Editorial (April 2004):
Author As Narrator:
Crossing The Gender Barriers:
In October 2002,
I interviewed one of our renowned female writers, Turaga Janakirani. During the
interview, Janakirani made an interesting comment: Men cannot write like women
[mogavaaLLu aaDavaaLLalaa raayaleru.] I understood her statement as
saying men cannot write fiction with a female protagonist as narrator.
I must admit I
was haunted by the question ever since—whether a writer can successfully create
a narrator of the opposite gender. In this age of gender barrier and numerous
controversies, maybe, I’m adding one more facet to the fray. By default,
authors are skilled in creating a wide variety of characters and, implicity,
they understand human psyche. If this premise is accepted, then the authors
must be capable of creating protagonists of opposite gender, technically
speaking.
There are two
stories in this issue: “Wilted Lotus” [kamalina kamalam], written by M.
Ramakoti, a renowned male writer, and is narrated by a female, uneducated but
intelligent nonetheless. The story, narrated by the narrator in the first
person and embedded in a heart to heart conversation between two female
friends, portrayed a potent issue of naivete and betrayal—an illiterate but
intelligent wife and an educated but hypocritical husband. I think Ramakoti has
succeeded in creating the nuance with flair. Then the next question is why did
the author choose to create a female narrator? What did he accomplish
additionally in doing so?
In the second story, “kaasiratnam vine,” by
Malathi, the story opens with a young, educated male narrating it in the first
person. The core story however was narrated by an old man, tatha, and his
language conforms to the storytelling technique of oral tradition (The Telugu
original shows this aspect better than the translation). I don’t remember why I
chose to make the narrator a male. Possibly, it was a comment on the worldly
wisdom, or rather lack of it, of the educated males in the 1960’s era. It’s not
unusual for authors to choose a narrator to distance themselves from the
narrator in order to express a point of view that’s different from their own;
and, choosing a narrator from the opposite gender could distance them further.
Another story, “My Sister: A Classy Lady,” [hundaa], was written by Chaganti
Tulasi, a female writer of repute, and with a male character as the narrator.
Unlike in kaasiratnam, in this story, the narrator’s humility and his
admiration for the moral courage of his sister are predominant factors. Once
again, the question is: What is the author’s message? Is it possible that only
a female writer could perceive the finer qualities of smartness and sacrifice
of women? By using a male narrator, did the author achieve additional depth or
breadth?
At this writing, two more stories came to my mind. They
are not so much about creating a narrator from the opposite gender but creating
powerful characters of the opposite gender. Raavi Sastry wrote a story, “Man –
Woman” [mogavaaDu-aaDamanishi], a story of a young man coming of age.
The young man goes to the city in search of a job. While he was waiting at a
bus stop, a young woman asks him to drop a letter in the nearby mailbox. He,
quite taken by her beauty and her English, jumps to her rescue and obliges her
gleefully. She shows her appreciation with a kiss which throws him off one more
time. In the evening, when his uncle called him “kurraaDaa!” [You, boy],
he retorts, “Don’t call me kurraaDaa!” I remember seeing a translation of this
story under the title, “Thank you, Mohini” (can’t recall where). This story, in
juxtaposition with another story, “tanuu – neerajaa,” written by a
famous female writer, Malati Chendur, may offer another angle to our discussion.
The story, Himself/I and Neeraja, [tanu – neeraja] was narrated by a
male character, “tanu” in the story.
Here a brief note on the term, tanu, is necessary.
The term tanu is a pronoun, third person, singular,
common for male and female, and is unique to Telugu language. In grammar, the
term acts like a third peson, singular, with verb ending conforming to
speaker’s gender, male or female. In fiction, it is implied that the story is
being narrated from the perspective of that person, male or female. Recently, I
was discussing this term with Saradapurna, editor of brAhmi, and her article, raagicembu
[Copper pot] in September 2003 issue. The two-page narrative is the narrator’s
lyrical response to a copper pot as a metaphor for friendship and a reflection
on her life on a foreign soil. Saradapurna mentioned that she switched from “I”
to “tanu” towards the end by way of distancing herself—creating a new “I” on a
new ground. That’s one example of how the term behaves in our language.
In the story, “tanu – neerajaa,” the narrator is a
self-absorbed male, who wanted to marry Neeraja but his pride gets in his way
to ask her to marry him; Neeraja understood his position and decided to marry
another man, Raghu. In a note to tanu, she explains to him that she decided
to marry Raghu since Raghu needed her; he was like a “baby sheep lost in the
dark.” Only after losing her, tanu realizes what a grave mistake he had made.
The story is significant for two reasons. The story is narrated from the
standpoint of the narrator, a male, tanu. Secondly, by giving him no name and
by referring to him only as tanu, the male protagonist was reduced to a
nonentity. This is obvisous from the
female protagonist’s choice of another man, Raghu, as her husband.
Are female authors creating less-than-heroic-characters when
they portray characters of the opposite gender? If so, why? Male writers,
Ramakoti and Raavi Sastry, on the other hand, created strong female characters.
Please, don’t take this is as my conclusion. I am only throwing a few questions
to think about. You are welcome to express your opinions.
We can stretch
the point and examine also the husband-wife teams who have been writing under
female psuedonyms [e.g. Beenadevi and Vasundhara] and raise a similar question:
Is there a specific element that could be identified as her contribution and/or
his contribution? The stories, “A Piece of Ribbon,” [Beenadevi] and “Diary,”
[Vasundhara] are cases in point.
Satya Pappu, a critical reader, mentioned that Sripada
Subrahmanya Sastry delineated female characters with superb insight, probably,
because he was raised by his mother and thus had a chance to observe female
psyche at close quarters. One of his stories, “Moments Before Boarding the
Plane,” is an example of his talent. This however seem to address the issue
from a slightly different perspective—an author’s aptitude to study individuals
as humans irrespective of his/her gender.
²²²
“Glowing Moonlight” [vennela panDina veLa] by
Poranki Dakshnamurthy, depicts the crumbling rural life in the face of
devastating natural disasters. While the entire village decides to leave, there
can still be one or two beings that feel a strong bond to the soil; only the
glowing moonlight can comprehend such deepset emotions in the animate souls.
“Good Fortune” [adrushta rekha] by Illindala
Saraswatidevi, was about a mute girl regaining her voice. The story could be an
inspiration even to those who are not physically muted but muted by social
conditions. The author, Illindala Saraswatidevi, was one of our poineer female
writers from 1930’s. The story showcases the narrative technique and the
progressive views of Telugu women writers.
The last three stories project three different aspects of
rehashing our old values in modern times.
“Partially Opened Door,” [sagam tericina talupu]
by Papineni Sivasankar, registers a strong protest against our penchant to be
caught up in the fast-changing, success-oriented civilization that’s sweeping
the nation. The narrator finds solace in his village, in the lake and the
cooing of birds on its shores. The story seem to tell the reader to stop for a
second and take a good, hard look at our current way of life which seem to be
heading for disaster.
“Caste Is Acting Human” [manavate manishi kulam]
by Tamirisa Janaki, also suggests a need to redefine the terminology of
past. While the basic human values remained the same as always, part of our
terminology got misinterpreted by a few self-serving individuals and it is time
we re-examine our language and our values.
“Progress Or Retreat?” [payanam – palaayanam] by
Vivina Murthy, illustrates the conflicting pulls in two different directions
the educated couples are grappling with in modern times. In that, we have to
ask ourselves if successful family life and success in the society are at
loggerheads! Are people becoming commodities in our culture? The question is
universal.
Turaga Janakirani is one of our renowned writers and
eloquent speaker. Her interview in this issue speaks of her strong views on
social conditions and fiction in the mid-20th century Andhra
Pradesh.
A final note: All the writers in this issue are noted
writers, extending over a period of 50 to 60 years. I sincerely hope the
readers will enjoy this anthology.
Email feedback, editor@thulika.net.
²²²
Acknowledgement: The current issue is designed by Satya
Pappu, a soft engineer by profession. Thank you, Satya garu, for the charming
get up.
(N.M. April 2004)
