looked
as though it was the world in which he lived in the company of
scorching heat and boiling sweat. If there is any miracle in the
restaurant, it was precisely practicing the principle that when a task
is rendered with body and mind functioning in tandem, invariably it
leads to success.
 Categorical Imperative / 365

In a book with blue black cover page—title of the text I am unable

to recall, in the fifth paragraph in page number one hundred and
sixty there were a few sentences underlined by marker pen under
the subtitle “The Prophet on Work”:
‘What is labour of love? Weaving a fabric with the yarn drawn
from your soul for your beloved to be wrapped in; raising a structure
with utmost affection meant for your soul mate to dwell there; sowing
with affection, harvesting heartily as though your lady love is going
to eat those fruits. Breathing your spirit into whatever work you take
up and giving shape to it. Further ... it is realizing that the dear
departed are watching you in action, standing by your side!’
“Oyi! Looks as if you are in a trance ...” Sakuntala gently nudged
me with her elbow. “Pray for our Anu to get the prize!”
Nodding my head, I tried to smile. Only when action, costumes,
dialogue delivery, slipping into the character are blended a
performance acquires perfection. Leaving apart the aspect of bagging
a prize, there was no doubt that Anupama worked hard. Not for
nothing the elders exhorted, “As you sow, so you reap.” Virtue of a
valiant person lies in exploring and succeeding in his task.
The lights were switched off. Darkness enveloped the theatre.
When I took charge as the Shift Engineer, there was a chaotic
situation once during the night shift, as the plant that was running
smoothly till then with all parameters meant for maximizing
production being met meticulously, power tripped suddenly. Owing
to technical snag emergency lights could not be switched on resulting
in pitch darkness; roar of boilers, reactors, turbines, automatic
controlling valves, safety valves. With the available torch lights
operators, chargemen ran into different fields. Handling ringing
phones, foremen loudly responded. Suddenly spiraling levels of
pungent smell of ammonia; terrible pollution damaging throats and
nostrils. How to locate the leaking one among twenty-two safety
valves in the refrigeration section? Who would climb in the darkness
those four platforms to locate it? If one starts pondering on
possibilities things might go out of control.
Such were the crucial moments then. Having decided to order
staff in the plant to run to safer zone and request fire services for rescue
and relief operations I took the phone to contact the Chief Engineer.
“Kindly don’t take any decision now. Just wait for fifteen
minutes. Exactly fifteen minutes,” shouted the Foreman Abbas Ali
and ran into the field taking oxygen mask from the safety rack.
366 / Astitva

I was enraged at the risk he was taking. A sort of fear too gripped
me. Anxiety on all faces was conspicuous. Exactly after twenty
minutes Abbas Ali stepped in and slouched in the control room.
Throwing the spanner on the table he informed in utter exhaustion:
“Only when there is frost on pipe line one can locate the
malfunctioning valve! I gagged the safety valve on absorber tower!”
“Who did the makeup for children, so nice it is! How well they
are delivering the dialogues! Wow! Look there!” Sakuntala loudly
said like a child.
I turned my attention towards the stage. The play had started.
The setting was excellently arranged. A forest scene—trees, shrubs,
small elevated places, a pair of lions, horse, monkey, a cobra, a microbe
assembled there.
Cobra: He is envious—listen! He was overwhelmed by jealously
and ill-will. Hence, he was ruined.
Lioness: All such people ganged up ...
Lion: The blacks, the whites, the red coloured and yellow
coloured ones.
Horse: Long ago they eliminated the red coloured ones. It was a
horrendous phase. That is the prologue for these men’s fall.
Lioness: I think the white people are most cruel ones.
Chorus: Well said!
Cobra: They enslaved the blacks. Instigated the yellow coloured
folks. Hence, this last war. Final purgation!
Horse: At least the whites should have been united. But they
were not!
Cobra: They cannot. Human beings can never be together. Their
perception of life is natural conflict. They have forsaken and forgotten
humanity. Trusted the sword and were terminated by it.
Horse: Do you know how those men classify themselves? One
is a German, another a French person, some other is an Englishman,
then the Turk.
Cobra: All self-acquired titles.
“What a performance!” I exclaimed unintentionally.
“Who are you talking about? Anu has not yet entered the stage,”
Sakuntala informed me.
“That horse faced one, and his boss ...”
***
 Categorical Imperative / 367

Pushing the swing doors, Deputy Chief Engineer Varma who was
profusely sweating, entered the office room and sank into his seat
and kept his helmet on the table. Quickly freeing himself from the
cervical collar, he tilted his head, neighed like a horse and drank water
in a tumbler. I felt as if I was sitting on a throne of thorns. Staring into
my eyes he asked, “Are the parameters in the plant ok?”
I nodded affirmatively. But I had a nagging apprehension. It
was lunch time for morning shift employees. Despite many cautions
taken, if a foreman is slightly negligent, if there is any malfunctioning
in the control room, there would be a fall in production. Just one
more hour was left for the shift to conclude. Entries were not yet
made in the logbook. What was the intention in summoning me to
meet him for a talk on an important issue for about ten minutes?
“I have returned from the Chief Engineer’s chamber. He grilled
me for half an hour. It is all because of you,” he said with emphasis
on the last word.
Numerous thoughts swirled in my mind for a moment. I moved
forward in my seat and asked, “What is the issue you are talking
about now?”
A pungent, revolting smell on account of oil, grease, ammonia
printed diagrams was palpable profusely in that room. Steam under
increased pressure bellowed blending with air blowing over the
Compressor House. A sudden draught of cold air from the cooling
tower carried the stench of moss along with gentle spray of water.
“Yes, I will tell you!” Verma said pressing the bell and ordered
for an office file marked “Confidential” which was brought by the
stenographer in the office. He gestured him to go away. The doors of
the room were closed.
“There was a discussion yesterday in the Chief Engineer’s office,
regarding the assessment of forthcoming promotions in the next
quarter. We have examined the points presented by personnel and
engineering departments. It was noticed that there are four vacancies
for the post of project engineers in our department. ‘Reserved-senior-
senior-merit’—in this order vacancies are to be filled. The first three
are very clear as to who should be promoted. But the fourth one ‘Z’
in the merit list looked problematic.”
“Are confidential reports of all foremen from all plants not yet
received?”
368 / Astitva

“We received them. Hence, this discussion,” Verma took out a

sheet of paper from the file.
Holding it in his raised arm he said, “This is from the confidential
reports you wrote about group ‘C’ employees under your control in
our plant. Among those who qualify for promotion—see this—this
person tops the list on account of merit.”
I took the sheet and glanced at the name of the employee.
Examined it thoroughly. That person topped the list on account of his
punctuality, obedience, knowledge, analytical ability, initiative needed
to handle risk, leadership qualities—in all these aspects he got better
remarks than ‘satisfactory.’ In other words, ‘far better’ than others.
“He deserves it. He is really fit for promotion,” I said firmly.
Deputy Chief Verma’s face turned red with rage.
“We cannot just take into account the traditionally followed,
officially approved parameters alone for determining the qualification
of a person for promotion to crucial position.” He stood up.
“Look Mr. Mouli! We won several shields for our performance
in safety aspects, productivity, cleanliness of environment ... if this is
to continue, our subordinates, colleagues need to be trustworthy
people. Our chemical factory is the biggest one in the country. Our
products are quite vital ones. Hence I want to ask—can we sleep in
comfort after offering key positions to those who jump with joy and
distribute sweets whenever Pakistan wins a cricket match?”
It was a little ambiguous issue for me to understand.
“Ours is a secular state sir! One should not think so!” I said
raising my head.
Verma turned the revolving chair in a huff.
“Secular state! Did I deny? My view—or rather the views of all
the higher officials who attended the meeting yesterday—is also—in
simple, straight terms I am communicating. Listen carefully. While
offering promotion to higher levels, unofficially at least, one should
take into account patriotism too!”
“That is improper, inappropriate and illogical also!”
The deputy raised his voice.
“Mouli! You have Utopian ideas. Learn to think pragmatically.
In view of increasing incidents of terrorism across the country, in
most of the departments this method is followed quietly to ward off
impending danger. It is a fact. In America, European countries too
 Categorical Imperative / 369

they are being profiled. In appointments, flights they are viewed

critically in terms of safety. Do you understand?”
The fan gained speed, temperature in the room dropped, I felt
weak. My energy seemed to have evaporated through my eyes and
ears. Hunger gripped me at once.
“Ok, Sir! What should I do now?”
“That’s good!” he said and took a sheet of paper and a couple of
pink coloured envelopes. He pushed the sheet towards me.
“Look! Rewrite the confidential reports so as to help this man
get ‘Z’ grade. Very simple!”
The moment I saw the name, I got creeps.
“This man? A reckless fellow!” I declared with annoyance.
“He is a member of temple committee. In the welfare council
too, a member. Excellent orator. If there is any problem with the
workers’ union in future, he is capable of defending us. Above all, he
is a relation of one of our superior officials. What more qualifications
are needed, tell me?”
Verma lowered his voice and told me, “Nothing to lose. Let us
repeat the refrain of their song!”
I felt that I should not sit there anymore.
“It’s fine! Let us finalise tomorrow,” I said and got up.
“O.K. You can take a day or two. But ...” looking straight into
my eyes Verma said, “you may have to meet the Chief Engineer once.”
***
The play was going on captivatingly. Silence reigned supreme in the
theatre as a mark of the intense involvement of the audience with the
proceedings on the stage. Claps from the school children disrupted
it occasionally.
Cobra: Who will enforce the conviction handed out by the court?
Lioness: You microbe! You do it.
Microbe: I am fed up with eliminating people. Look for someone
else.
Lion: I will do to the job. In one stroke with my paw!
Lioness: Don’t be so cruel my dear..!
I felt quite uneasy. Turned my attention from the stage. Suddenly
I could locate VIP enclosure. In the front row unoccupied earlier,
now I saw the Chief Engineer and his spouse.
I stood up suddenly.
“When did they occupy their seats?”
370 / Astitva

Looking at the place pointed by my finger, Kannadu responded

“those people ... that uncle with bald head and aunty with henna
dyed hair! Then itself, before the play commenced they went this
way, Nanna!”
Chief Engineer Bhargava was stalking me like Nakshatraka from
the restaurant in the shopping centre. To avoid him, sneaking under
shadows, across dark alleys, I reached the theatre increasing my pace.
It was all in vain! He might have seen me. Instead of red blood
corpuscles, boiling iron filings seemed to be coursing through my
veins and struck me with a silent roar.
“You said that you applied for a leave on medical grounds. Can’t
you sit steadily?” Sakuntala said impatiently.
***
It was Chief Engineer’s office. Around four o’clock in the evening.
The air conditioner functioning with full capacity made me feel
uncomfortable. At the other end of the table was seated Industrial
Engineer, Kashyap. At one end was the Personnel Manager Vamana
Rao. I sat facing him. Attender came inside and served tea and biscuits.
Sipping tea, Bhargava looked at me.
“What is your problem, Mouli? You requested for leave for a
couple of days. I’ve seen the application just now.” I told him the
reason. I left some tea in the cup.“ ... I see!” Bhargava looked at me
thoughtfully. “Granted,” he said.
Withdrawing his elbows from the table, Kashyap took out the
file. “When you were in-charge of Pollution Control Cell on
deputation, all the suggestions, guidelines, case studies offered are
in this file. Have a look, Mr Mouli!” he told me.
I took the file and noted the title “Pollution Control Yojana—
Case Study 2005.” I turned the pages. Forty two sheep died. Photos
of their carcasses published in newspapers, news item clippings with
headlines ‘Management of Industry lets out polluted waters into the
pond of neighbouring village irresponsibly resulting in casualties,’
memos issued by Government Pollution Board, their finding that it
was Dichromate Poisoning, enquiry, explanation, compensation
details, an annexure with steps to be taken by the industry ... all were
there.
Apprehensions, doubts gripped me. “Why digging out this case
now, sir?” I asked.
 Categorical Imperative / 371

“The Central Office asked for the details of this case. In a concise
form, it will be printed as a bulletin and circulated internally among
all units,” Kashyap divulged.
“But, it is not yet finalized whether to send the file as it is or
screen it incorporating only your suggestions and guidelines part!”
Bhargava smiled conveying multiple meanings.
Was it meant to help me or sabotage my career or a conspiracy to
fix me in a controversy? Double edged knife it was. I could not
understand whether there was any need to dig out and dust the file. A
chill ran down my spine. Unable to decide what to do, I turned towards
the window. At a distance of half a furlong, on the other side of the
road in the central workshop one could witness through the grills of
the gate the ongoing work of welding, grinding and forging in the
background of dazzling sparks of fire flying around and the rhythmic
hammering on the anvils. My head was sizzling like a furnace.
“For the present let us close the file. We can think of it later,
Kashyap!” Bhargava tried to change the topic. He took out a book
from the drawer of the table and showing it to all asked Vamana Rao,
“If an employee on duty is found reading a book or playing chess,
what action can the management initiate, tell me Rao garu!”
“As per the standing orders it is tantamount to negligence of
duty. Memo can be issued or warning may be given orally, some action
can be initiated against the employee,” said Vamana Rao.
Bhargava turned his attention towards me. “Quite coincidental.
When I was returning yesterday evening along Cold Box, after
checking maintenance works on Argan Filling Section, near the
turbine I found this book on a foreman’s desk. Do you know who
was there on duty? The person who would get promotion to ‘Z’ post
based on your recommendation.”
I knew it was not a major offence. I opened the book and found
that it was a book of philosophy. Good poetry, captivating. I could
not resist my temptation to read some lines at random. I wanted to
convey my view to the Chief. But he could read me.
“Look, Mouli! One may ignore if it is a technical book or a sort
of ‘Discovery of India.’ But this was scripted by a Lebanese
philosopher. How to know what kind of fundamentalist doctrines
are documented? So, we must be very careful ... I leave it to your
discretion as to the action you may initiate. Speak with Mr. Verma.
Ok? Now you may go,” said the Chief.
***
372 / Astitva

Sakuntala was totally involved in watching the play and laughed

heartily. I stretched my hand for the bottle of water. Kannadu tried to
give me a packet of samosas.
I declined. Terrible hunger. Energy drained. But I was scared of
eating. A sort of grief on separation from dear ones. Dismay in the
core on account of discontent and unrest. Can’t I do anything? Am I
such coward? Sipping a little water focused my attention on the stage.
I was able to follow the play. Animal kingdom was overjoyed as
humankind became extinct on Earth. As the dog informed that scent
of man was discernible from a far place they were alerted. Lion was
ready to exterminate the remaining traces. He sent the monkey to
confirm such existence. Angel advised them not to take any action
till he saw him with his eyes.
Monkey: Hey! There he comes! Finish him!
The student who donned the monkey’s role was acting extremely
well. Very agile, bouncy. The character was so designed. At times on
all the four legs, at times on two legs he had to walk, jump, play
around, sing and perform acrobatics.
How delightful were those days. A phase that knew no
responsibilities or burdens. In my childhood, when we were wearing
knickers ... that wretched fellow ... Salim used to bounce around just
like this. Where is he now? A black and white sheet of paper dusted
itself from the archives of my memories.
***
Tightening his lips, holding books firmly Salim took a long stride
and like child Hanuman leapt across the farm canal, six feet wide,
and landed miraculously safe on the bank. His friends, who failed in
their earlier attempts wiped out the slush and grains of sand from
their clothes and congratulated him. I was piqued to the extreme.
Looking at them carelessly I took two long strides and lunged forward.
Landing on the edge of the bank in the slush and water, I tripped and
balanced myself holding Salim’s shoulder. As both of us fell on sand
everyone had a hearty laughter.
“Good! You can cross the channel, if you try once again, Mouli!”
Salim said encouragingly as he flipped the pages of a wet book.
“These circus feats are not for us. If we break our limbs,
punishment awaits at home,” Ramesh said.
 Categorical Imperative / 373

“This guy tops in studies, also in games. Where from did you
get this strength?” Sivananda started punching on the back of Salim
in good humour. Laughing and to avoid punches, Salim forged ahead
taking long strides and climbed the bank of the irrigating channel
ahead of us all.
“They eat beef. Hence there is so much strength in his legs. We
are put off by it ...” I said following my friends. As the day wore, the
hot sun in second week of March started scorching our backs.
Salim halted suddenly, picked something that fell down and
held it in his palm.
He slid it into the pages of a book. All of us, his friends,
inquisitively looked at him.
“What is it?”asked Ramesh.
“Nothing in particular,” Salim tried to skip the topic.
“Won’t you show us, bey!” in anger Sivananda tried to snatch
the book from him. Gesturing him to wait, Salim opened the pages of
the text book and showed to all a dried rose flower with withered,
falling petals. He kept it back in the book.
“Why, you are keeping flowers like a girl in your books?” I teased
him.
“This is not my book. Niraja’s book.”
“How come you got her book?”
“It seems she was absent on the day English teacher asked us to
mark questions and answers in the class. She asked me to mark in
her book.”
“Don’t be boastful ... let me see!” I said and snatched the book
from him. I opened the cover page. It was English text book for eighth
class students. I could see ‘D. Neeraja—Government School’ written
by her. We were startled. In fact, I started envying Salim from that
moment.
“Bey, you are a chuparustum, there’s more to you than meets the
eye!” Sivananda bent to touch the flower.
“Chal bey chal. Don’t touch it. It’s the rose I gave her!” Salim
blushed snatching the book from Sivanand. He started running away.
He was whistling the tune of the song ‘Roop tera mastaana—pyar mera
deewana ... ’
Four of us perched ourselves each on one branch of Sirisa tree.
All along the road from the recreation club to the bungalows of officers
374 / Astitva

stood Sirisa trees, Indian beech trees, green wild fire trees, Gulmohar
trees whispering. A junction at a distance of one furlong. One road
led to power house and another to the railway station. Coal laden
lorries, crusher trucks, buses plied at regular frequencies. An overseer
who was going on a scooter accosted us.
“Hello boys! I saw you the other day too. Climbing trees like
monkeys, what are you doing?” he shouted at us.
“It’s examination time, sir. We are studying here,” I showed him
the books. “In our locality terrible heat at home and suffocating smoke
and noise.”
“It’s all right ...” he continued his journey.
“Don’t break the branches. Be careful.”
The branches of the tree started swinging gently. Cool breeze
enveloped us. Leaning on thicker branches, we sat comfortably. After
half an hour, I started yawning. Sivanand dropped the book as he
started dozing. Salim suggested that it was better to play some game,
to drive off drowsiness. It was unanimously decided that ‘Kothi
Kommachi’ was the best one.
“The white one is decent, the black fellow is thief.” We stood in
a circle and decided the one who had to fetch the twig by clapping
our hands. By majority it was decided that Salim should run to search
and fetch the twig. A cubit long twig was selected and I drew a circle
with it near the stem of the tree. I lifted my right leg and threw the
twig far off holding it under my knee. It fell far away beyond a heap
of crushed stones stored for laying the road. Salim ran in that direction.
Three of us climbed the tree fast.
With a hop over the heap of crushed stones, Salim reached the
place and returned fast with the twig in his hand. He looked up and
acting like a Chimpanzee started climbing the trunk of the tree.
Looking this side and that side he reached a slender branch. Ramesh
climbed higher and reached the topmost branch. Realising that
Ramesh would be caught I thought of a way to avert it. I jumped
from a height of seven feet and took the twig from the circle drawn
on the ground and threw it in another direction with all my strength.
“Salim is out one more time!” I shouted.
With disgust Salim reached the ground and ran for the twig. He
moved around in confused state for a while and started the search
along a cluster of bushes and heap of garbage. After two minutes, we
heard him wailing, “Yah, Allah!”
 Categorical Imperative / 375

We looked at each other. We were petrified. We ran for Salim.

“Yah, Allah! Main mar gaya Ammi, Abba ...” he was crying in pain.
He stretched his hand towards his left ankle. Four inch sharp piece of
glass pierced through his slipper and ankle.
Closing his eyes, he plucked the broken glass piece. Profuse
blood stained the grass there. I was shivering in my shoes.
“Don’t tell anyone ... let us run away from here,” I said.
My two friends didn’t respond.
“There is a machete in his home for slaughtering cattle. His father
will cut us into pieces. I am going home. Now it is up to you to decide!”
I looked at them. They were hesitant. I ran away towards the road.
***
“What happened to you? You are sinking. Are you drained out?”
Sakuntala asked me.
I nodded my head. It was as if my blood from all limbs reached
my heart and pulled me down heavily. Pain killers give relief to
physical discomfort. For the raw wound in the core that is rankling
constantly, which balm is there to give relief? Where to look for the
palliative?
“Eat this samosa and drink water,” said Sakuntala.
“Just to watch our children’s programme I troubled you.
Otherwise I would have allowed you to take rest at home. The play is
about to conclude, followed by prize distribution. It is up to you to
stay till the last item of music programme by orchestra or not. Just
for fifteen minutes you sit patiently, please. Look how nice is
Anupama’s performance!”
Overhead cloudless sky looked like an upturned cauldron.
Awful suffocation. Unbuttoning my shirt slightly, I looked at the stage.
Samosa in my hand intensified hunger.
Cobra: Kill him!
Angel: Friends! He is a lonely creature.
Lioness: Yes (looking around). So won’t live longer.
Lion: Lord! After all the devastation and holocaust, do you still
feel that he deserves to be spared?
Angel: Viewed from your materialistic angle, he is not fit to live.
But, my friends! Never think unilaterally with hatred. There are many
bigger planets and galaxies than the Earth in this cosmos. It is a
multiverse, not universe. Numerous principles, codes of conduct are
beyond your comprehension. This emaciated, lonely man will not
376 / Astitva

trouble you again. This wounded soldier is the last one of his species.
He is a misled child due to training based on misrepresentation. In
God’s kingdom he will bath in my compassion. You spare him and
leave it to me. I will take care.
Soldier: Forgive me, sir! Don’t bother about me. I am exhausted
by conflicts, battles, killing others. I have none to call my own in this
world. I have no desire. King of the forest! Just with a stroke of your
paw finish me.”
As I was nibbling a samosa, unbearable misery. Excruciating
pain. I was dizzy.
“Did someone hit you powerfully?” The query of the dentist
was buzzing in my ears.
What hit me? When did I receive the blow? Turmoil of memories
raged as a storm in my mind!
Angel: Huh! Don’t move anybody! (raised hand) Going to hit
any animal?
Angel ... white dazzling costume, crown with tassels, wings on
shoulder ... so dignified, with high self-esteem!
How beautifully, nicely is performing my Anupama! She is just
like my mother. Yes, my mother stood before me. Unconsciously I
touched my jaws with left hand.
***
Night has set in. The labour colony was in thick darkness. Flavours
of dinner under preparation for the evening emanated from the
quarters. At some places ovens with coal were ablaze still. Pushing
the wooden gate, I entered home and threw books on my cot from
the front door itself. I went to the water tub made of cement and
cleaned my hands and feet with water.
“Amma! Serve me food!” I entered the kitchen.
“Halt! Stay there!” my mother thundered. She might have gone
to the temple in the evening, as it was Saturday. She was clad in yellow
saree with red border, flowers in bun of her hair, vermillion marks
on forehead, smell of joss sticks wafted pleasantly. Having just lighted
it, she was holding Kerosene oil lantern.
“On the pretext of studies, where had you been roaming
yesterday?” She kept the lantern on the window sill. She glared at
me. “We all studied in the home of Ramesh.” I informed her.
“Badmash! Telling lies ...” she raised her hand to strike me. To
escape the blow, I turned slightly, tilting my head all of a sudden. In
 Categorical Imperative / 377

heightened rage with her other hand she struck me on my face

involuntarily. Row of bangles and wristlet on her wrist landed on my
mouth. The incisors moved, blood oozed. I cried rolling on the floor.
My mother was upset. Tears swelled in her eyes. With cotton
and salt water she washed and fomenting my chin she said, “Rasool
mama, Bibi atha are in such grief, you know? Poor boy Salim is asking
about examinations deliriously lying on hospital bed. Tell me why
did you get that nasty idea to push him into the rubble of glass pieces
... ? Never repeat such mistake here after,” she cautioned me.
***
Open air theatre was glittering like a pond of light. Just then started
the hustle and bustle. The stage is dazzling with silk curtains drawn
under green coloured banner bearing the caption “Ugadi Festival—
Township Welfare Committee.” It was time for prize distribution.
Guests of honour–wife of the Chief General Manager and a
veteran artiste who was to judge the performance along with Principal
of Central School–were there on the stage.
The lady was handing over prizes to winners in various
competitions, then came the turn for the play. I looked at Sakuntala.
She laid her hands on the shoulders of Anupama, who cleaned her
makeup and was standing between the rows of the seats ready to
move quickly. Anticipation, anxiety in their eyes were perceptible.
Kannadu stood on a chair. Claps reached a crescendo. The
veteran artiste announced the name of winners. The boy who donned
the role of monkey was chosen as ‘Best child artist.’
Utterly disappointed Anupama almost burst into tears.
I cajoled her.
“Take it easy dear. Be sportive baby! You acted very well. The
boy who played the role of monkey acted better. That is the opinion
of judges. They should follow guidelines stipulated for the purpose.
You inspired me. That is enough.”
“Where from was this artiste invited? Does he know what is
meant by performance? Is he related to the father of that monkey
fellow?” Sakuntala started the volley of accusations.
Cautioning her to be quiet, I started to move out. Halted for a
moment and looked at the V.I.P enclosure. Chief Engineer Bhargava
was staring at me. I looked back boldly into his eyes. A war has started
between us and it would continue. I am conscious of the limited
ammunition at my disposal. Yet, I am not going to retreat.
378 / Astitva

“How enthusiastic you are now! Just a while ago, you were
groaning,” said Sakuntala.
“My leave is cancelled. Tomorrow I have to join duty.” I informed
her as we emerged from the theatre.

“Asandigtha Kartavyam”
2008 Translated by T.S. Chandra Mouli
 Power Game

Boya Jangaiah

Looking at the water discharged by the old current motor, Rajaiah

stood on the elevated bund of the well. Got rid of drudgery of Mota.
‘With careful, hard work he should raise bounteous crop and get his
children well educated,’ contemplating he watched the flowing water
irrigating his fields.
How hard one should work and wait for the seed to germinate,
grow and reach harvesting stage, protected with watchful eyes! How
many dust storms, hailstorms the crop has to withstand and survive
before the yield reaches home!
Hearing the dog, lying near the earthen oven in front of the
cowshed, bark at once, he turned his attention in that direction. A
jeep was approaching the bund of the irrigation well. Having seen it,
the sucking young calf scampered with raised tail towards its grazing
mother.
Wondering who might have come in that jeep, Rajaiah stood
looking intently. It stopped a little away from the bund on which he
was standing. Three persons who emerged from the jeep were
approaching him. Rajaiah could make them out.
One of the two persons walking in front was the SO. The second
one was Line Inspector. Just behind him, mopping his forehead and
neck with his handkerchief was the A.E.
380 / Astitva

‘Why are they coming? What business they have with him? Even
electricity bill was not due for payment. Hopefully, these persons
might not take away the current motor!’
“Rajanna, you are on elevated plane. You must save us!” said
the S.O. The three persons were trying to reach him on the bund.
“I will come there. You may slip and fall,” he said and reached
them stepping down from the bund. Rajaiah did not feel like saluting
them, though he saluted innumerable times earlier.
“Be seated under the tamarind tree there,” he said and led them
towards the cluster of tamarind trees.
‘Alas! What a situation these fellows are in now? They tormented
me to visit them and their offices repeatedly.’
In that connection, one day he carried a pot of ghee and knocked
the gate of S.O’s residence calling “Dora!”
No one responded. It was about seven o’clock in the evening.
“Dora! Dora!” raising his voice a little, he moved the gate and
peered into the house. Wondering that a cinema was being watched
at home itself, he started looking in that direction. No semblance of
any movement. He again knocked at the gate.
“Who is it?” asked S.O’s wife as she came out. Her neck was
covered with
gold. Wondering at the way she was wearing slippers even at
home, he watched her.
She reached the gate and asked, “Who do you want to meet?”
“Dora,” he said.
“He is not home, has gone to the market.”
“Then, kindly take this,” he said and handed over the pot of
ghee to her.
“Has the dora asked you for this?”
“Yes.”
“Just for a kilogram of ghee is power connection available?”
With a teasing laughter she walked into the house.
Rajaiah could not assess why she laughed so.
In the village even a small gesture—filling the cutta with tobacco,
would
invite so much affection and thankfulness.
‘For carrying ghee from his village ... ?’
Cursing himself he proceeded towards the office.
 Power Game / 381

Thoughts were swirling in his mind swifter than his steps.

As he reached the office, a watchman stood there leaning on the
pillar of the gate. From his lips dangled a beedi. Rajaiah went to him
and greeted with folded hands.
“What’s the matter?” Taking the beedi from his lips, he stroked
down the ash.
“Ayya, not a big deal! S.O. Dora is not at home. I wish to sleep
here for a while in the night,” with much apprehension he said in a
shrinking voice.
“To which house have you gone?”
“To his home there ... that one in the opposite direction,” turning
back he pointed the building. “Where is A.E.’s home?”
“There, on that side, the second building,” the watchman showed
the quarters in the office premises.
“Oh that one! I thought that was also an office.”
Rajaiah started trek towards that house. He has money with him.
Hard times.
‘Shelling down cash is unavoidable. If it is handed over, that
would be end of the nuisance,’ he thought, standing near the gate.
In that house also a cinema was being watched. All of them seem
to have gathered there. The building looked spacious. A lot of trees
around. Strange ones. Neither fruits nor flowers they bore. Like a
palm tree they have grown tall.
‘The government has constructed such good buildings for these
people. In my village too houses were built for Harijans. The roofs
were blown off in a gale. They collapsed during monsoon. These
people are better placed. Assured salaries. Jeeps to move around.
Such nice residences to dwell,’ he surmised and balancing himself on
the tips of his toes, he peered over the gate.
“Bhow! Bhow!” A wolf like dog charged. Placing his forelegs
on the gate it looked at him menacingly.
Rajaiah tried to ward off the dog and sat. The dog continued to
bark.
“Raja! Ye Raja!” a shout was heard. The dog ran inside with a
whimper.
Rajaiah looked inside the house and wondered, ‘How did the
lady know his name? Has she called him, or is the dog’s name Raja?’
He gently went back and stood near the watchman.
382 / Astitva

“What Patela! Is the A.E. sir at home?”

“Don’t know.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“The dog is not allowing me to approach.”
“Are you scared?”
“Oh God! How ferocious is he?”
“Any way, sir won’t be at home now. He may go to the club.”
“What is club?”
“Club is a place for the well to do people to play games.”
“What games at night?”
“Game of cards.”
“That is gambling. In village fair it is played, with betting.”
“Yes. Same thing.”
“Then, where is the residence of his superior?”
“He won’t be here, he lives in Hyderabad. Commutes every day.”
“Then, this A.E. sir may turn up in an hour or two.”
“He won’t come. There is another lady for him. Gave a bungalow
to her. He may go there.”
“Is it so? While the government built a house for him, this
gentleman got a house built for his concubine! How strange!” Rajaiah
said.
“These people are officers. Special ones! How to spend all their
earnings?”
“Ill-gotten wealth finds a way to vanish!”
The watchman went into the veranda and joined two benches.
Spreading a blanket he slid on it,
turned towards Rajaiah and slept.
Rajaiah placed a foot on a stool. Resting two hands on the knee
and placing his chin on his fingers he sat in deep contemplation.
‘That day also the job was not done. In the morning when he
came no one was present in the office.’
“Somewhere a big electric line created a problem. So all went
there.” The watchman informed.
Rajaiah landed on the bench in deep thought and slept. The night
passed.
“Are you getting continuous power supply?” The Lineman
asked.
 Power Game / 383

“Ayya, yes, getting,” retreating from his reverie, Rajaiah placed

on the ground a cot laced with jute cord.
Adjusting himself on the upturned bucket meant to draw water
from the well, the A.E. said, “Hereafter there may not be any need
for this.”
“In the absence of power supply, this huge bucket is the only
source of getting water for irrigation. That’s why I kept it so carefully.”
“What hampers power supply?”
Rajaiah smiled gently.
The S.O. moved his eyebrows as if asking him why he was
smiling.
“Sometimes wires snap, transformer malfunctions ... now and
then you also deliberately disrupt power supply.”
It came as a whiplash! They looked at each other with guilty
faces.
The S.O. wanted to divert the conversation saying, “Have they
brought forth any calves?” looking at the masticating buffalos under
the tamarind trees.
“Recently sold those that were born.”
Got one more missile to target them.
“Rajanna!”
“Dora,” he looked at the S.O.
“We gave you power supply. But it has landed us in trouble,”
he mopped his forehead.
“Why Dora? As the saying goes ‘whoever consumes toddy
should pay tax for the palm tree’, the day power supply was given
...” he sat on a small round stone facing the cot.
“It seems many persons applied for power connections before
you submitted application. It was complained that without
considering them, we had offered you three poles and power supply
out of turn.”
“But for those people ...” even before he could complete the
sentence, came the response. “It was alleged that they had not offered
bribe but you offered it; so we favoured you.”
“Did they see me offering bribe?”
“They submitted complaints to higher authorities.”
“So what? Without any evidence what will happen?”
384 / Astitva

“That’s why we are approaching you” the A.E. who was quiet
till then, at last spoke.
Rajaiah looked at the A.E. He was steadily gazing at him.
‘When I went to salute him with folded hands he did not bother
to raise a finger in response. When I said ‘I submitted application a
year ago, sir’ he dismissed Rajaiah saying, ‘Everything will be taken
care of by the S.O. Go away.’ Such a man has approached me today.
My evidence must be vital for them. I will disclose whatever has
happened.’
Rajaiah asked, “Tell me sir, what I have to do.”
“Nothing much. Just tell them you have not offered us any sort
of bribe,” said the S.O. bringing his hands together in supplication.
‘These days, if I tell that employees are performing their duties
without taking bribes, will anyone believe me? Whether one gets
profits or loss bribe should be given; for doing a work some
consideration is needed; for vaccinating an ox bribe is a prerequisite;
for getting power connection bribe mandatory; for continuing power
supply money has to be spent. Even after the crops are raised and
harvested, for selling paddy at subsidised rate bribery stares in the
face. In this world where bribes are all pervasive, who will trust me if
I tell I have not offered bribe?’ Rajaiah was ruminating.
“Tomorrow or day after tomorrow they may come for enquiry.
Just tell them this much.”
“Do you think they’ll believe my words?”
“Why don’t they believe if you tell?” The A.E sitting on the
upturned bucket looked at the lineman who was standing beside him.
“That’s it, you understand?” Lineman looked at Rajaiah.
“If I am asked to swear and give a statement ... Having offered
bribe, if I swear falsely, won’t I be ruined?” said Rajaiah.
“Didn’t I tell you? Return him the money he had given us. There
is no other way,” said A.E. Taking out five hundred rupees from his
pocket he placed it on the diary on the cot.
“It’s all right, sir,” said the S.O. placing his share of five hundred
rupees over it. The L.I. followed suit.
“How about the amount given to the E.E. sir?” the S.O. asked.
“You pay now. Collect from him later.”
Another five hundred rupees was added.
Total two thousand rupees.
 Power Game / 385

Watching the money intently, Rajaiah remembered, ‘How about

the remaining five hundred?’
“Take these two thousand.”
Setting the amount in order after counting one more time, when
he was offered Rajaiah said, “Having given once, it won’t be nice to
take back. I will tell what I need to.”
“No, no dear. The case has reached a serious stage. Allegations
have been sent to the Chairman and the Minister too!” said the A.E.
“Our services will be terminated,” added the S.O.
‘What happens, if terminated? Can’t doras like you survive?
Where will all the amassed wealth go? Your residences, wives, your
properties ... haven’t I seen personally,’ Rajaiah’s thoughts raced
internally.
“Keep these. The two hundred rupees you gave in the store
cannot be recovered. That fellow might have spent on drinks. What
is offered in the section might have been shared and spent,” the S.O.
informed.
“All vagabonds! Will the amount last till now?”
“Perhaps these are children of a Nawab. Yes, all the employees
who abscond from offices and loaf around the town are such fellows
only. They feel that whichever place they visit is their mother-in-law’s
place,” said Rajaiah.
All of them stood around him and placed money in his hands
and implored him repeatedly.
A.E. sir placed his hand on his shoulder and affectionately
stroked.
The S.O. placed the money in Rajaiah’s cupped palms and
touched his hands in servility. L.I. held his chin in his hands and
pleaded.
“Rajanna! Our lives are in your hands. We have children to look
after.”
As they were beseeching him Rajaiah looked at them once.
‘Cowards! Good for nothing fellows,’ he concluded.
“Now you may go,” he moved towards the jeep.
They followed him.
“Anti Corruption Bureau officials may also visit.”
“Who are they?”
“They arrest all the corrupt persons.”
386 / Astitva

“Won’t they take bribes?”

The four gentlemen laughed.
The jeep raced raising a cloud of dust.
‘How can these people know that those officials had already
come, recorded what all happened, even before these men arrived.
Anyway, where does the hard earned money go? It has reached the
correct place.’ Reminiscing, Rajaiah walked towards the well.
Having witnessed all that has happened, the dog before the
cowshed yelped strangely.

“Current Katha”
2008 Translated by T.S. Chandra Mouli
 The Walls

Shajahana

Each and every body that has bounced with youthfulness inevitably
experiences old age. But, not knowing in whose company this final
stage of the journey would be spent and how many hells one would
be forced to go through, one eventually befriends grief. Loneliness,
accompanied by jeers and jibes, a corner in a dark room which seems
to have been created just for us ... that is our destination ... ! Those
folds of experience have no respect at all. Should a 93 year old yearn
even for an affectionate greeting? Whenever I saw my dadima, I was
overwhelmed with a sense of drowning distress. A desire took root
in me that two rooms should be set apart for this mother-incarnate
who had been the source of a large number of progeny. In her last
days, she deserved to live in a well-ventilated house rather than in
this congested one. My abba and ammi were large-hearted. But I could
imagine how difficult it was when bhai, bhabhi and the children
visited them. So I thought of building two more rooms adjacent to
our two-room house. When I mentioned it to abba, he was very happy
and said we would build the rooms next to the house. Though they
had managed in the cramped house so far, abba had agreed to this
because it was getting to be very inconvenient now. These two rooms
were meant for dadi ... after her, they would be mine!
Immediately, abba sent for the senior mason in the village. He
was a native of Nellore, but he had settled down here. He came and
388 / Astitva

along with him entered his regional dialect and stood in our courtyard.
He seemed to speak very respectfully but every sentence of his
resounded with a sense of egotism that nobody could overtake him.
Abba said, they would enter into a written agreement. But he left
saying he was a man of word and would even give up his life to keep
his word. It was agreed to build two rooms in two months. He also
gave us an estimation. He further said that it could be a little more or
less. Abba wasn’t keeping too well. Also, he was not very worldly-
wise and not used to money transactions. So abba said I should look
after everything till the completion of the rooms. And I got completely
engrossed in it.
A skinny body came walking heavily to lay the foundation of
the two rooms that everybody thought I was building. On the
command of the mason, the body drew a muggu. Breaking a coconut
and lighting incense sticks, the body seemed like the remnant of a
burnt black stick. The body that had borne three sons and three
daughters did not have anyone to support except its two hands and
two feet and its wife. If it laid the foundations, it could fill up the pits
of hunger. In fact, one wonders how much hunger is contained in the
foundation itself? The body dug the foundation with the wrinkled
strength. Perhaps, he left some of his hunger, thirst and sorrow in the
foundation itself?
Coming to the Nellore mason, his talk is so sweet ... he also
appears to be doing his work in a similar manner. I would realize
that he had cheated me only after he had left. He would return in the
morning, all smiles. He being a senior mason, I could not say anything
firmly to him. I was only a junior consumer ... if I said something, he
would say you don’t know amma. I would think maybe it was true.
But I didn’t realize until I came to know that he had used low quality
bricks and sand which he had purchased against old loans! But to be
fair to him, he used to give clear instructions regarding the tasks to
be carried out ... he used to say that especially curing had to be done
well ... if curing was not done properly, the walls would not be strong
... and I used to carry out the duty of curing ... I would wet the walls
and get wet in the process ... the whole place would be dripping
reminding one of the rainy season. All this was new to me and I would
willingly immerse myself in the work. I planned an attached bathroom
as I thought it would be very troublesome for dadi to go outside.
 The Walls / 389

Wondering how dadi would react to a western commode I told the

mason to place an Indian style commode too ... he increased the
previously agreed upon sum of money.
Sometimes, seated on the sand heaps, I would read translated
poems and stories while now and then observing the method of their
building walls!
My curing duty would start in the evenings! The walls would
soak up the water coming from the water pipe like a hungry baby
thirstily drinking from a milk bottle. I would feel as though the walls
were so hungry that they would also suck me up at the other end of
the water pipe. These walls which were till yesterday, bricks and heaps
of sand and various things in cement bags lying in the verandah.
Suddenly, how did they get a soul? How much water they are
drinking!
Just as an infant whose stomach is full turns his face aside, these
walls stopped soaking up the water ... .I switched off the motor.
Someone had put a soul in these walls. Along with the cement and
sand, someone had put in hunger. What is the power hidden in the
tiny hands that arranged the bricks into these walls? Behind those
hands ... a tiny body ... behind the body a group of bodies ... those
groups forming into an abandoned thanda ... are all these hidden in
those walls? Or, was this the thirst of the old person with the wrinkled
hands who had laid the foundation of these walls which were built
by the chubby cheeked boy from the thanda?
The mason was grumbling, “Bujjamma, you say that the work
is to be completed within a month ... it is so hard to find labourers ...
Paddy harvesting and cotton picking are going on simultaneously ...
you have no idea about the demand for these labourers ... they are
not ready to come even if we give them three hundred rupees and
bring them to work in auto rickshaws.” I heard him silently. I felt that
it was better not to find people for such work. That’s what is needed.
When I returned after visiting dadi, the foundation had been
laid and already the wall had been built. But I found the bathroom to
be small. My dadima was six feet tall. The bathroom was not big
enough to seat her and give a bath. I called the mason and told him.
Initially, he did not agree to move the front wall and rebuild it. But I
was firm. And he agreed, after increasing the charges again. I was
satisfied after seeing the big and spacious bathroom walls.
390 / Astitva

The masons build so many houses ... how many people work
under them. But they never stick to the initially agreed amount of
money. Mercilessly, they keep shifting the burden of the extra amount
on to us. Is it the mason’s thirst that is hidden in the walls? If it were
true, then no amount of watering or perpetual watering will quench
the thirst.
Since I had come for the sole purpose of building the house, I
would be seated outside, right from the time the workers came till
they left. Many dense trees had to be chopped down to their halves
in order make place for the sand, gravel and bricks. As the trees were
being chopped, many leaves were falling to the ground, but a few
leaves were flying upwards with fluttering wings. Those were
butterflies. Huge ones, tiny ones and multicolored ones ... I was very
happy. After a long time, I had seen so many butterflies at one place.
In the afternoon, I saw a butterfly lying on the ground. Red ants were
spitefully feeding on it. Was I also one of the ants? I was startled.
Evening time, hundreds of butterflies were flying around me ... they
confronted me. Where is our food? Where is our dwelling? They
alighted on the gravel. They didn’t find the honey. They didn’t find
any food on the sand or the bricks. Like nomads, the butterflies were
flying here and there ... I felt like listening to their conversation. I
asked every butterfly that I saw. They were immersed in their sorrow
and pangs of hunger. I felt they were cursing me again and again.
Not finding anything in the stones, the bricks, the sand and the
iron rods, maybe some of their hunger and thirst must have rubbed
off on these. The same thing must have spread to those walls. That
night I sat on the sand heap and with great difficulty I tried to talk to
their leader. At least I translated their feelings with my heart. The
butterfly sitting on my closed fist like an airplane ready to take off
said a few things to me. “I don’t know how you will understand. You
will not understand our anguish unless you experience it! You are
attacking and conquering innumerable humans and habitations. What
chance do we stand before you? You know how many people have
suffered, how many are suffering due to the Polavaram project ...
Our distress is similar to those people’s. No one makes any promises
to us about rehabilitation. In the afternoon, about twenty five of our
kind lost their lives. Who is bothered? What does it matter? You too,
who are the cause for all this, are least concerned. We have relatives
 The Walls / 391

in Polavaram. When they told us about it then, we could not

understand but now after this devastation here, we understand what
displacement means. If I cry a lot, my wings get wet and sticky and I
am unable to fly. My enemies will tear me apart. But how can I not
cry? Our babies, unable to find anything to eat or find a place to sleep
are flying around in confusion. I will leave now,” she said and flew
away fluttering her delicate wings.
The anguish of the displaced people of Polavaram lingered in
front of my eyes. I cannot make any promises to the butterflies ... ?
What right do I have to turn them into orphans and homeless? My
head was sinking into the earth and I asked for heartfelt forgiveness.
But what use? I didn’t deserve forgiveness!
I thought of installing a TV set in the room that dadima would
be sleeping. Anyone who wanted to watch TV would have to come
to her room. Then dadima wouldn’t get bored! If she wanted
something, then she need not yell for it. Someone or the other will be
within reach, I thought.
All the workers were Bhavanis and Ayyappas. They all belonged
to the thanda. During this period nobody hurls abuses at them. They
do not use foul language to address them. People address them only
as Bhavani or Swami. I used to call them bhayya. When they called
me maata, I used to feel a surge of affection. I thought I would buy
each of them a T-shirt after the completion of the house. Indeed why
do all these people wear all this? Generations of humiliation is hidden
behind the desire for equality and respect in being addressed as
Bhavani. Whose success is this? Whose failure? The thandas are still
awaiting electricity and city buses. Wonder how many years more it
will take for these thandas, lying scattered like the kites severed from
the thread, to fly into the outside world. Is it this anguish that has
enveloped my walls?
I decided to have cooling glass on the window in order to protect
dadima from the sun. Indoor plants ... hanging pots outside ... not
just one ... I thought of filling the house with flowering creepers and
fragrances. Sitting on the sand, I was already in my imagination,
building a house which would be convenient to dadima. In my
childhood, how dadima would place the milk scrapings on our palms!
... How strong were dadima’s hands then! But now they had turned
soft like milk cream. The hands which had given charity to so many
392 / Astitva

people, the hands which had worked untiringly ... now they looked
for support ... !
My dadi ... was crying continuously. The tears flowing from the
dried up eyes of my dadi encompassed me like whirlpools. Her body
had turned wrinkly yearning for love and affection. Do those walls,
like dadi’s wrinkles, hide several chasms and lack of love? Is it the
same thirst..? Is that why the walls are so thirsty? ‘He didn’t even
speak to me. How hard-hearted he is,’ as she remembered her younger
son, my dadi’s heart seemed like wet cotton to me. I realised that
chiccha’s words had caused several scratches on dadi’s heart, just as
time had made innumerable folds on dadi’s body. That’s why I thought
we would never send her to chiccha’s place. Abba too felt the same.
After the Ayyappa and Bhavani deeksha, workers duly returned
to work. Daily I had to hear obscenities being hurled at them. ‘What’s
happened to that Nayak fellow? ... he didn’t come to work ... maybe
he is drunk?’ My ears would be on fire hearing the mason’s words of
authority.
Finally the house construction reached concluding stage. Dadi’s
vision was blurred. Abba and I thought of painting the house with
soft moonlight like colours.
The news of dadi’s fall in chiccha’s house caused confusion in
our house. Immediately, ammi and abba left for chiccha’s house.
The next morning itself a message came asking all of us to lock
up the house and start. Anxiously, all of us went to chiccha’s place.
Amidst the wrinkles, quietly streaming down, tears were bidding us
farewell. I understood that she was going, looking for her dwelling
in this vast universe filled with air and light! Dadi was following in
dada’s footsteps who had bid us farewell long ago, both of whom
had been the source of such a big family. All of us were pouring water
into her mouth with spoons. When ammi was pouring water into her
mouth, with great difficulty, dadi signalled her to pour some more.
Dadima left us all and went away as though someone was beckoning
her. In the village, under the dargah tamarind tree, a permanent abode
was built for our dadi.
But she did not even step into the nest I had built for her by
putting together three months of my time and love. She did not stay
there even for one day ... at the least she did not see it even once ... ! I
was overwhelmed with grief!
 The Walls / 393

After completing everything, I got into the bus and sat down. I
was surrounded by heaps of thoughts stinging me like the hornets.
Whose house is it really? The countless houses one can see,
whose are these? Fathers keep saying that blood and sweat are hidden
in each of the bricks! These houses belong to the fathers perhaps! But
it is the mothers who work hard every way for the fathers to shed
their blood and sweat. Mothers bear all the hardships and losses.
Mothers mop and sweep the houses and develop a bond with them.
Maybe the houses belong to the mothers! They say properties belong
to sons! Perhaps the houses belong to the sons! Brides bring in the
dowry looking at the houses. Maybe the houses belong to the
daughters-in-law! ‘Taatayya! This is mine,’ say the pampered
grandsons and granddaughters. Maybe the houses belong to them!
In reality is there any necessity for these houses.
“Bujji! You are building a house, I believe?” the villagers would
ask me. I felt ashamed within. Also guilty. “They say it’s yours.” Mine?
Is there anything in this world which I could claim as my own? Even
I don’t belong to myself. I felt like laughing.
I lost all interest in that house. Didn’t the butterfly say to me the
other day? ‘The quest begins in another cluster of trees ... .Nothing is
eternal. Their journey begins the next day.’ I felt as though I too had
some supple wings and I looked at my hands. I felt slightly satisfied.
The worry that had made a nest in me opened the doors and flew
away.

“Godalu”
2011 Translated by Parimala Kulkarni
394 / Astitva

Money Pouch

K.V. Narender

Madhavi was feeling distressed ...

She reached home from hospital but the words of doctor were
causing more fear than the stomach pain itself. As she continued
thinking about them, the torment increased in her.
She rested on the bed, enervated. After half an hour she took
the cell and dialed her husband.
Without saying, ‘hello’, he asked, “Have you been to the
hospital?”
“Yes, I have,” Her voice was dull.
“What did doctor say?”
“She advised removal of uterus.”
Silence prevailed on the other side for half a minute. Then, “Did
she tell anything about how much it will cost us?” he asked.
“Thirty thousand, if it is caesarean. For laparoscopic, she said,
it would come to fifty thousand,” Madhavi replied.
Again silence between the two.
Madhavi knew it.
She was anxious about the surgery whereas he was worried
about the expenses. Sensing it,
Madhavi said, “Doctor asked, ‘Is your husband a government
employee?’ I said ‘No, he is a salesman in a private company and I
 Money Pouch / 395

am an Anganwadi teacher.’ ‘Do you have Arogyasree card?’ she asked.

‘Yes’ I replied. ‘The reason for your pain is the growing lump in your
uterus. A great danger is lurking. It is better to have uterus removed
by operation. Think about it,’ she said.”
“You told her that we have Arogyasree card. It would be done
free of cost for us. What is the problem then? Get it removed,” he
said in a light manner and disconnected the phone.
Madhavi’s heart wilted at once.
He said it as simply as the doctor did.
‘This is the womb that gave birth to two children. I wonder,
why then, they are not in the least thankful to it.’
She touched her abdomen anxiously.
The pain started again.
It was lightning-like acute pain running from spine to stomach.
On bed, she writhed in pain for ten minutes. Later she woke up
with difficulty, swallowed the pills given by the doctor and slept.
More than the abdominal pain, it was mental agony that was bothering
her.
Next day.
Madhavi made a phone call to her friend Rajini. After formal
greetings, she came to the real point. Madhavi knows that Rajini too
had got her uterus removed four years ago.
“Doctor advised me too to get it removed” Madhavi said.
“Think about it. There is one trouble with it and another without
it,” Rajini said in sad tone.
“Why are you saying so?” asked Madhavi.
“It caused me trouble. Once unable to bear the torture of my
mother-in-law, my husband had agreed to take us on pilgrimage. I got
‘that’ problem a day before we were supposed to start. The tour was
cancelled. My mother-in-law had treated me like an enemy till her
death. One more incident, more painful than that, had taken place.
After we had constructed a new house, a day before the house-warming
ceremony, there was ‘that’ problem again. These damned house
warming muhurthams are not available easily. So, it was postponed
by two years. That day, my husband exhibited extreme petulance. As
for me, I was disgusted with life. That’s why, after all tests when the
doctor informed that there is a swelling in my uterus and it needs to be
removed, I felt very happy. But, I am now repenting,” she said.
396 / Astitva

“What happened?” Madhavi asked.

“Knee pains. Obesity. This is a kind of hell,” Rajini said. “Think
about it. My case is a bit different as ours is a family of traditions,
customs and sentiments. Before going for surgery, try some Ayurvedic
medicine,” Rajini advised.
“Ok,” with a dull voice Madhavi cut the phone.
There is an Ayurveda Ashram beside Ramannagudem where
she was working as an Anganwadi teacher. She heard of
Prakashananda Swami, an Ayurveda doctor there. ‘Better if I consult
him once,’ she thought.
The Ashram was peaceful.
There were colorful plants, also various medicinal plants. A
strange aroma of unfamiliar oils pervaded the entire area. Some
people were getting body massage and others were practicing asanas.
Madhavi entered Prakashananda Swami’s chamber directly.
In the chamber, there were bottles filled with herbal medicines.
There were no scientific apparatuses, no computers and no machines
of any kind in that place. No hurry either.
“Madam, tell me,” Swami asked.
Madhavi, with a bit of hesitation, handed the gynecologist’s scan
report over to him. He observed it for some time. ‘Could he make out
anything from that report?’ thought Madhavi.
“Lie down on the table, madam” Swami said.
As soon as she rested on the table, he pressed her stomach with
his finger tips for three to four times and then said “Get up.”
“It is true. A lump is growing in your uterus,” he said.
Once again Madhavi was filled with anxiety.
“So, do you think it must be removed?” she asked.
‘No, Madam. I will try to melt it with Ayurveda. It is in the
primary stage. Therefore there is no risk with it,” he said.
The doctor noticed anxiety on Madhavi’s face and assured thus:
“I feel there is no need to remove your uterus because of this
small lump. They need to give treatment at least three times. Even
then if it is not cured and only if it is absolutely necessary it should
be removed. But soon after a visit, some doctors are removing uterus
as easily as removing curry leaves,” he said with a sigh.
Madhavi’s mind was pacified a bit.
“Those who convert their profession into trade, have no
sentiment of any kind. Women have tender feelings for uterus because
 Money Pouch / 397

it is the womb that nurtures foetuses. In addition, it is said that the

God always assumes his incarnation in this very place. You know the
abode of deity in a temple is called garbhagudi.”
Swami’s words appeared strange to Madhavi. He drew a figure
of a fish on a white sheet with a pencil.
“It appears true if viewed with a devotional mind. In the first
month the foetus looks like a fish in the uterus. This is the
Matsayavatara. In the second month it looks just like a plump tortoise.
This is the Kurmavaratara. In the third month it takes some animal
form. This is the varahavatara. In the fourth month the embryo assumes
the form of half animal and half man implying the Narasimhavatara.
In the fifth month, it comes to take the shape of a small man. This is
Vamanavatara. There from it incarnates as Rama, Krishna,
Parashurama, Buddha and Kalki that acquire meditations,
enlightenment and valour.
Is there any place where a baby respires in the absence of air? I
presume removal of such an organ just like a useless tissue is not
good.”
There appeared some bitter feeling in him on rampant operations
of this kind.
“In the past, some people in black masks would plunder
ornaments from temples. Now some others in white masks are
gouging the sanctum sanctum itself,” he muttered to himself.
Pointing to a page of that day’s newspaper, he asked, “Have
you read this?”
That was a news story about the increase in the number of
surrogate mothers in our state.
“I read it in the morning,” Madhavi replied.
“We are stooping to the level of giving even uterus for rent, for
the sake of money.” There is an unbounded agony in his serious tone.
Thereafter he administered some pills and advised her as to
when they have to be taken.
Madhavi, with disturbed thoughts, set out for home.
Madhavi has been going door to door in Ramannagudem, as part
of a government programme requiring the Anganwadi teachers to make
a survey on the status of nutritious food for mother and children.
As she visited one of the houses, she saw a woman named
Saravva who was ill. “What is wrong with you, Saravva?” she asked.
398 / Astitva

“Whole body is aching, Madam. If I lift even a small weight

there is pain in my stomach. The legs are completely paralyzed. I
have not been going for any work for the last six months. I became
like this since the operation,” she said ruefully.
“Is it family planning operation? Long ago you underwent the
operation,” Madhavi said.
“It is not that madam. They removed my uterus a year ago,”
Saravva said in a feeble voice. At this, Madhavi was shocked.
“Why was the operation done?” she asked with anxiety.
“They said there is a swelling when I told them of the pain in
stomach.”
“Do you have those reports?”
“Those must be in the almirah madam, wait. I will bring them.”
Saravva got up slowly, after fifteen minutes she came back with it.
Madhavi hurriedly glanced at the reports.
Fibroid uterus.
This is the very term that appeared in her own report.
“There are many women in our village whose uteruses were
removed,” moaning, Saravva said as she sat on the bed. It further
shocked Madhavi.
“Who are they?” she asked with curiosity.
“Many more madam. Kanthamma, Sujatha, Sulochana, and in
basket makers street Pushpa, Sudhamma and Yamuvva. There are
many more still,” she tried to recollect the names.
“Do they all have Arogyasree cards?”
“Yes, only because they had Arogyasree cards, the operations
were done free of cost,” said Saravva. Madhavi was immersed in deep
thoughts.
In the village, they were arranging for medical camps and
administering free medicine. They were asking the patients to visit
their hospitals in the city if they don’t get relief. Something has been
happening secretly. Madhavi’s mind was filled with many doubts.
That day, she gathered all the details along with the survey on
nutritious food. She was aghast when she examined all these after
reaching home.
Out of two hundred and fourteen women in the village, eighty
seven women were forced to undergo hysterectomy operations.
So many operations just in Ramannagudem?
 Money Pouch / 399

Swinging into action, she sent messages to all her Anganwadi

teacher colleagues in the district for details of this kind of operations.
Twenty two women underwent the operation in Cheplapally
village, seventeen in Govindaram, in Rapalle thirty four, in
Ibrahimnagar sixty ... the messages were still pouring in.
Some informed on phone that many women who underwent
these operations have been suffering from various side-effects.
Madhavi was immersed in thinking for a while.
She made a phone call to her brother-in-law, working in the
health department, for some more details.
In two days, he gave some surprising details.
Out of a total of four lakh operations in the state, seventy seven
thousand operations were related to hysterectomy under the
Arogyasree scheme. If one takes into account those without
Arogyasree cards and the women belonging to upper middle class
families the operations must be in greater numbers!
Madhavi’s mind became restive with innumerable thoughts.
Madhavi felt pain in her stomach as she, with a file of complete
details, was climbing the steps of that building. This was the building
of Lokayukta.
Bearing the pain with clenched teeth, she thought, ‘no escape ...
this pain has to be borne for a few days. This silent plunder has to be
stopped at least to some extent. How can uterus be a useless organ
just because it has stopped bearing children? It is said even a spoiled
clock indicates right time twice a day. So, the trading with uteruses
which are life breeding places has to be resisted in the very beginning.
A thorough investigation must be done. It must begin from
Ramannagudem itself,’ she thought.
She was moving towards the chamber of a retired judge with a
strong grip over the file, even with increasing pain.
Her steps had a strong belief that justice would be done.

“Dabbu Sanchi”
2014 Translated by Jaiwanth Rao Chalurkar and
Adi Ramesh Babu
400 / Astitva

Flames of Grief

Ramaa Chandramouli

When looked from below it was a peak, but it was a deep valley from
the top. So deep. So high. It looked immeasurable in height and depth.
As if drifting into the void, off the crest, breathless ... frantic ...
she was going down deeper ... suffocating ... into depths, still deeper
like a boulder falling ... swiftly ... falling ... suddenly ... frightened,
Subhadra opened her eyes. Thirty-six-year-old Subhadra ... poor ...
passed eighth class long ago ... gave up studies ... like a bird without
a nest ... without a place to live in ... without a family ... without an
address ... like a kite without thread ... floating along the winds ...
like a leaf gliding on the water, having travelled long distances on
the road of life all by herself ... was left alone and tired. With a start,
Subhadra woke up from a horrible dream, a nightmare!
With her heart beating fast, she slowly drifted into the present.
She looked around. Drenched in perspiration ... shivered with fear.
There was none around ... fear ... life full of loneliness ... bleak future
... fear ... precarious existence ... no hope of reaching the shore ... of
plunging ever into an abyss.
Fear ... all her life, she lived in fear!
Lying on the cement floor ... on the plastic mat ... overwhelmed
with sorrow Subhadra had fallen asleep.
Now, she woke up and looked around.
 Flames of Grief / 401

It was pitch-dark in the room. Dead silence. The air was heavy
with humidity. It was cool winter of November. The shiver, she felt,
was shooting up from the depths of her being. Was she shivering out
of cold or fear of something? Ptch! ... Maybe she was shivering with
fear!
There was a clay-lamp with a wick soaked in oil, flickering
slightly, placed on a wooden stool by the wall opposite her. The thin
lonely flame was trying to burn out the darkness spread around.
It was she who made the light at 10 o’clock in the night when
the power went off all of a sudden. Pouring groundnut oil into the
clay-saucer she placed the cotton wick in it, and then she lit it with a
match stick.
The pervasive sheet of darkness in the room seemed to threaten
the lamp.
In fact, she lit the lamp at about 7 o’clock that evening when
winter-dark was about to engulf the surroundings. With tears welled
up in her eyes, she placed the portrait of Mogili on a stool by the
wall. Keeping five or six rose flowers before the portrait, she lit that
clay-lamp with a heavy heart.
In the glimmer of the candle, eighteen year old Mogili’s smiling
face, with a glitter in the eyes, shone like the electric bulb. As if the
light was overflowing from his face ... full with a glow and life.
She felt as if he hurried to her calling-”Amma! Amma! ... mma!”
Hugging her like a creeper entwining a tree, he stared at her face.
With his gentleness and caring love, he made her heart melt.
‘I am a mere candle, bidda! With your touch, I would burn myself
to give out light ... .but you are the life-line, oil of my life, bidda!”
She didn’t know how long she cried her heart out, looking at
the face of Mogili in the portrait. Looking at the picture, she wailed
bitterly. There was a lot of disturbance in her fist-sized heart ... a centre
of million cyclones.
Why did this happen in the first place?
Why did fate conspire against only her and her family? Why
was she doomed to the eternal darkness of tribulations?
She sat up on the mat. Beside her, there was a winnowing pan
with tobacco leaves. At the corner were beedi-leaves cut to length, a
roll of thread and a stick to press the beedi-tops, besides a glass filled
half with water.
402 / Astitva

Since the time when she had become an adult, she had known
nothing except rolling beedies ... only rolling ... .She smelt of tobacco
because of rolling beedies and her fingers developed calluses because
of scissoring the leaves to length and her thighs hardened as rock for
bearing the pan day and night. She had been rolling beedies since the
time when ten rupees was paid for hundred beedies. Now it is a
hundred and ten per a hundred beedies.
For several decades, a whole lot of people from Karimnagar,
Jagtial, Metpally, Kammarpally in Telangana have made their
livelihood out of this profession. Places, people and companies differ
... yet the beedi leaves ... cutting ... the pungent smell ... cheating ...
exploitation, hardships and hidden tears are all same. They lead a
hand to mouth life while the karakhanas and companies thrive on this
business. Their existence is like a sweet potato being boiled on the
smouldering cinders.
Subhadra looked at the clock. It was ten past three.
As the cold winds pierced like a knife through the narrow gaps
in the closed windows and doors, Subhadra adjusting her sari, sat
cross-legged and began the work by taking into her lap the winnowing
pan with beedi leaves, tobacco and other items. She picked a leaf at a
time from the bundle wrapped in wet cloth and rolled a beedi and
stuffed it with tobacco powder adroitly. Her fingers moved
mechanically as she made a beedi after beedi at the wink of an eye. It
was an involuntary skill ... .a simple task done by any person like a
robot.
Darkness ... silence ... winter chill spread all around. She sat
there grief stricken.
With her eyes fixed on the photo by the wall opposite her, she
noticed that the wick- lamp was about to fade out and the darkness
began to close in on from all sides.
“Amma! Darkness is permanent in the life of a man. But light,
like a guest, comes visiting every now and then. So we must always
try to find a way to conquer darkness,” said Mogili on that day.
Subhadra was not able to make out what he said.
“Bidda! I don’t understand anything of it,” said she.
“Amma! To understand anything rightly, one must study. To
study is like lighting a lamp by a person in darkness to see the
surroundings and understand for oneself,” said he again.
 Flames of Grief / 403

She didn’t understand those words too. But she felt an inexplicable
joy in listening to him speak. She said, “With you speaking like that, I
feel as if god spoke to me, sitting right in front of me.”
Mogili laughed sweetly. Holding her close to him, he said “I’ll
get you children’s Bommala Ramayanam and Mahabharatam from the
library. You must read them.”
He made her read the books. He used to ask her questions
concerning the contents, while helping her with her beedies. Later
he brought her Bethavolu Ramabrahmam’s Srimadhramayan and Devi
Bhagavatham.
He said, “Amma! You must climb one step at a time.”
“Where to?”
“Wherever!”said Mogili, laughing
Subhadra laughed like an ocean.
Last year, Mogili was in the 3rd year of B.Tech. As far as she
knew, Mogili had done only three things since his childhood ... first,
reading all the time, whether in library or at home, second, helping
Subhadra with her work and keeping her happy, third, always
thinking to himself, deeply and silently .
As Mogili told her, she became emboldened and confident, when
she started reading books. She felt as if some strange power made
her face anyone or any situation.
One day, as if to surprise Mogili, she recited a verse from Gopi’s
Vemana Velugulu, when he was eating:
As you continue to read, you excel at public fora
As you continue to woo, blooms love in your spouse
As you continue to hear a word, a faith it becomes
Listen to Vema, the learned soul of eternity!
Shocked though he was, Mogili said, “Amma! You have truly
arrived!”
“What do you think of me? Your mother or what?”
Putting his plate aside, he hugged his mother and said
flatteringly, “This is known as ‘climbing up a mountain, at the sight
of a raised finger.’” Bravo! You’ve a bright future!”
“You are everything to me—my future, present and past. You
are my life, nanna!” said Subhadra excitedly.
But, she was overwhelmed by grief again. Just then, the power
was restored and the room was filled with brightness. A single rented
404 / Astitva

room ... with asbestos sheets for roof, soot-covered walls, hard cement
floor ... here a hearth and a cupboard made of flag stones ... a wooden
almirah stuffed with her clothes ... and there a folding cot and an old
plastic mat on the floor.
A calendar with the picture of Hanuman in kneeling posture,
sporting a mighty mace, hung on the wall.
Mogili was an ardent devotee of Hanuman.
“Amma! Hanuman was a loyal servant of Lord Rama. When
Rama ordered him to take care of someone, He would hurry to execute
the orders without thinking. If anyone asked Him why he was being
thrashed, Hanuman would say simply that He was instructed to do
so by Rama and tell him to go ask Rama the reason. One should be
like Hanuman,” said Mogili once ... Subhadra laughed loudly, looking
at hm.
Suddenly, she began weeping. She could not control her
emotions. On an impulse, she held firmly the photo of her son to her
bosom, keeping aside the tobacco pan.
Now her mind, filled with thoughts, was in turmoil like an ocean
during cyclone.
“Why ... ? Why did this happen ... son? You were such a brave
boy! Why did you do like this?” Subhadra wailed all night.
Feeling giddy, she lay on her side on the mat. Like a shadowy
figure ... like a misty cloud ... like an indistinct tune, Rajesham came
towards her ... from the deserts, from the sky above, from the seas.
Laughing like a white flower, he moved towards her, with his hands
wide open.
Rajesham also looked like that ... Was he really her man? Yes.
He was hers. If so, why was he in Dubai? Why in Muscat? ... in Abu
Dhabi ... in Emirates like a bird with broken wings? Why was he in
Arab countries ... chased ... persecuted ... tired, and body turned into
pieces?
Subhadra and Rajesham had known each other since their
childhood. In Jagityal, when she was studying eighth class, he was
tenth. She had no father. Rajesham had none. He used to live with his
maternal uncle. When his uncle was away in Bhivandi working as a
power loom operator, Rajesham worked at petrol pump during night
time and as a paper boy in the mornings. He had a hard time. They
lived in the same locality.
 Flames of Grief / 405

By the time she finished her 8th class, Subhadra’s mother had
died of snake bite. They met on the Nrisimhaswamy Hill and thought
about their future all day. And finally they migrated to Surat, chanting
‘Jai Hanuman.’ There, he did several odd jobs ranging from
construction worker, lorry cleaner, operator of power looms to a
waiter in a hotel, while she was engaged in rolling beedies.
One year ... two years.
“To be honest is my principle. But in this country, only dishonest
people will be able to get many opportunities. Along with five of my
friends, I will go to Dubai, Subhadra. Let me try my luck there. I shall
save up something in two or three years. We shall get married and
lead a happy life then,” he declared one day.
A star fell from the skies.
Rajesham landed in the desert.
She was in Metpally rolling beedies again in a single-room rented
house!
Who was Rajehsam? Was he her husband? No. But they lived
together for two years ... live-in relationship. And he went away,
leaving her in lurch.
Rajesham was a man of principles. He was like fire. He was
straightforward. But where did his future lie?
In public view, ‘they are married and she lives in Metpally while
her husband is in Dubai to make money.’
Time passed quickly. Rajesham used to call her through ISTD
once a week.
“When will you come back?”
“I’m trying, Subhadra ... I haven’t found a stable job ... I’ll come
soon,” saying thus, he would burst into tears like a child. She would
also join him in wailing. What else she could do?
She had nothing except grief inward and void all around.
One day early in the morning when she went out to relieve
herself, she heard a baby cry over the hedge. She went in that direction
and found a new born baby boy, lying in a garbage dump behind the
bush. Somebody left it there. At first, she was confused. But she took
the baby to her room. She packed her luggage quickly and left for
Jangaon, in Warangal district.
Subhadra was mother. Mogili was her son. Rajesham without
tying the knot was her husband and Mogili without being born of
her womb was her son!
406 / Astitva

A flame of grief spread all through her being and tortured her
no end.
The weekly phone calls from Dubai ceased.
Rajesham visited her only once since he had left. His stay with
her for twelve days was unforgettable. It was a wonderful experience
which she could always cherish as it was a curious blend of joy and
grief and heaven and hell and love and sacrifice.
One day, Rajesham’s friend, Adepu Komurelly brought news
like a bolt from the blue. Rajesham’s work permit having expired, he
tried to run away from Dubai to Muscat. He got into a concrete mixing
vehicle stealthily. When the security personnel at the border, getting
suspicious, stopped the vehicle, the driver, to prove his innocence,
switched on the machine. As a result, Rajesham, who hid inside, got
stuck in the rotating blades and was chopped into pieces. There was
nothing left of his body except lumps of flesh! Four days after the
incident, the workers hailing from Karimnagar, were able to collect his
mortal remains and performed the funeral rites there.
Thus the story of Rajesham came to an end. In the public opinion,
Rajesham, her husband and father of Mogili was no more.
It was then a desert; a sand storm made its way into her life and
expanded all through her existence.
Life became short. Her world was reduced to a naught. The
boundaries of existence shrank further.
Now Subhadra had been left with only three options—to do
the routine job of rolling beedies to eke out a living, to read books, a
habit which Mogili inculcated into her, and to take care of Mogili
more than her life, although he was unaware of the fact that he was
her foster son.
Rest of other things to her mean a vacuum ... a mere desert ...
spread all around her endlessly.
Thus, she was leading such a pathetic life ...
Mogili, a brilliant student, got state level ranks in SSC and
Intermediate. And securing a rank below hundred in EAMCET, he
joined Mechanical Engineering course at Osmania University.
Osmania University is synonymous with a vibrant student
activism, mass movement, a war zone, a typhoon of protests!
Whenever he visited Jangaon, he would, sitting close to her,
narrate emotionally the events at the campus: Telangana, ‘a veena
 Flames of Grief / 407

with a myriad wounds,’ ‘a battle field where hundreds of young men

sacrificed their lives,’ is now waging another war.
Till late in the night, he would explain with minute detail how
Andhra rulers exploited Telangana for many decades and how
Srikanthachari in flames ran on the road before he became a martyr
and Yadaiah hanged himself from a tree in front of Indian Parliament.
... Many heart-wrenching tales of sacrifice by the people. .. salute to
the martyrs ... salute to the heroes of Telangana. ... songs of movement
rending the skies ... . provocative statements by Andhra leaders, empty
warnings. ... irresponsible behaviour of the Telangana leaders ... their
shameless actions ...
Sad and disappointed, Mogili would sit silently. Sometimes, all
night.
That day ... on August 15 ... Subhadra was rolling beedies as
usual in the house. She was alone. Mogili was in Hyderabad to attend
flag hoisting ceremony. She was waiting for her son. ... Waiting for
his arrival ... anxiously ... eagerly.
It was twenty minutes past twelve. She was watching the T.V ...
Then breaking news flashed on the screen ... ‘Another young man
committed suicide for the sake of Telangana. Running towards the
speeding Shirdi Express at the Janagaon Railway Station, he died
shouting slogans, ‘Jai Telangana’ ... . his body mutilated beyond
recognition ... .name of the deceased ... .Mogili ... B.Tech third year
student of Osmania Engineering College.’
All is over. Her world was collapsed ... smashed ... exploded
right before her eyes. She became unconscious.
As the hundreds of voices somewhere in the recess of her
subconscious were shouting ‘salutes to the heroes ... salutes to the
martyrs’, she cried ‘Mogili — Mogili — o’ thandri! — where? Where
are you?’
***
She heard a honk from a vehicle outside. Then, there was a knock on
the door. He was there! A representative of the ‘Union for the Martyrs.’
“Shall we make a move, amma? There was a gathering of ‘Grieving
Mothers’ at Nizam College grounds in Hyderabad. She remembered
what Mogili said about human rights, responsibilities, human values,
concern for the country, indebtedness to the mother land.’
408 / Astitva

Subhadra got up slowly and took the vermillion-applied portrait

of Mogili from the stool and held it close to her heart. She walked out
of the room and got into the vehicle, waiting for her.
She attended many such meetings held in the name of ‘Mothers
of Martyrs’ for the last few weeks.
Every meeting was a tortuous experience for the mothers as the
story of every mother was a sea of tears ... a torrent of grievances.
But the parents and relatives of the martyrs who attended the
meetings were all common people, poor labourers, farmers and
bahujans and dalits.
Are only these people more conscious of the social issues? Do
only these sections of the society have responsibility towards the
nation? Do only they have a real concern for their motherland?
“Amma! You must know about the society. If you read, you will
understand the true colours of the people, their hypocrisies,
conspiracies and their jugglery.” The smiling image of Mogili flashed
in her heart.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, warmly.

2014 Translated by E. Satyanarayana

 Rain in the Heart

Peddinti Ashok Kumar

“You can come tomorrow, or a year later ... heavens won’t fall here
...” When I was putting the cell phone aside after disconnecting the
call, she came to my mind. Heart jolted.
‘Oh God, how big a mistake did I commit? What to do now?’ I
thought.
I had never seen her before except the day she came to our
tailoring shop.
On that day, with a friendly smile, she said: “What is that anna
... Why do you look at me like a stranger? I belong to Emudala
(Vemulawada). I live at Thipporam gadda. I sell coriander in your
Siricilla market. Don’t you remember, many times you purchased from
me? You used to bargain a lot.”
I could not recollect it. Nodding my head, I gave an observant
look.
She had a light complexion, a round face and shining bright
eyes. Forthrightness ... a little stubbornness ... indignation in her
countenance, may not exceed twenty five years of age, slim yet full in
figure.
That day, it was Engili Poola Batukamma festival. She came to
our tailoring shop with an imitation silk sari and matching blouse
piece. She asked to stitch the blouse with loom-work, square neck
410 / Astitva

and small glass pieces added here and there. For the sari, she asked
to seam it in computer embroidering work with large pieces of glass,
chamki at the hems and with Chandana fall.
She gave impression of being a major customer and the deal
was big for me. I would have taken it with my eyes shut if it was any
other day. But it was the season of Bathukamma festival, when
tailoring work is done without rest. So I asked her when she wanted
it to be delivered.
Looking at me with gleaming eyes, “If it is any other day, why
would I have come to you, anna! I want it on the day of Saddula
Batukamma,” she said.
I got angry. “Aa! You are not asking for it to be finished by
tomorrow. Everyone comes just a day or two before festival and wants
good designs. How can we do the work in so short a time? I cannot
deliver it on the day of the festival. Get it stitched somewhere else,” I
said.
Her face turned pale. Looking with a gloomy face, as though
about to shed tears, she said, “Anna, I am not familiar with anybody
except you in the village. I have been dreaming for years to wear
embroidered dress on the day of Saddula Batukamma. All the saved
money was spent for redeeming mortgages. So, this time I kept all
the money with the Seth. He gave me the amount today after many
visits. If you refuse to stitch the design now, this money will be used
for the cost of current motor. I will not find such a happy occasion
ever again in my life.”
Wanting to express my categorical denial, I looked at her face.
She seemed to have come with trust in me. She looked at me in a
beseeching manner. I felt bad. Taking the clothes from her I said, “I
can deliver only on the eve of Saddula Batukamma. It will not be
possible to give even half an hour before that.”
Flashing a thankful smile she said, “That’s all right anna. That
day, anyway I’ll come to the market ... while going back in the evening
I will collect it.”
Taking out the bill book, I asked her name.
“Jyothi” she replied.
“You are the namesake of my sister ... married her off to a man
from Emulada,” saying these words I laid the book of designs before
her. She selected one from it. She appeared a stubborn woman. She
 Rain in the Heart / 411

did not agree to even small suggestions given by him. Some people
are like that. They don’t accept the suggestions given beforehand.
After stitching is done, they come with complaints like ‘the colour
did not match well with the sari,’ ‘the design at neckline has become
a bit larger.’ They go away throwing the clothes citing some fault or
the other. I told her the same thing to her.
“With me, there will be no two words, anna, only one word.
This is the horse and that is the ground. It’s as clear as that,” she said
affirmatively.
“But then, it will cost you a bit” I said.
“How much ...” she asked as if she didn’t mind the cost.
I calculated and gave a slightly bloated figure, “three thousand
rupees” with the intention of reducing it in the event of bargaining.
But she did not bargain. Handing over six hundred rupees to
me, she said “I will pay the rest at the time of delivery.”
I was surprised. I saw many rich women who come in costly
cars and bargain even for ten rupees and go away if I don’t agree to it.
But for the first time I witnessed a woman who was willing to pay
the amount demanded. I had a suspicion whether she would bargain
after the work is over. Some persons do bargain that way. They pester
for reducing the charges on one pretext or other. She did not seem to
be of that kind. She looked as if she hailed from a good family. Yet, I
made my intentions clear then itself.
“I have told, you know, I always stand by my word. If I want the
design of my choice, I will have it done that way only. That’s it. But
the work should be good. My sister should feel jealous of me. She
does not believe me. She jeers at me saying that embroidered dresses
are meant not for people like me,” she said with a smile.
If I had asked who her sister was, she would have told me the
details. But I did not want to ask that. I took six hundred rupees and
gave her the receipt. On the same day, I sent the sari for embroidery
and blouse for loom work.
There are eight more days left for Saddula Batukamma. I
persuaded the workers to give it back in four days. They completed
the work. On the same day I stitched the blouse and kept it ready in
a cover.
Due to my mother’s ill-health, I kept my shop closed the previous
day. I took her to a hospital. Today, as I opened the shop, I saw the
412 / Astitva

cover. ‘Today is the seventh day. Tomorrow she might come’, he

thought.
At that time, my sister made phone call. Though I did not want
to respond, I received it.
“Anna ... how is mother now? I heard you had gone to hospital
yesterday” she asked.
I became angry. “You are asking about her condition now. Why
didn’t you come and see her? Will you come lamenting for her after
her death? She always remembers you,” I said in a sarcastic manner.
“What can I do anna ... for yesterday’s rain all the cotton got
soaked. I thought of clearing the loan at least this time. Damn rain ...
it brought untold misery. I am very distressed.” She was about to cite
another problem.
She is always like that. Talking to her on phone is always a big
ordeal. She keeps on talking endlessly.
Disgusted, I snapped her conversation in the middle. “Ah ... tell
me, when were you free from problems? Sometimes you say rice got
soaked, or your paddy dried up or your motor was burnt and on
other occasions, your health was not good,” I said.
Don’t know how she felt. “Today is Saddula Batukamma. I will
be there tomorrow” she said wailing.
“You can come tomorrow, or a year later ... heavens won’t fall
here ...” When I was putting the cell phone aside after disconnecting
the call, she came to my mind.
‘Alas! They celebrate the festival only today in Emulada’
thinking, I looked at the watch. It was past twelve.
In all the villages people celebrate Saddula Batukamma for nine
days but in Emulada they observe it only for seven days. It is said
that once a king married off his daughter to a man from Emulada. He
invited his daughter for Bathukamma festival. ‘In my village we too
have the festival, then how can I come there father?’ she replied.
Batukamma is mainly a festival of women. The king who thought
there would be no festival without daughter had issued an edict to
finish the Saddulu festival in Emulada within seven days. After the
completion of the festival in the village, on eighth day, the king’s
daughter used to go to her maternal house. Since them it became a
tradition there.
 Rain in the Heart / 413

My mind became restless. ‘Pity on her ... she got a fancy for the
designed dress. Don’t know how many trips she made here yesterday
... I mistakenly thought Saddula Batukamma is celebrated for nine
days.’
I surmised, ‘If full amount has been paid, she would come on
her own. Now she has to pay me two thousand and four hundred
rupees. After festival normally they don’t turn up for completed
dresses. Even if they come, they make fuss about the amount. They
say the fault is mine. I have a lot of such stuff left with me.’
‘Ayyo ... I will incur a loss if I don’t deliver her sari and blouse
today. How far is Emulada away ... I will be back in half an hour. I
will get a good name for door delivery. She would tell her neighbours
and relatives to get their tailoring work at my shop,’ so thinking, I
came down and sat on the bike after pulling down the shop shutter.
Just then a call from Veeresham. For his daughter’s wedding he
gave few clothes for designing work. The wedding is scheduled for
tomorrow. Today, the girl will be made and decorated as the bride.
There have been phone calls since yesterday. I felt it difficult to climb
up again.
“Arey ... it would have been better if you had phoned five
minutes earlier. Just now I came down. Come after a half an hour ...”
when I was saying this, Veeresham was scolding from the other end.
I disconnected the phone and changed the gear.
I had crossed the village border quickly but the real story began
when I reached Chandrampeta.
It seemed a two-way road was being laid. The whole road was
blocked with heaps of concrete. They dug the road completely. Many
vehicles were plying on the road. The going was very slow. Due to
the previous day’s rain, the road was full of puddles and slush. The
journey took double the time than expected. By then, there were four
phone calls from Veeresham.
She lives in front of the Thipparam Gadda bus stand. Soon, I
found Jyothi’s address, an Indiramma house without any coat of
whitewash. The front yard’s floor was damaged and the underneath
mortar was visible. It seemed she was ostentatious despite her house
being simple, I thought. When I reached, she was locking the door.
On seeing, she came near me.
414 / Astitva

“So, you’ve come, anna? Come. You are right on time. You seem
to have brought the clothes,” she said extending her hands.
She is not the same as she was when I saw her last time. Her face
is emaciated and hair was dishevelled. She looked unkempt. I handed
over the carry bag of clothes to her thinking, ‘Arey ... she is like like
this!’
Taking the carry bag in her hands she said, “I am coming that
way anna, please drop me at Chandrampeta.”
I glanced at her with questioning looks for money.
“I will pay there,” she said sitting on the bike.
Surprised, I said “why there? Today is festival, isn’t it?”
“Today is festival ... but what to do? I have to throw these clothes
on the tomb of my sister. Dirty woman!” she said with agony.
“Look! I think you cherished such a designed sari ... why then
give it to her?” I asked.
‘It’s my karma anna. In this world, the fate of others is different
from that of mine. She came to know that I got these clothes stitched.
A termagant, she is. She wanted these new clothes of mine. She
sulked” she said agonisingly.
Then I understood the reason for her sorrow. I felt sad.
“Aa ... your story is good. She is sulking and you are giving
your new clothes to her. What a nice gesture! Are you the only sisters
in this world? By the way, what is she?” I asked.
“What does she do? Only farming ... now and then, she sells
vegetables in the market competing with me. One day as usual ... I
told her that I got six thousand rupees from paddy sale. That’s it ...
she went on pestering me till I gave her the money” crying, she said.
I felt sorry for her “Aa ... they surely ask if there are people willing
to give. If you give, you will be put to loss. No younger sister, no
elder sister, your household is yours. Don’t give,” I said.
‘Earlier, she was not like this, anna. She used to be very generous.
We have lost our parents. We lived for each other. She brought me up
and married me off. She was very affectionate towards me. The dirty
woman is now under burden of loan but once she had farming land
sufficient for two pairs of bullocks ...” she said.
Avoiding the concrete stones while riding the bike, “She must
be rich. Then, what is the problem for her? ... wanting other’s wealth
...” I asked.
 Rain in the Heart / 415

Adjusting on the seat for the jolts of the bike, “Damn her
possessions. Now what does she have? ... Nothing! At the beginning
too, she had nothing. My brother-in-law used to do work for Patels.
Taking loan from others, they bought four acres of land. They got a
very good yield. Within four-five years they had good balance of
amount after paying the loans ...” she went on talking.
My cell rang. And it was Veerasham. I was frightened. I did not
receive the call.
‘Poor creature ... must be in pareshan! I should have come here
after giving his clothes. I would not have come if I had known about
the bad condition of the road. I tried to increase the vehicle speed
while pondering over these things. But the speed was not increasing
however much I tried. She was narrating her story without a pause.
“With the accrual of amount, her arrogance has increased. She
built a house on loan. Does luck help in the same manner always?
There was a famine. The well which had irrigated for many years,
went dry ...”
A heavy vehicle with rigging equipment was coming in the
opposite direction. She stopped speaking. There was no way to go
forward. Fed up, I stopped the bike sideways. The bore-well vehicle
crossed me and went its way.
Pointing to that vehicle, she said as if a thunderbolt struck: “Look.
At that time, the concept of rigging bore wells has just started. She
wanted to get three bore-wells drilled. What ill-luck befell her, I don’t
know, but none of the attempts was successful. But the fourth bore-
well yielded plenty of water like the Patala Ganga. Once again the
crop’s yield was abundant. Four acres were irrigated. Crops yielded
twice a year. In two-three years they regained their old state of glory.
She was describing not in simple words but narrating with all pathos.
I was bored. On one side, vehicles were running in both the
directions and on the other, thought of Veeresham’s clothes. I was
eager to reach the village. I said to her just for the sake of talking “If
the crops grow well, is there a better work than agriculture? One can
be well off with it.”
“It is true anna ... not just one crop; she produced different crops
with water irrigation made possible by the bore-well. Plenitude
danced in her house. The thief-faced, she instantly bought four tolas
of gold. Do you know what happened thereafter, anna?” she asked.
416 / Astitva

The bike passed the arch. Lorries and buses coming from the
direction of Siricilla and Karimnagar formed a continuous line along
the road. I was terrified when I saw them. ‘Aa ... Will I reach today ...
damn the road ... what would have happened if it was not laid ... it
seems they are laying it only to trouble me’ I thought.
Soon, she picked up the thread of conversation. “Ayyo, brother
... everyone said the same at that time. They laid this road in my
childhood days. Earlier, there was but just a concrete road. Soon after
the road was laid, there came tractors. The seeds kept hidden in the
houses lost their sprouting power. The manure did not show good
effect. Paddy was affected by various pests. Cultivation could be
continued when there was full of money in the hands. Do you know
brother, how my sister’s story took a turn ...” she asked again.
The dust in the eyes, concrete stones and vehicles were on either
side ... the ringing phone ... I’ve got my load of worries. I thought she
would stop after one or two anecdotes. I was angry because without
sense of acquaintance or a friend she was proceeding with her prattle
and questions in between. In an angry mood, “has your sister’s life
ruined?” I asked.
I thought she would keep her mouth shut. As if I asked with
curiosity, she continued, “Ha ... truly ruined, anna ... for the first time
she opened an account with the Seth, she began purchasing fertilizers,
seeds, and pesticides without sense. The entire yield was used for
clearing the debt. The debt increased and he grew rich. Whereas her
financial condition was devastated.”
I was fed up. Till now proper manners required I should bear it
but now I lost my patience. As she was continuously scolding her
sister who brought her up I realized how much ‘patience’ she had.
“O God! What kind of torture is this? Will you talk endlessly
like this till you reach the destination?” I said in a loud voice so that
she could hear it.
Still she did not stop talking. She went on telling with a great
detail. “I will show you when we reach the home, brother. You ask
her whether it is the right way. She is fearless because she thinks I
have none of my own. You won’t believe but she never used to depend
on others for money. But you know, there were famines in consecutive
famines. What has happened is not known but power cuts became
common. God was unkind to them indeed for when the crop was
 Rain in the Heart / 417

fully grown, the fields used to dry totally. When it was the time for
harvest there used to be hailstorms or bore would go dry or motor
would burn. There would be none to purchase the scanty grains that
were harvested. At that time, brother-in-law’s health got deteriorated.
In this difficult period, she sold some gold ornaments that she had
bought but never stretched her hands before anyone for money ...”
I was not hearing her words. I was just looking at the lorry with
cotton load coming in the opposite direction. There was no room for
me to pass through. I stopped and rested my foot on a heap of concrete.
The lorry passed by raising a storm of dust.
As the bike started moving, she began again. “It is the cotton
anna, that did her in. For want of water she stopped paddy cultivation.
Not keeping calm, she cultivated cotton. Damn the cotton ... It only
brought losses. When the yield was good, there was no good rate for
it. When there was good rate, there was no good yield. No vision.
She sold away the land. She took the sold land for tenancy. Her own
land belonged to others now. From then onwards, she is not the same
sister as she used to be earlier ... ’
I was furious. “If you don’t stop your prattle, I too would not be
the same man ...” I said emphatically.
She did not pay heed to my words. She continued her narration
without pause.
“ ... for fear of her mouth, nobody is questioning this dragon
woman ... brother, at least you ask her. Even though she is ruined
financially, she has a lot of obduracy. Last year her elder daughter
delivered a baby. It would have been enough if a few close ones are
invited at home ... No ... inviting the whole village she celebrated it
big in a function hall. Last year when her younger daughter attained
puberty, she celebrated it grandly for fear of people looking down
upon her. Now, won’t people laugh at her if they come to know how
she ill-treated me now?” She asked as if her sister was before her and
she was arguing with her.
My patience was exhausted. I thought silence would not work.
I stopped the bike, turned back and glared at her. She looked at me
terrified.
In a shouting voice, “First, you get down the bike. You are so
irritating,” I said.
418 / Astitva

She began weeping. Tears were rolling down her eyes. “Ok, anna
... I am sorry. I won’t speak. Let us move ...” she said in a beseeching
voice.
From there she did not utter a word until we reached
Chandrampeta. I felt relaxed. ‘Ooh ... it was like calm after rain. I
could have done the same earlier. She was troubling me by not paying
the money. If she had paid me off, I would have gone leaving her
elsewhere.’ Thinking, I stopped the bike before the Anumandla
(Hanuman) temple at Chandrampeta.
She got down. As she was moving forward, “What happened?
Won’t you give me the amount? Going like that?” I asked sarcastically.
She seemed as though she had been weeping from there. The
stream of tears left their marks. She wiped her eyes and giving me a
piteous look, “Come there, anna ... I will pay you after taking it from
that devil. The house is just behind this temple,” she said.
I doubted whether between the two of them, they would deceive
me. If they say tomorrow or day after, I would not keep silent, I
thought. I took the clothes cover from her hands. I think she did not
anticipate it. She looked at me with the hurtful eyes.
I thought that she would start another story if I speak softly. “ ...
there is no dearth of self esteem and anger. After reaching there if
they start fighting I won’t keep quiet. I saw many a woman like these.
Sit on the bike,” I said angrily.
As the bike started moving, there was again a phone call from
Veeresham. When I looked, there were twelve missed calls. A shudder
ran through my spine. ‘That wedding may not take place. I will have
to face the music. I don’t know whose face I have seen this morning ...
’ I turned the bike with these thoughts in mind.
If one goes straight through the lane, the house is there in front.
I got down the bike. There was a tent in front of the house.
Looking at us, someone said, “Aa ... what else. The maternal
people have come. They brought new clothes too. Hurry up ...”
From within there were faint whimpers. My mouth became dry.
Head turned drowsy. I could not understand what had happened. I
looked around as if gone crazy.
“Damn the cultivation. Six months of severe labor left no gain.
Daughter must have undergone severe torment. Damn the rains. She
would not have been worried if it had not rained yesterday.
 Rain in the Heart / 419

Cultivating the cotton, she died consuming the cotton pesticide. Our
fate is up to ... ’ some elderly man was grieving.
‘Is that only yesterday’s rain bapu ... how many setbacks for the
last twenty years? Is it one or two ... how long a person endures it.
One’s fate comes to this only,” someone said with grief.
“Aa ... for the burden of a loan, should we die? We should
overcome all obstacles by living and fighting back. Will it continue
forever like this ... darkness on some days and light on other days ...
we must go on,” someone said.
“Damn me. Yesterday in the afternoon she came agitatedly to
my home. I was busy with work I didn’t give much time to her. Had
she vented out her grief to me, maybe she would have survived,’ an
old woman burst with tears.
Jyothi came to me. Her eyes turned glass balls for want of tears.
She looked dejectedly into my face.
“Anna ... I have been dying within since yesterday with no one
to share my grief. You came like my own brother. Except her, there is
none for me in this world, anna ... How can that devil leave me alone
like this? ... ask anna, please ask her,” looking for a word of consolation
Jyothi broke into tears.
For some reason, my sister came to my mind. The earth under
my feet was moving.

“Gundelo Vaana”
2016 Translated by Adi Ramesh Babu and
Jaiwanth Rao
420 / Astitva

They

Tayamma Karuna

She was speaking. Moving about. But she was not herself.
“I want to be only with you. But I have to go.” I placed the bag
on my shoulder.
“Why don’t you come on the 13th?”
“Should I?”
“Come, please come ...” Looking into my eyes.
Did not feel like going for this. Just with her ... wanted to talk just
with her. But it was not possible under these circumstances. Because
she asked me to come ... putting aside the vacillation whether to go or
not, thinking, ‘Maybe she would be happy if I went in this situation,’ I
set out. Ever since the time I got into an auto to go to that village, my
heart kept beating rapidly. Just five kilometers but how many memories!
‘Aa, I’ll go. First I must charge the cell phone,’ I plugged it in. I
took my dress and went to bathe.
“Akka, I’ll heat up the water. In the meanwhile, wash your face,”
her elder sister’s daughter told me.
“Okay.” Why was I charging the phone? Why was I taking my
clothes and going outside? What was I doing? I hadn’t spoken to that
person.
I rushed inside and took her hands in mine. “So, how have you
been?”
 They / 421

She laughed. How many meanings in that laugh!

Did not know what else to talk. Could not find words.
But when I was able to understand everything, what was there
to say? For a while I sat there just holding her hands. I was incapable
of outwardly showing the love I had for the other person in front of
so many people or to speak with her. Later, I was unable to remain
there and so I came out and sat down. The atmosphere was peaceful.
As for the mind it became empty. Was it really empty? If that were so,
why was my heart so heavy?
It was the last house in the street. In front of the house, it was all
mud. It appeared as if the work on the house was not over. A hall. In
the hall ... doors to the kitchen and bedroom. Toilet outside. In front
of it three papaya trees. They had some fruits. On the fence put next
to the toilet a bitter gourd creeper. A few flower plants. Next to it all
fields. They were ready to be ploughed and to plant seeds. At a
distance green trees. Perhaps a plantation. A church in front of the
house. Vacant space between the church and the house. In it plants of
greens and vegetables. If everything was fine, it was a very peaceful
environment. Was it really peaceful inside this house? It seems that if
they did not take sleeping pills, they could not sleep. Was this of
today? Wasn’t it something that had been happening for years?
As for him, he had gone. Why did this fellow too go? He did
not know—her every thought, movement, and work was for him.
Yet, he left her and went away.
“Why, my dear? Why did you desert me?” She wanted to pin
him down and ask him. How could she? Did he allow her to speak?
He mesmerised her with words. He was telling her about Bhagat
Singh. He was telling her why he had chosen this path. Was he telling
her all this because he knew what she wanted to ask him? Was she
indeed looking at him? When did he acquire such intelligence, such
knowledge! Moreover he would say, “You’re so naïve. How did father
marry you?’ Till the other day wasn’t he a child who was shielded
under her kongu?
If she had built this house earlier, he might not have left her. But
wasn’t she crazy, how could she stem the thought that had bloomed?
Leave that aside, would he not come one day to meet this mother.
“Arey, my dear. Look here, your mother has built this house for you,”
she thought of showing it to him. Perhaps she had built this house
422 / Astitva

only for him. She thought she would serve him the dhal and ghee he
liked so much. She wanted to make the idli and dosa he liked very
much and serve him. Even if he were to come, would he come home?
Perhaps not. Even so an undying hope in the heart. She lived till the
other day only with that hope. Wouldn’t they meet on some day? She
was looking forward to that “some” day.
He did come finally. He did come into the house that was built
for him. But he did not come on his own. They brought him.
“If we lived in another’s house, they would put a tent outside,
and send him away from there. I have built a house, right? Asking
them to bring him into the house, I lay him down in the front room.
Come.” These were the words she told me when we met the other
day. Some satisfaction on saying those words. But as for me, pain
that wrenched my heart.
“The water has boiled, akka. Shall I get it?” a girl asked me.
“Has it boiled? I’ll get it myself.”
By the time I had a bath and came out, a lot of commotion—I
was asked to come. Someone announced over the mike from the tent
put up in the vacant space in front of the house, “The programme
would start in a little while.”
His name was Prithvi. How lovingly they gave him that name!
“Isn’t it for this very earth that man struggles and aspires for? That’s
why we’ve given him that name.” Now, he was truly in the lap of
mother earth.
“Amma, come and let’s hoist the flag,” someone called.
She went. As she hoisted the flag and kept looking at the
fluttering flag in the sky, tears poured out, no matter how much she
tried to control them.
“Hey, you! How high you’ve grown!”
In the red red path
Under the shade of the Red Flag
O’ heroic souls who have become martyrs ... ’ The song was
continuing.
The people were standing in the Red Salute posture and singing
the chorus.
Should I feel proud looking at you? What should I do now?
Didn’t you say, ‘what more do I need than your being happy?’
Do you know? I have been feeling anxious for the past two or
three months for some reason. Didn’t feel like sitting down. Didn’t
 They / 423

feel like standing up. Didn’t feel like working. Didn’t feel like eating.
Why so? I went to the hospital. The doctor said there was nothing
wrong. Everyone asked me why I was like that. What could I tell
them? ‘I don’t know. I’m feeling anxious.’ That day I came from the
kitchen holding a coffee cup into the front room and was watching
the TV. His name on the scroll. I didn’t know when the cup fell off my
hand. Perhaps that was why the umbilical cord had troubled me for
so many days.
“They asked one from each house to come, didn’t they? Your
father went, right? You come with me.”
“Aren’t there many who die in accidents? I’m not doing anything
bad, amma, am I?”
One who would not eat his tiffin if there was no idli or dosa ...
he was enjoying gruel. How surprised I was! How much he had
changed! I thought he had really become big!
When I was returning after leaving him, he kissed me on my
hand and forehead. He hugged me to his chest like a mother, as if to
say, ‘I know every single thought of yours.’ That was the last time I
saw him. The veil of sorrow that she had drawn to control herself
would not let her speak anymore.
In the middle of the meeting, I went and asked her, “Shall we go
home?’’ She replied, “After this song.”
I sat down in the meeting. All kinds of thoughts.
I asked her the other day, “Did he get married?”
“He hasn’t yet. He said, ‘How can I without your presence?’”
I did not have the courage to ask, “Was he in love with someone?”
She told me quite some time ago. “In the tenth or so ... when he
was talking repeatedly about a girl ... and I asked, ‘Do you like that
girl?’ he replied, ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Who’s that girl?’
‘A policeman’s daughter.’
His might have been friendship. But I had my own fears. Was
his father like other people’s fathers?
‘Don’t go beyond that.’
‘Why?’
Did he ask just like that? Did he have any other motive in his
mind? Growing age. His father was not there to advise him. I had my
own doubts and fears.
424 / Astitva

‘Don’t call it love or some such thing. They’ll throw you in the
cell.’
Saying, ‘Amma!’ in an irritated manner, he continued probably
to provoke an argument, ‘Will they put me in jail just because I love
her?’
‘Will they keep quiet if they know about your father?’
All these days it seemed as if he knew everything about his father.
But he did not know anything. For some reason they were hiding
something. No matter how many times he asked me, I would evade.
‘Where does father live?’
Now I had to tell him.
‘What do they do? Why do they live in the jungle? Why will the
police catch them if they come home?’ He felt like seeing his father
right then and there. He felt like asking him many things. ‘Actually,
how does he look?’
He would constantly nag me, ‘When will you take me to father?’
‘We’ll go.’ Even if I tried to evade for the present, would he
listen?”
There was a call from there asking them to come. Would he sit
at one place? For anyone coming from outside it was the practice to
stand in a line, and shake hands saying Red Salute. Taking reverence
into the hands, how much that touch of the hand teaches! How many
doubts does that clear!
How much his heart throbbed seeing the son he had only seen
in a photograph! Even though he tried not to show his happiness
outwardly, it was obvious. That day, one had to observe him while he
was speaking—his face was glowing. No one really told him he was
his son. They do not say so too. He was a Xerox copy, wasn’t he?
Without anyone saying it, everyone knew. Those were wonderful
moments for the three of them.
Why was the family that ought to be happy like this? What was
the reason? If each thought of oneself, there would be no danger.
Were they different? Were they in fact different? They were people
who committed the crime of thinking everyone ought to live well.
Were they really criminals?
“In the camp, he would carry two cans of water, one in each
hand like everyone else. He was a slender person.
He would not listen even if he was told, ‘Don’t.’ When they were
drinking tea, how happy he was when we talked about these things!
 They / 425

He appeared as if he was not listening, but he heard every word.

There were no holds barred when he was in the camp those fifteen
days. That didn’t mean he sat next to his father and chatted with him.
He mingled with everyone. That gave ‘him’ even more happiness.”
At the meeting, they were singing the song that was written on
him.
“Anna would feel bad that the children of our comrades were
kept away from the party. Prithvi fulfilled his yearning,” Jyoti, next
to me was saying.
Don’t parents think that even if they struggled they ought to
keep their children happy? That’s why they were raising them away
from all and educating them. That’s true love, isn’t it? But what about
him? Why did he think in this manner? Moreover, he thought his son
ought to work at a place where there was no guarantee about life!
But was there guarantee outside? How were we living? In fact were
they allowing us to live? Look, how much I had to go through to
come to this meeting! How difficult to get hold of hundred rupee-
notes? Even if I had asked for a loan, the situation was not favourable.
New tensions would overpower us day by day. Were these tensions
self imposed? Not at all. But weren’t they being carried away by the
flow of tide? Even so, hadn’t life continued without any connection
with these? If not like this, how had one to live? Did they know how
to live? Was that the reason for this struggle? Were the people able to
recognise it?
These are the days when one thought, ‘it is enough if I am well
off, why bother about the other.’ These people, why were they not
accumulating anything for themselves? If they did not look out for
their own good, so be it! But they were even giving up their own
lives!
The song was over. Someone was speaking.
“When he came back after meeting his father, did he study even
a bit? A pride that he had achieved something. I thought that mother’s
love wouldn’t let him go anywhere, would tie him down. I’m very
naïve, right? He didn’t talk as much as he used to. I thought it was
because he was growing up, but didn’t realise he was distancing
himself from me. He would not go anywhere but to the college and
home. If he were to go, he knew she would be anxious. But even so,
he failed in many subjects. What happened to him? There would be
426 / Astitva

no answer when I asked him. He would be lost in some thoughts.

What big difficulty had befallen him? Wasn’t my anxiety only that he
should be happy with wife and child? The father was like that. He
was like this. I would get uncontrollably angry. Who should I confide
with?
I thought that he might at least listen if only his father were to
tell him. After meeting him, we could not come out immediately. We
had to stay there for a few days. Don’t know what the father told him
... don’t know what he thought ... He brought me out, left me, and
went away saying, ‘I’ll meet you again.’ I understood then that
something was happening.
‘Why, my son, are you going back again? Come, let’s go home.’
I asked, agitated.
‘Where will I go leaving you? I’ll always be with you.’ How
believingly he said.
Don’t know what he had thought, he came with me up to the
bus stand, made me get into the bus and then left. I sat watching him
till I could see him no more. Now he has gone to an unreachable
distance.” She kept saying all this when I met her the other day. Why
did she not cry? It would be good if she cried till her heart burst.
Was crying a symbol of weakness? Wasn’t it only the rocks that
don’t get damp? Wasn’t it only those who were emotional that shed
tears at other people’s unhappiness? Yes, weren’t they the ones with
more empathy? Wasn’t that why they were guarding against vultures
taking away people’s earnings? Wasn’t that why she, who looked after
her son as if he were her life, bore it silently when he too followed his
father’s footsteps? She felt proud inwardly.
‘My dear, cry out loud just once!’
Was it because he would not be able to see her cry? Was he in
fact looking at her? Where would he be looking at her from? Was he
not amidst the crowd here? Otherwise, why would they not move
away even though the meeting was going on since morning? Why
were they listening to each word so intently? That old woman might
not live for very long. She was moving forward each row from song
to song. Why? Was he peeping into everyone without caring for their
age?
“Akka wants you to come,” a young girl told me.
I went. “Shall we go home?”
 They / 427

We left the meeting and set out. “Did you see him?”
“Yes ... three shots on the chest,” rubbing her chest ...
‘My dear, where did you get such courage from? Did you all
decide to collide with the mountain ... ? Won’t the powerful snake be
killed by little black ants, Sumati! Yes, snakes ... ants ... all of you
know your individual strengths.’
“How did it happen?”
“While they were firing under cover, it seems one batch climbed
up the hill. As the ones who were climbing fired, these people were
climbing up under cover. It seems just then firing with machine guns
began. The one climbing fell off. The others kept looking on. And
then two more.”
‘I feel like running away from this house and these people, my
son.’
I held her hands tightly and pulled her close to my chest. But
how would one know the loss of a person just now? After all the
people around went away ... as time passed by ... wasn’t it then that
one would realise it? They would not come any more. They would
never come. The heart would be agitated, wouldn’t it? We would not
be able to do a thing. We would not be able to do anything. We
remained like that for a while.
“From the time I came, I’ve not been able to talk to you. That’s
why I didn’t feel like coming today.” It might not have been the proper
thing to say. But I wanted her to speak.
“What happened now that you came? He was happy, right?”
Even now she desired his happiness. Yes, he had to be happy.
How did she have to be for him to be happy?
Were he and his happiness the property of hers alone? He left
saying no even to the mother who looked after him so caringly. He
did not listen even when she fell at his feet. Did he leave her for his
own selfishness? Okay, at least did he leave his mother for the love of
a woman? It would have been good if he had done that. He would
have remained alive.
What had they achieved in all these years?—except to lose their
lives. Only recently, an elder.
In truth, did they not achieve anything? Not achieve anything
at all?
Once upon a time, a forest. A king for that forest. A tiger-king.
As to what kind of a king he was—a dora. In his realm, every living
428 / Astitva

being was born and died just for him. This was the king’s order. All
the female beings in that forest were his own. Was that all? Every
being’s toil was his. Every being in that forest was meant for him. No
matter how much one toiled, he would snatch it away from them.
Did any being question? It would be found dead in the morning. Or
he would gather everyone and beat them soundly saying this was
what would happen if one questioned. Even as generations went by
their fate did not change.
It was then that some rabbits entered. And some deer. Along
with them different kinds of birds. They said, ‘Your game is up.’ They
united all the beings. They said to the scared animals, ‘We’ll lay down
our lives for you.’
Look, that was how daring they were!
Would the king keep quiet? He went to the lion. He poured out
his anguish. He brought along with him vultures, foxes, wolves and
a few serpents.
Win life ... or lose life ... the small and the big animals moved
like an army of ants.
What ... !? Did the snakes leave the anthills? Did the tigers run
away leaving their kingdoms behind? How, really how was that?
Wasn’t this the discussion in villages after villages ... cities after
cities, sir? Who were not affected by them? Either spewing disgust ...
or with admiration.
Sir, why then did you say they achieved nothing?
Did they really not achieve a thing? Did they really not achieve
anything at all?
Sir, why then this creation like an ash coloured dog? Sir, why
then the vulture’s gaze from beyond some seven seas on these people?
Sir, why did you say nothing happened when the villages and
forests were drenched with their blood?
“Russia and China have got a beating. Let us keep the question
‘why’ aside. Let’s agree with your view that communism has lost–for
a while. It’s good for you, isn’t it? Then why are you putting so much
effort for those who are not even a handful? Why are you combing
the forests for them? They are, on their own accord, conducting
meetings with people. What loss is it to you? Why are you so scared
of them? That means they have something in them.” Rukminakka
was talking about some pamphlets the police had published. The mike
was audible up to the house.
 They / 429

“How much longer will we live? Let us do something for an

organisation.”
“Okay, let’s do.”
“There may be many mothers like me who have lost their
children. Let’s run some homes for them.”
“Okay.”
“That he’ll look at us from above. Though I’ve no such faith, my
heart tells me so.”
Though she had no superstitions, did he leave behind his faiths
and beliefs to his mother? Faith, belief ... wasn’t it a long time since
the meanings of these words had changed? Each to their beliefs. I to
my own. Why did I have to change for their beliefs? Yes, why would
you have to change for someone else? Should you not change at least
for yourself? Weren’t you standing in queues for hours together in
front of ATMs? Should I not berate you that you had pulled me, who
was leading my life, on to the road? For you. Not for anyone else.
Just for yourself. How many more such questions like this? They ...
they did not live for themselves. You, at least, could you not have
lived for yourself?
“I’ll get going.”
“Why don’t you stay the night?”
“I do want to stay. But not like this.”
She too came out of the house. I clasped her hands saying, “I’ll
see you later.”
She hugged me close and kissed me on my forehead—just like
him. Exactly like that fellow.

“Vaallu”
2016 Translated by Alladi Uma and
M. Sridhar
430 / Astitva

Glossary

Abba, Ammi: Father, mother

Abbabba: An expression of irritability or disgust.
Abbey: Expression denoting ‘nothing much’
Abhavamu: Originated from Sanskrit, in theological terms it implies ‘a sense
of non-existence’; also an act of moving away from something that is
negative or hindering.
Abkari: Excise Department
Achala tatvam: A philosophical thought
Adivasi: A person belonging to a tribal community
Akashaganga: A mini waterfall on Tirumala hills. Devotees take bath in it.
Alaap: The opening part of a Hindustani or Carnatic raga forming a prologue
to the formal expression. It introduces and develops the raga.
Amba: The mooing of cow or calf
Amma: Mother. When in pain or distress, people utter this word.
Amma/Ammayi: An endearing word used while addressing one’s daughter
or any young lady.
Anganwadi: A female worker in Integrated Child Development Scheme
(ICDS).
Anna: Literally, elder brother; used while addressing an elder person
affectionately.
Annalu: Literally, elder bothers; often used while referring to Naxalites.
Annayya: Telugu word for elder brother.
Arey: Mode of addressing one’s inferiors.
Arogyasree: Name of the government health scheme, Aarogyasri Health Care
Trust.
Aryasamaj: An organization vouching for Vedic culture.
Asana: Any of various postures in yoga.
Ashrafees: Gold coins.
Ashram: Hermitage; A yoga centre with facilities for spiritual activities etc.
Attar: A kind of perfume.
Avva: Mode of addressing one’s mother
Ayurveda: The traditional Indian system of medicine based on the principle
of balance in bodily systems and uses diet, herbal treatment, and yogic
breathing.
Ayya banchen, Avva banchen: Terms used in Telangana region indicating
‘sir/madam, I am your slave’
Ayyagaru: a reference to the privileged brahmin in the village; Karanam
Ayyawaru: A priest.
Bahujans: Underprivileged classes, communities.
Banchen: A term used by lower caste people to indicate their submissiveness
and meaning ‘I am your servant’
Banda: A big, flat rock.
 Glossary / 431

Baniyan: Vest.
Banjar: Dry and unproductive land.
Bapanayya: A colloquial expression for a brahmin
Bapu: A term used for calling or referring father endearingly.
Barmaru: A crude gun.
Basthi: A colony.
Batukamma/Saddula Batukamma: Literally, goddess of life; an annual festival
celebrated by the females of all ages in the Telangana region on a large
scale for nine days. It starts on the Telugu day of Bhadrapada Amavasya
and ends on Durgastami day in the month of Ashvayuja. It coincides
with Devi Navaratri celebrations in other parts of the country. Each
day, flowers of different hues and species are collected and arranged
in a cone shape in different sizes on a platter. Placing them before the
altar of a deity women pray for the well-being of their partners and
other family members invoking the mercy of the god or goddess. On
the ninth day which is called Saddula Batukamma, girls and women
of all ages from each household arrange flowers especially of the Cassia
family and congregate at water beds like streams, lakes and tanks to
reverentially bid farewell to flower-goddesses by immersion in waters.
Bava: Sister’s husband. Sometimes used for addressing any close friend of
same age.
Beedi: A crude cigarette prepared with tobacco powder stuffed in tubes made
of Tendu.
Begum: The wife of a very influential Muslim person. The term is also used
for addressing respectfully any Muslim Lady.
Bey: A commonly used derisive term among friends.
Bhabhi: Sister-in-law.
Bhai, bhayya: brother.
Bhasmasura: A demon in Hindu mythology, he tortured the gods. The latter
prayed Lord Vishnu and requested him to emancipate them from the
atrocities of the demon. Lord Vishnu, in the incarnation of Mohini,
devised a stratagem and killed Bhasmasura.
Bhavanis and Ayyappas: Devotees who observe penance in honour of the
deities for a fixed period of time.
Bhoodanam: Giving away the land by rulers or landlords to Brahmins on
important occasions.
Bhoomi puja: The ceremony of laying the foundation stone.
Bidda: Daughter; child; a mode of addressing a much younger person.
Boore: A sweetmeat prepared with wheat flour, Bengal gram flour and jiggery
or sugar.
Brahma ganam: Realization of truth.
Brahma: One of the three supreme Gods, the Trimuvarite.
Brahmastra: A very powerful arrow having magical powers as depicted in
Puranas.
Brahmee muhurtam: Wee hours of a day. It is considered an auspicious time.
Buddarikhan/Buddankhan: A clown like figure in a play.
432 / Astitva

Buddha Poornima: Celebration of the birthday of the Buddha.

Budige Jangalu: A downtrodden community.
Burkha or Burqua: A veil, usually black in colour, used for covering the body
of a Muslim lady.
Cha: A word use for expressing remorse about something that went wrong.
Chavidi: A place or small room in the centre of a village where people gather
to exchange views, discuss matters all and sundry or settle disputes.
Chellemma: A term used while addressing younger sister.
Cherralu: Small iron balls used in country made gun.
Chi chi: An expression of disgust.
Chichcha: paternal uncle.
Chindora or china dora: Dora’s younger son in a village
Chindu: A folk drama.
Chinna Babu: Young master, Son of Dora.
Chitka: A temporary remedy used by quacks; in houses too.
Chitrakannu: The eye made of silver or gold affixed to an idol of a deity in a
special religious ceremony. The idol itself is installed much earlier. It is
believed that when a Chitrakannu is fixed, the deity unleashes a
tremendous amount of fury through looks. Hence, nobody except a
Potharaju is allowed to stand in the line of the deity’s looks. Only a
Potaraju can withstand the fury of the deity, in popular belief.
Chitti: An expression used while addressing a small girl.
Choultry: A small tavern.
Chuparusthum: A person whose talents are not known to outside world.
Cutta: In villages, a common mode of smoking with leaf-made cigars stuffed
with tobacco.
Dadi/dadima: grandmother.
Dakshavadha: A Hindu mythological drama of poetic justice.
Dakshayagna: A Vedic ritual performed by Daksha, the father of Goddess
Parvati.
Dalam: A group of naxalites.
Dappu: A beating instrument made of taut hide.
Darshan: Viewing the image of an idol.
Dharmam: Virtue, righteousness.
Dhoti: A garment worn by male Hindus to cover lower part of body.
Dimpudu Kallem: A ceremony in the middle of a funeral procession to
graveyard.
Dirisena tree: Sirisa tree.
Diwan: A minister under a Muslim ruler.
Dora: A rich landlord in villages who exercised unlimited powers over the
lives of people in feudal Telangana.
Dorsani: The wife of Dora.
DSP: Deputy Superintendent of Police.
Emulada: Vemulawada, a temple town in Telangana, famous for Siva temple.
Gaamwala: A villager.
Gadi: A huge mansion of a dora, symbol of authority.
 Glossary / 433

Gandharva: celestial beings known for their art of melodious music and
singing.
Gantilu: Ear ornaments.
Garbhagudi: Sanctum Sanctorum; the innermost abode of God’s idol in a
shrine.
Garu: A suffix used while addressing a person respectfully.
Gatka: Meal prepared with ground corn or maize.
Gatuka: gruel made of maize.
Godanam: Giving away cow(s) to Brahmins.
Golem: An earthen water tub from which cattle drink water.
Gongadi: A rug or blanket woven with sheep skin, normally worn by
shepherds.
Goonda: Goon.
Gouds: a community engaged in toddy tapping.
Grama Panchayat: a village secretariat.
Gudalu: Boiled and seasoned seeds of legumes.
Gulley: Lane, alley.
Gulmohar: Name of a flowering tree. Also a tourist spot in Kashmir.
Gunta: The size of a piece of land equal to 121 square yards.
Guru: Teacher.
Haramjadee: One who backstabs
Huzoor: Your authority!
Idhar se seeda java: ‘Go straight from here.’
Idli: A fluffy white snack made of black gram flour, rice flour etc.
Inam: Cash or kind given as gift to workers mostly during festivals.
Indiramma house: A central government scheme named after the former
PM whose objective was to provide cheap houses for the
underprivileged.
Indraloka: The world of Indra i.e. the heaven.
Jaalati banda: A flat stone on which utensils are cleaned in households.
Jagir: Land or village(s) given to somebody by rulers in olden days.
Jagirdar: The owner of a jagir.
Janmabhoomi: A programme organised by Govt. in villages where people’s
grievances
Jati: Race.
Jawan: A village level official in Gram panchayat office.
Junnu: Cheese-like milk of cow etc. on the first days after it give birth to a
calf.
Kadai: Frying pan
Kailasam: The abode of Lord Siva.
Kali yuga: The present age; Krita, Threta, Dwapara being the other three
ages according to Hindu Puranas.
Kalupu: Weeding done mostly in paddy fields.
Kanji/Ganji: Gruel; rice water.
Kanjira: A musical instrument.
Kanuga: Indian Beech tree.
434 / Astitva

Kanugu: The plant called Galedupa arboria. Indian beech.

Karkhana: A factory.
Karanam: A village official who used to keep records of land, tax etc.
Karma: Consequences of deeds in previous birth manifested in the present
birth in Hindu philosophy.
Karthika pournami: Full moon day in the 7th month of Kartika in Telugu
calendar; usually in November.
Khaddar Dhoti: A cotton cloth worn around waist by males.
Khanoon: Law.
Khatarnak: An expression denoting a dangerous person.
Kissa kursika: The issue is about the chair.
Komati: A person belonging to business/trading community.
Kothi kommachi: It is a game where all players climb a tree, cling to branches
and try to keep away from the one who has to search for a twig thrown
away. The boy who runs and picks the twig will try to touch one of
those on the tree. In the process they hop from one branch to another
like monkeys. Hence the name of the game ‘Kothi kommachi’ (Monkey
on the branch of a tree).
Kudithi: Bran-filled water for cattle consumption.
Kumkum bottu: A vermillion mark sported on the forehead of a Hindu lady
whose husband is alive.
Kummara: Persons belonging to Potters’ caste.
Kurmavatara: Lord Vishnu’s incarnation as tortoise.
Katcheri: Office in general. But here, a room in the house used for office
work.
Lalchi: also called Kurta, it is a long shirt with long hands.
Lata: Lata Mangeshkar, the famous playback singer of India.
Lokayukta: An institution normally headed by a judge to look into case of
corruption indulged in by government officers, public institutions.
Luchcha: An abusive term in Urdu.
Maddela: A kind of percussion instrument, a drum.
Madiga, Jawan, Karanam, Komati: In the story, no proper nouns are used.
Persons are called based on their caste or vocation.
Madigas: A sub-caste among dalits in Telugu-speaking states.
Mali Patel: A village official.
Mamayya: Maternal uncle; also father-in-law.
Mamool: Bribe; or money given as a gift.
Mangala harathi: The offering with lamps to God, usually at the end of a
ceremony.
Mangalasutram: A flat piece of gold in round shape tied around the neck of
a Hindu bride by the groom during
wedding ceremony.
Maridi: The husband of younger sister; also younger brother of husband
Masala: A mixture of spices used in cookery
Maskoori: A village assistant.
Matsyavatara: Incarnation of Lord Vishnu as fish
 Glossary / 435

Moguralu: Pillars of stone or wood used as support for roof in old houses
Mota/motabavi: In the countryside, a kind of bailing apparatus in agricultural
field for drawing water from a big well from which a large leather
basket is raised by bullocks for irrigation purposes.
Muhurtham: An auspicious time for performing functions etc.
mutt: The abode of a guru and his disciples
Muugulu: decorative patterns with which womenfolk decorate their
frontyards, after cleaning the ground everyday in the morning.
Myadari: Basket weaving community, a person belonging to it.
Nakshatraka: In the puranas, the man who was after Harishchnadra all the
time after
Namaskaram: Telugu word for greeting.
Nanna/ Nayana: Literal meaning is father. But it is used for calling a male
child endearingly.
Narasimhaavatara: Incarnation as half man and half lion
Nawab: An influential Muslim who is often rich. Also, small rulers in olden
days
Naya paisa: The smallest denomination coin in use in olden days
Nee yavva: An expression of abuse.
Neeratikar/Neeratikadu: Water controller who oversees water flow to rice
fields
Nemalinara: A medicinal plant.
Oggu Katha: A folk story narrated musically
Orey: An endearing, also a disparaging word used while addressing male
children and
Orey: Mode of addressing younger ones and also one’s inferiors.
Paan: A preparation made with folded betel leaf with aromatic substances
inside it
Padmasalis: People belonging to weaver community
Pahelwan: A body-builder.
Paidi Thangedu: A species of Cassia Auriculata. This plant has yellow flowers.
Palash: A tree termed Butea Frondosa. Its flowers are red.
Paleru: A farm labourer who works for a landlord.
Pancha: A man’s lower garment
Panchanama: Postmortem.
Pandiri: A shade made of leaves or wicker work
Pantulayya: A brahmin who is consulted for auspicious time for important
celebratory
Pareshan: A frequently used Urdu word implying a state of being perplexed,
worried.
Pashupathastra: The divine, powerful arrow of Arjuna that made him
invincible in the Mahabharata.
Patel: A village administrative head; also a farmer having considerable area
of cultivable land.
Patelamma: Wife of Patel
Patta: Certificate of land ownership
436 / Astitva

Patwari/Karanam/Karnam: A village official who used to keep land records,

hence powerful.
Peddayya: Elder brother or son
Peddora/Pedda dora: Dora or his elder son in a village
Pesara Garelu: Snacks made of green gram.
Picchi sanyasi: A word denoting a naive person.
Police Patel: A village official in charge of law and order.
Pooja: Worship.
Pulusu: Seasonal tamarind juice consumed with rice.
Rachabanda: A stone platform built underneath a tree in the centre of a village;
it is the place where village elders hold council and settle disputes.
Rajiv Rahadari: The express highway from Hyderabad to Godavarikhani in
Telangana state
Ramayana keertana: Lavishing praise.
Razakars: were a private militia organized by Qasim Razvi to support the
rule of Nizam Osman Ali Khan, Asaf Jah VII and resist the integration
of Hyderabad State into the Dominion of India; they unleashed deadly
atrocities on Hindus in 1950s.
Renuka Yellamma: A village deity.
Saitan: Native use of Satan.
Salam: Salutation usually with bowing of body.
Sammakka, Saralakka: Valiant women during Kakatiya kings’ regime. They
waged battle for the integrity of their
Sangham: Association; here it refers to the revolutionary outfit that fought
against the establishment in the last quarter of 20th century in Telangana.
Sannai: A musical instrument played by blowing with mouth.
Sarkar: literally government; here, the acrid smell in a government office.
Saru: Native use of ‘sir’
Satidevi: Another name for Parvati, the consort of Lord Siva.
Satsangh: A company of pious, truthful people.
Shahukar/Shaukar: A smalltime trader
Sharada vallu: People belonging to a community who narrate the lineage of
noted families.
Singareni: Collieries with its headquarters at Godavarikhani in Telangana
state
Sravana: One of the 12 Telugu months. Coincides with rainy season.
Subedar: Administrative head of a cluster of villages.
Sudra: A person belonging to the fourth rung of Varnashrama (caste system)
in India
Sudras: In Hindu caste hierarchy, persons belonging to the lowest echelons
Sukkeddu: An ox with a white spot on its body
Surma: collyrium applied especially for warding off evil spirits.
Tabedar: A government official in olden days
Talam: Another kind of metallic percussion instrument
Taluka: An administrative unit in the past. Mandals have replaced them in
the present time.
 Glossary / 437

Talukdar: Same as above

Tamasha: A grand show, performance, or celebration, especially one involving
dance.
Tavez: A talisman supposed to being good luck and health.
Tenugodu: a person belongs to Tenuga caste
Thalari/ Pedda Thalari: Village servants who assist Patel and Patwari.
Thammali: A drum or shehnai played by these caste people on important
occasions.
Thanda: A village-unit inhabited by members of a tribal community,
Lambadas.
Thandri: father; a term of endearment used for the loved ones
Thatha: Literally ‘grandfather’; an old man is also addressed similarly.
Thoo: A derogatory expression expressing abhorrence.
Thousand hoods: Title of the translated Telugu book, Veyi Padagalu originally
written by Viswanatha Satyanarayana,
Jnanapeeth award winner. The rendering into Hindi was done by P. V.
Narasimha Rao, the former Prime Minister of India.
Thuf: A kind of scolding among Telugu speakers
Trishool: Trident
Tumma: Babul tree
Turakas: A Telugu word meaning Muslims, originated from Turks
Vada: An oil food usually served for breakfast; prepared with black /green
gram flour.
Vadina: A kinship term indicating sister-in-law; mode of addressing an elder
brother’s wife; also a married woman addressing her husband’s elder
sister.
Vaitarini: A mythical river one has to cross after death.
Vajrakayudu: A person with a very strong body as though one made of
diamond.
Vamanavatara: Incarnation as dwarf.
Varahaavatara: Incarnation as boar.
Varevva: An expression to denote happiness and wonder.
Vetti madiga: A bonded labour belonging to madiga community
Vipranarayana: A highly virtuous priest in olden days who fell prey to the
enticement of a prostitute.
Vodde/Voddera: A person belonging to a caste engaged in stone crushing.
Wastad: Bodybuilder; A man with a muscular body who often intimidates
people and is hired as a bouncer.
Watandar: A landlord who owns many acres of land.
Yagna: Ritual of Fire.
Yakshaganam: A theatre dance form often in classical style.
Yamapuri: The abode of Lord Yama, God of Death.
Yata: Slaughtered goat or sheep for cooking.
Zamana: World; a phase.
438 / Astitva

Notes on Authors

1. Suravaram Pratapa Reddy (1896-1953): A prominent personality among

Telangana luminaries and activists, he played a major role in Telangana literary
Renaissance in the first half of 20th century. He was born in Mahabubnagar district;
a scholar in Telugu and Sanskrit. He was well-known as editor, researcher,
historian, chronicler and social reformer. He authored Social History of Andhras,
Hindu Festivals, and a number of stories and plays. He published a magazine
Golkonda from Hyderabad. He established libraries and strove for the amelioration
of dalits.

2. Kaloji Narayana Rao (1914-2001): His forefathers migrated from Maharashtra

and settled at Madikonda near Warangal. He is the recipient of the second highest
civilian honour in the country, Padma Vibhushan. Famous for his series of poetry
collections with the title, Naa Godava (My Protest). In his poetry, short stories and
oratory, Telangana idiom and oral rhythms abound. During his lifetime, he raised
his voice against all forms of injustice. Humanism was basic ethic of his
personality. For all his writings and activism, he was regarded as the conscience-
keeper of the society.

3. Potlapally Rama Rao: He was born in 1922 at Warangal. His short story
collection was published in 1945 with the title, Jail (Prison). He maintains a simple
style and structure in his stories. He also published three poetry collections.

4. P.V. Narasimha Rao (1921-2004): Former Prime Minister of India and Pride of
Telangana. A scholar-statesman, polyglot-litterateur, administrator-reformer, a
multifaceted personality, he steered the country clear of innumerable political
and economic hardships at a crucial point in Independent India’s history that
too, heading a minority government. Hailed as the pioneer of economic reforms
in India, he had left his indelible imprints in different Ministries; as the Chief
Minister of undivided AP he implemented land reforms. He was brought up at
Vangara in Karimnagar district; pursued his higher education at Warangal and
Nagapur; took part in the Vandemataram movement. During 1945-52 he
published Kakatiya magazine along with his friend, Pamulaparthy Sadasiva Rao.
He translated Vishwanatha Satyanarayana’s Telugu classic Veyi Padagalu into
Hindi. He also wrote a few stories in English. He authored a fictional
autobiography in English, The Insider.

5. Dasarathi Krishnamacharya (1925-1987): Born on 22 July 1925 in a middle-

class family at Chinnaguduru, Warangal district, he was a poet-critic-activist-
lyricist. As a volunteer in the left-wing Andhra Mahashaba movement, Dasarathi
travelled from village to village in Telangana to enlighten the public. After
democratic rule was established in Hyderabad, Dasarathi served in the
government of Andhra Pradesh for some time. Later, he worked for All India
 Notes on Authors / 439

Radio, Hyderabad and Madras. He served as the Poet Laureate of AP from 1971
to 1984. He had a fine grip over Telugu, Sanskrit and Tamil languages. Daasrathi
obtained fame through his revolutionary poetry. His first book Agnidhara (Flowing
Fire) was published in 1947. His other works include Rudraveena (1950),
Mahandrodyamam, Punarnavam, Amruthabishekam, Timiramtho Samaram and Ghalib
Geethalu (1961), the Telugu translation of the poems of Urdu poet Mirza
Asadullah Khan Ghalib. He has also composed lyrics to many Telugu films.

6. Vattikota Alwar Swamy (1915-1961): A prominent personality among

Telangana literary luminaries. He was born at Peda Madaram village in Nalgonda
district. A self-made man, he worked for sometime in Golkonda magazine. Led
the Library movement in Telangana, started Desodharaka Publications and
published ten books by 1941. Took part in the Satyagraha of 1942, and was
imprisoned. Thereafter, he joined the Communist led movement against the
Nizam and again underwent rigorous imprisonment for three years. During his
jail term, he authored Prison Stories and the novels, Gangu, Prajala Manishi.

7. Vallapureddy Buchareddy (b.1932): Born at Pebbair in Mahabubnagar district.

A Telugu teacher by profession, he wrote stories, songs, plays and essays. His
writings were brought out in two volumes.

8. Cherabandaraju (Baddam Bhaskar Reddy): A writer who, initially belonged

to the Naked Poets group, and then the Revolutionary Writers Organisation; he
was born in Rangareddy district. He wrote many poems, songs, stories and a
novel, Maa Palle (Our Village). He depicted Telangana life-struggles in his stories
in a realistic manner.

9. Madireddy Sulochana (1935-1982): Born at Shamshabad village in Rangareddy

district, she completed her graduation and post graduation in Hyderabad. She
worked as teacher of Chemistry. A prolific writer, she had about 150 stories and
72 novels to her credit. She was a very popular writer of her times who developed
the reading habit among Telugu people. Avoiding the more popular romantic
strain, she adopted realistic portrayal of life in her fiction.

10. Naveen (Dongari Mallaiah): Born on 24th December 1941 at Vavilala village
in Warangal district, he received instant critical acclaim with his very first novel,
Ampashayya (Bed of Arrows) published in 1969. The novel’s title became the
surname of the author ever since. He served as Lecturer and Principal for 32
years until his retirement in 1996. He has 32 novels, more than 80 short stories
collected in six volumes and a number of articles, columns and middles to his
credit. He is one of the most feted and honoured among Telugu writers today.
Some of his stories and novels were translated into English and other Indian
languages. He received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for his novel,
Kalarekhalu (Contours of Time) in 2004. Mobile: 9989291299. Email:
[email protected].
440 / Astitva

11. Ch. Madhu (b. 1945): Born at Ramayampet, he wrote more than a thousand
poems and a number of short stories, now made Nizamabad his home town.
Took active part in many leftist movements in Telangana.

12. Sadanand Sharada (b.1952): He was the first among Telugu writers to add
his wife’s name to his own name; wrote more than 150 stories, many literary
essays and novels. Jaadi (The Jar) and Golusu (The Chain) are his story collections.
For his novel, Manchi Neella Bavi (Drinking Water Well), he received the Andhra
Prabha Prize. He co-edited Telangana Kathalu, an anthology of short fiction for
Visalandhra publications in 2005.

13. Nandini Sidhareddy: See Note on Chief Editor.

14. Devaraju Maharaju (b.1951): Born at Bhongir in Nalgonda district. He worked

as Lectrurer in Zoology for 30 years. He is one of the first writers to experiment
with Telangana dialect in his stories. Well known as a poet, critic, short story
writer and translator.

15. Muktavaram Parthasarathy (b. 1944): Born at Bhongir in Nalgonda Dist., his
first story was published in 1959 in Golakonda Pathrika in 1959. Wrote many stories,
novels; also a translator. His novel, Rangula Vala (Colourful Net) got first prize in
a competition held by Andhra Prabha weekly in 1969. His other novels included
Kougili, Paruvu, Shunyam, Kinchid Vishadam, etc. He extensively translated from
world literatures into Telugu. Address: 411, Prabhatkar Apartments, Vijaya Nagar
Colony, Hyderabad, 500057. Mobile: 9177618708. Mail:
[email protected].

16. Uppala Narasimham (b.1955): Born at Devaram Yamzal near Secunderabad.

A writer-critic-journalist, he wrote many stories and literary essays. Thiragabadda
Bhoomi (Land in revolt), Erra Light (Red Light) and Torchlight are his short story
collections. Received Telangana Sahitya Akademi Award for short fiction in 2019.
Add: Golnaka, Amberpet, Hyderabad, Mobile: 9985781799.

17. Ayodhya Reddy (b.1955): Was born at Mittapali village in Siddipet district.
He wrote short stories, essays, book reviews, besides two novels. He translated
stories from English and Hindi into Telugu; translated Ngugi’s Weep Not Child
into Telugu. Retired as senior journalist from Andhra Bhoomi daily. Mobile:
9399962117.

18. Tummeti Raghothama Reddy (b.1959): Born in Chityala mandal of Warangal

district, he worked in Singareni Collieries at Godavarikhani. His first story,
“Dhikkaram” (Defiance) was first published in 1987. With firsthand knowledge
of lives at the coal mines, he portrayed their travails, anxieties and aspirations in
his more than fifty stories and the novel, Nalla Vajram (Black Diamond).

19. B.S. Ramulu (b.1949): A well-known contemporary writer, he was born at

Jagityal. Besides novels and stories, he has many essays, columns and edited
 Notes on Authors / 441

books to his credit; went underground from 1985 to 1990; ever since he joined
the mainstream, he had been working for the amelioration of bahujans, Backward
classes and dalits. He wrote more than one hundred and fifty stories collected in
six volumes like Paalu, Smruti, Vepa Chettu, and Teneteegalu. As founder-member
of Karimnagar Book Trust and Vishala Sahithi, he published many books,
organised story workshops, literary meets and conferences. Add: 2-2-647/A/57,
Saibaba Nagar, Sivam Road, Hyderabad 500013. Mobile: 9391036987.

20. Allam Rajaiah (05-06-1952): Hails from Adilabad district. Known for
revolutionary fervour in his stories, he wrote more than one hundred stories and
novels like Kolimantukunnadi (The Forge is Aflame) and Agni Kanam (Fire Spark).
Many of his stories were written in Telangana dialect. Bhoomi (The Land), Srishti
karthalu (Creators), and the much acclaimed Athadu (He) are some of his story
collections. Add: ACC Cement Factory Colony, Mancherial, Telangana. Mobile:
9949570630

21. Kaluva Mallaiah (b. 1953): Born at Telukunta village in Karimnagar district.
A prolific writer, he has about 600 stories, 12 novels, 250 essays and numerous
columns to his credit. He is the only writer in Telugu who has written 600 stories.
Has won nearly fifty awards including ATA, Raavi Shastry, Telugu University
awards. Much research has been done and is taking place on his stories in different
universities. Add: 7-4-163, Karimnagar 505002.

22. P. Chand (P. Yadagiri): Born in 1954 at Warangal, he worked in Singareni

Collieries. Observing the life of coal mine workers from close quarters he depicted
their travails in many of his stories anthologized in Boggu gani (Coal mine).
Besides, he concentrated on problems of the downtrodden, exploitation of the
privileged sections, and changing human relationships. He wrote more than one
hundred stories. Add:2-10-429/10/1 Teachers’ Colony, Phase-II, Hanamkonda.
Mobile: 9573093526.

23. Bejjarapu Ravinder (b.1967): Working as a teacher at Peddapally, Karimnagar

district. He wrote many stories on the injustice meted out to the Telangana region
in the undivided AP. He received Vattikota award for his story, “Nitya gayala
Nadi” (River of Daily Wounds). Add: Surabhi Colony, Amar Nagar, Peddapally-
505172, Mobile: 9491046104, Mail: [email protected].

24. Jathasree (1943-2018): Hails from Nalgonda, thereafter settled in Kothagudem

in Khammam district. He wrote more than one hundred short stories. He brought
out six short story collections and three novels. Concentrates on middleclass
ethos and human relationships in Telangana region. Received first prize in
Visalandhra story competition, also received Vattikota Alwar Swamy story award.

25. Amballa Janardan: An NRI, he was born in Nizamabad district. He created

an excellent corpus of fiction even as he was away from his place. Known for his
442 / Astitva

leanings towards working classes. Bombay Stories was his significant short story
collection. Mobile: 9987533225

26. Mudiganti Sujata Reddy: Was born on 25th May, 1942 at Aakaram village in
Nalgonda district. She wrote a number of stories, novels and critical essays. She
did painstaking, pioneering work in bringing to light the neglected, forgotten
writers from Telangana anthologizing First Generation Telangana stories in two
volumes. Add: 2-2-1105/21, ‘Rohanam’, Tilak Nagar, Hyderabad-500044. Mobile:
9963431606.

27. B. Muralidhar: Born on 12 July 1955 at Sonala village in Adilabad district, he

published one short story collection. Won Potti Sri Ramulu Telugu University
Award for this collection, Nemalinara for 2018. Add: B-85, Housing Board Colony,
Adilabad-504 001.

28. Kasturi Murali Krishna (b. 1965): After completing his post graduation in
Hyderabad, he worked at the Indian Railways. A short story writer, novelist,
columnist, he has won many prizes for his novels. In his fiction, he likes to
experiment with different themes including the historical, science and horror
fiction.

29. Adepu Laxmipathi: Short story writer, critic and translator, he was born in
1955 and grew up at Godavarikhani in Karimnagar district. From 1972 to 2002,
he was an employee of The Fertilizers Corporation of India Limited,
Ramagundam unit. Having lost his job in forcible Voluntary Separation Scheme,
he moved to Hyderabad in 2003. He has been concentrating on his changed career
as translator and copy/manuscript editor. He has written 25 short stories, dozens
of analytical essays, book reviews and forewords. Some of his short stories won
prizes in competitions held by distinguished magazines; In 1997, he published
Naalugu Drushylau, a collection of 17 short stories. Among a few literary awards
he received are Noothalapati Sahiti Satkaram-1998, Raavi Shastri Smaraka Sahitya
Puraskaram-2006 and Telangana State Govt. Award for short story-2018. Add:
2-3-64/10/A/63, Jaiswal Garden, Amberpet, Hyderabad 5000013. Mobile:
9701227207. e-mail-id: [email protected].

30. Boya Jangaiah (1942-2014): Born at Lingareddypet in Nalgonda district. Wrote

hundreds of short stories and a few novels like Jatara and Jagadam. In his writings,
he depicted dalit lifescapes and their anguish at centuries old exploitation.
Received many awards including Telugu University Puraskaram.

31. Shahjahana (b. 1974): Born at Karepally in Khammam district, now settled
in Hyderabad. She published a poetry collection, Dardee (2012), and a short story
collection, Laddafi (2016). She edited Muslim women poetry collection, Naquab
(2005), and with Skybaba edited a poetry anthology of Muslim culture, Alaava
(20016). On behalf of the Government of India she participated and recited poetry
at Frankfurt Book Fair-2006 and Moscow Book Fair-2009. She received many
 Notes on Authors / 443

awards including Gurram Jashuva Award-2015, Telugu University ‘Keerthi

Puraskaram’, Telangana State Eminent Woman Award-2017. Mobile: 9440322361.
Email: [email protected].

32. K. V. Narender: Was born on June 7, 1967 at Chilva Kodur village in

Karimnagar district. He began writing stories since his childhood. Mano Geetam
(Song of the Heart), Amma, Yuddham (War), Kaalutunna Poola Thota (Garden
Aflame) are some of his story collections. Add: 7-4-264/B, Near bypass Road,
Vidyanagar, Mobile: 9440402871, Mail: [email protected]. Jagityal 505 327.

33. Raama Chandramouli (b.1950): Formerly Head, Department of Mechanical

Engineering, Govt Polytechnic, Warangal; worked as Vice-Principal of Ganapathy
Engineering college, Warangal. In the creative field for the last thirty years, he
has 17 novels, about 150 stories and five anthologies of poetry. His poems and
stories have been widely translated into English and other languages. He has
received Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Academy award from the government of
undivided AP apart from several other awards. Add: 11-24-498, Telephone Bhavan
Lane, Pochamma Maidan Warangal 506002. Mobile: 9390109993.

34. Peddinti Ashok Kumar (06-02-1968): Born at Mallareddypeta in Karimnagar

district, he teaches Mathematics in a school at Ramaipeta. He is a prolific writer
with five novels and more than one hundred stories to his credit. His novel, Edari
Mantalu (Desert Flames) is the first Telugu novel written about labor migration
to Gulf countries. His short story collection, Valasa Bathukulu, (Migrated Lives).
Some of his stories have been translated into many languages. His novel, Jigiri
has been translated into English as Friends Forever and seven other languages.
The original novel won an award in ATA conducted competition for fiction. Add:
4-4-90/1, Reddy Wada, Sircilla - 505301. Mail: [email protected].
Gambhiraopet mandal, Karimnagar district 505304. Mobile: 9441672428.

35. Tayamma Karuna (Miriyala Padma): Born at Thoulikal village in Nalgonda

district. A journalist in Hyderabad, she published one collection of stories,
Tayamma Stories in 2009.
444 / Astitva

About the Translators and Editors

Adi Ramesh Babu (b.1979): Born at Metpally, Karimnagar district, he

completed his M.A, M. Phil and Ph.D. from Kakatiya University and PGCTE
and PGDTE from EFLU, Hyderabad. He is now working as Asst. Professor
of English at Kakatiya Degree & PG College, Hanamkonda. He edited a
number of books on Indian Writing in English and ELT: Indian English
Literature: A Memento of Feminist Minds, Indian Women Literature: A Montage
of Leitmotiv, English Language Teaching and Learning: Problems and Remedies
and Subaltern Spaces in New Literatures: An Anthology presented to K. Damodar
Rao etc. Mobile: 9959026160/7396337108. Email: [email protected]

Algati Thirupathi Reddy: Born on 27 th August, 1954, he hails from

Chinnapendial village in Warangal district. After completing his M.A
(English) in 1979 from Kakatiya University, Warangal, he had been engaged
in teaching and administration in +2 colleges in different parts of Telangana
until his superannuation in 2013. Many of his translations appeared in Scent
of the Soil (2012) and Ode to Frontline Formations (2013). Add: 8-14/A, Southside,
BC Colony, China Pendial 506144, Warangal Dist. Telangana. Mobile:
9440502447/7386862420. Email: [email protected].

Alladi Uma (b.1952): Has a Ph. D., from SUNY, Buffalo, USA. After teaching
for more than 25 years, she took voluntary retirement to work for The Alladi
Memorial Trust. Along with M. Sridhar, she has been publishing translations
from Telugu to English with publishers like Orient Blackswan, Sahitya
Akademi and Katha, New Delhi. Among their important translations
are Ayoni and Other Stories, G. Kalyana Rao’s Untouchable Spring and K. Siva
Reddy’s Mohana! Oh Mohana! and Other Poems. She and M. Sridhar have won
the Rentala Memorial Award (2006) and Malathi Pramada Sahithi
Puraskaram (2018) for their contribution to the field of translation. Address:
3-6-226/1, Himayatnagar, Hyderabad - 500 029. Mobile: 8897731147. Mail:
[email protected]

Chintapatla Sudarshan (b. 1950): Short story writer, reviewer, columnist

and translator. As columnist wrote more than one thousand satires in
newspapers and magazines. Published one volume of short stories in Telugu,
Amrutham kuravani Raatri, three volumes of satires. He translated Baa
Rahmatulla Khan’s Telugu stories into English, and James Joyce’s A Portrait
of the Artist as a Young Man and Harivansh Roy Bachcahan’s Madhushala into
Telugu. He received Telugu University Puraskaram in 2000 and Telangana
State Governemnt Award for Literature in 2014. Address: 1-5-168, New
Maruti Nagar, P&T Colony, Hyderabad–500060. Mobile: 9299809212. Email:
[email protected]

Elanaaga: See Note on Editor.

 About the Translators and Editors / 445

E. Satyanarayana (b.1964) : completed his M. Phil (1992), Ph. D (1994) from

Kakatiya University and PGCTE from EFLU, Hyderabad. A critic-translator,
he is working as Asst. Professor of English at Kakatiya Degree & PG College,
Hanamkonda. He has 30 articles and a number of translations to his credit.
He also presented several papers at Seminars both national and international.
His poems “Fourliners” appeared in Triveni and The New Indian Express. His
translations of short stories appeared in anthologies like Lifescapes, Showers
on Deccan Rocks. He published an anthology of short stories, Echoes from the
Edge (2018). Mobile: 9866176292/7013313917. Mail: [email protected]

Gannu Nataraja Shekhar (b.1979) : A Senior Lecturer in the Department of

English, Government Polytechnic, Warangal, he completed his Ph. D from
Kakatiya University, Warangal. An ELT expert, he is one of the master trainers
in the Department of Technical Education. He authored and edited textbooks,
workbooks and lab manual for Diploma students in the undivided AP and
in Telangana. Mobile: 9885700695. Email: [email protected]

Jaiwanth Rao Charlukar: Hailing from Adilabad district, he completed his

MA (English) from Kakatiya University, Warangal, M. Phil and Ph.D. from
Osmania University, Hyderabad; presently working as ad-hoc lecturer in
Jawaharlal Nehru Technological University, Kondagattu branch, Jagityal
district, Telangana; has been in the teaching profession for the last sixteen
years. An avid reader, he has published many articles and presented scholarly
papers in national and international seminars. Mobile: 9491637198.

K.B. Gopalam: Also known as Vijayagopal, he was born on 16th June 1953,
in Yenugonda village of Mahabubnagar district. A doctorate degree holder
in Genetics, he worked in All India Radio as Science Officer, Assistant Station
Director and Station Director. His programmes on scientific themes like
Vignana Paddhati, Manava Vikasam and others were widely appreciated.
He has written about hundred books mostly on Popular Science like Batuku
Badi and Medadu Manamu. He translates from English, Hindi and Urdu. He
translated Kahlil Gibran into Telugu; also an award winning archivist of
Carnatic music. Address: 403, Yashoda Residency, Street No 13, Central
Excise Colony, Bagh Amberpet, Hyderabad. Mobile: 9849062055. Mail:
[email protected].

K. Damodar Rao: See Note on Editors.

K. Purushotham: Professor of English and presently Registrar, Kakatiya

University, Warangal. A literary critic, an anthologist and a translator, he
works in the areas of anti-caste writing and critical pedagogy. His recent
books include: The Oxford India Anthology of Telugu Dalit Writing (co-ed),
Interrogating the Canon: literature and Pedagogy of Dalits (Kalpaaz), Black Lilies:
446 / Astitva

An Anthology of Telugu Dalit Poetry (Critical Quest). Besides translating poetry,

fiction, non-fiction from Telugu to English, he has edited textbooks, literary
journals and carried out UGC/ICSSR projects on language and literature.
Mobile: 8341440035. Email: [email protected]

M. Sridhar (1962): Has a Ph.D., from University of Hyderabad. After

teaching for more than 25 years, he took voluntary retirement to work for
The Alladi Memorial Trust. Along with Alladi Uma, he has been publishing
translations from Telugu to English with publishers like Orient Blackswan,
Sahitya Akademi and Katha, New Delhi. Among their important translations
are Ayoni and Other Stories, G. Kalyana Rao’s Untouchable Spring and K. Siva
Reddy’s Mohana! Oh Mohana! and Other Poems. He and Alladi Uma have won
the Rentala Memorial Award (2006) and Malathi Pramada Sahithi
Puraskaram (2018) for their contribution to the field of translation. Address:
3-6-226/1, Himayatnagar, Hyderabad-500 029. Mobile: 9000123843. Email:
[email protected].

Muktavaram Parthasarathy: See Note on Author.

N. Ramesh Chandra Srikanth: An alumnus of Kakatiya University, he is

working as Asst. Professor of English at Government Degree College,
Mulugu. He presented papers on Commonwealth Literature,
Multiculturalism, Bhakti Literature and Dalit Literature in National and
International seminars. He is interested in teaching English language with
innovative task based approaches applying current techniques of CLT. Add:
55-2-485, Satyasai Colony—3, Hanamkonda 506001. Mobile: 8639425686/
9985120744. Email: [email protected]

Palakurthy Dinakar (b.1970) : Working as Asst. Professor of English,

Government Degree & PG College, Huzurabad. Completed M.A. (English)
and Ph.D. from Kakatiya University, Warangal and P.G.D.T.E. from EFLU,
Hyderabad. A Best Teacher Awardee from the State Government, he has
more than two decades of teaching experience. Authored 11 books, edited 4
anthologies and translated 70 poems, 29 short stories and three booklets.
Presented papers in National and International Seminars and published 43
research articles in edited anthologies and scholarly journals. Add: 2-4-1254,
Gandhinagar, Near Old Bus Depot, Hanamkonda—506001, Telangana.
Mobile: 9959711849. Mail: [email protected]

Parimala Kulkarni (b.1967): Working as Assistant Professor in the

Department of English, Osmania University, Hyderabad; received the UGC
Research Award 2014-2016. She co-edited a book Contemporary British
Literature: Post-1990s-A Critical Study. Her research publications include
“English in India: Origins and Early Contact” in People’s Linguistic Survey
of India volume on International Languages in India, “South Asian Gender
 About the Translators and Editors / 447

Stereotypes in Chitra Divakaruni’s Arranged Marriage,” “Emerging from the

Shadows: The Spinster in Anita Nair’s Ladies Coupe,” “Global Models, Local
Products: Advaita Kala and Indian Chick Lit,” in Globalisation: Australian-
Asian Perspectives. Her translations from French to English were published
in French Feminism: An Indian Anthology. Address: 3-4-526/41-44, Barkatpura,
Hyderabad 500027. Mobile: 9177771881. Email: [email protected].

Sripada Swatee: Translates from English to Telugu and vice versa. She
recently translated Prof. S.V. Satyanaryana’s selected poems into English.
Address: 301, Yamuna Apts, Ramanthapur, Hyderabad. Mobile: 8297248988.

T.S. Chandramouli (1.8.1947): An academic, poet, translator and critic, is a

Fellow of Royal Asiatic Society, Great Britain and Ireland. A former Associate
Professor of English, he published 26 books including 3 books of poems in
English. His translation work comprises Coolie the Sovereign a play, Black
Lotus apart from numerous poems and short stories. He is the Chief Editor
of Virtuoso, a Refereed Bi-Annual Journal in English. Vice Chairman of AESI
[Association of English Studies in India] for a second term, Dr Mouli made
academic presentations in universities in China, Thailand, Philippines,
Malaysia, Indonesia, the U.K, France, Sri Lanka, Brazil and Cambodia. Also
visited Vietnam and Singapore. Mobile: 9849005304. Email:
[email protected].

T. Srinivas (1956): Obtained M.A (English) from Kakatiya University,

Warangal, PGDTE from EFLU, B. Ed from Osmania University, Ph. D from
JNTU, Hyderabad. Worked as Lecturer in English and retired as Vice-
Principal from GDC, Hayatnagar, Hyderabad. Presently working as Professor
and Head, Dept of English, NITS, Hyderabad. Contributed many articles to
different journals. Address: Flat 102, Daida Prabhakar Reddy Nilayam,
Prashantnagar, Opp. Survey of India, Uppal, Hyderabad-500039. Mobile:
9949385994. Email: [email protected].

Chief Editor
Nandini Sidhareddy (1948): A prominent figure in Telugu literature, he was
born at Bandaram village in Medak district; completed his Intermediate,
Graduation in Siddipet and took his M.A (Telugu) degree from Osmania
University, Hyderabad. He completed Ph.D., in Telugu from Osmania
University in 1986. Worked as Lecturer in Telugu at Medak and Siddipet;
retired from Government Degree College, Siddipet in 2012. A versatile writer,
he has seven poetry collections, three works of criticism and one collection
of songs to his credit. Also wrote more than twenty stories. He edited the bi-
monthly, Manjeera during 1986-89, a quarterly, Soyi from 2002 to 2007, and a
poetry anthology, Edapayalu in 2001. He received Free Verse Front Award
(1987), Dasarathi Award (1988), Nandi Award for his song (2010) Telugu
University Special Award (2016) among others. He is the founder-member
448 / Astitva

of ‘Manjeera Writers Organisation’ (1986), ‘Telangana Cultural Forum’ (1998),

‘Telangana Writers Forum’ (2001), and ‘Telangana Writers Organisation’
(2014). Presently, he is the President of Telangana Sahitya Akademi,
Hyderabad. Mobile: 9440381148. Mail: [email protected].

Editors
K. Damodar Rao (b.1957): Retired as Associate Professor from Department
of English, Kakatiya University, Warangal. His first critical work was The
Novels of Aye Kwei Armah (1993), and edited anthology was Mapping English:
Recent Studies in Language and Literature: A Festschrift to Prof. T. Vinoda (New
Delhi: AuthorsPress, 2016). His jointly edited critical collections with Prof.
M. Rajagopalachary include Postcolonial Indian English Fiction: Decentering
the Nation (Rawat, 2016) Multiculturalism in Indian Tradition and Literature
(Atlantic, 2016), Bhakti Movement and Literature: Re-forming a Tradition (Rawat,
2016). His recent edited critical volume with Prof. J. Yellaiah is Indian English
Fiction and Multiculturalism (Rawat, 2018). He compiled, edited and translated
a Telugu poetry anthology, Pride of Place: Selections from Telugu Poetry 1981-
2000 in 2011. He also compiled and edited two Telangana Movement Poetry
anthologies, Scent of the Soil (2012) and Ode to Frontline Formations (2013).
Telangana Harvest: Telugu Short Fiction 1912-2011 (Hyderabad: Dept of
Language and Culture, 2017) with fifty Telugu short stories was jointly edited
with Mamidi Harikrishna. On the occasion of the Golden Jubilee of Sahitya
Akademi’s bi-monthly, Indian Literature, he had won a prize for translation
in a national contest. Address: Flat B-308, Saiprakash Apts, Hanamkonda-
506001, Telangana. Mobile: 9949437018/8074777842. Mail:
[email protected].

Elanaaga (Dr. Surendra Nagaraju): Born in Elgandal village of Karimnagar

District, Telangana State in 1953. A Doctor (Paediatrician) by profession,
Elanaaga is one of the leading poets/translators in Telugu literature. He has
twenty four books to his credit so far. Of these, 12 are written originally in
Telugu and 12 are translations; 8 from English to Telugu, 4 from Telugu to
English. They include metrical poetry, experimental poetry, translation etc.
Besides translating Somerset Maugham’s The Alien Corn into Telugu, he
rendered Latin American stories, African stories and Somerset Maugham’s
other stories into Telugu and published them as books. He has also translated
Vattikota Alwaru Swamy’s Telugu stories Jailu Lopala into English under the
title ‘Inside the Prison’. Hundreds of his poems, essays, stories, book reviews
etc. belonging to different genres of Telugu and English were published in
various magazines in the last 45 years. He recently published a poetry
collection, Memorable Melody Makers and Other Poems on Music (Authors Press,
2019). He won 12 state level prizes/awards for his writings. Address: 73,
Nakshatra Colony, Balapur (V), Via: Keshavagiri, Hyderabad – 500 005,
Telangana State. Mobile: 9866945424. Email: [email protected]