Editorial (January 2007): Structure [silpam] in Telugu fiction
Nidadavolu Malathi
Stories evolve in a given culture, like their lifestyle, from their own environment. Readers and critics are
required to critique a story from that perspective. On one hand it would appear like applying modern criteria
in assessing a work of fiction written in previous centuries untenable. On the other, we will not have new
insights into the literature of previous centuries if we had not applied new ways of reading a text of the past.
Then the question is what is the plausible way to appreciate the fiction of the past?
Kondaveeti Satyavati, writer and editor of bhumika, an innovative magazine, pointed out in her article on
Bhandaru Acchamamba, (see guest editorial), that Acchamamba has not given due credit as a writer and as
the first writer in the history of modern fiction by the establishment. She commented that the critics dismissed
Acchamamba's story as "failed to meet the criteria for short fiction."
I thought it would be interesting to compare Acchamamba's story to a contemporary story by a writer who is
highly regarded as a writer and critic. While I was searching for such stories, I stumbled on an anthology,
alasina gundelu [Tired hearts] by Rachamallu Ramachandra Reddy (late). In the same anthology,
Ramachandra Reddy included a 43-page essay on the structure in fiction, "kathaanikaa, daani silpamuu"
[Short story and its structure]. In the essay, Ramachandra Reddy quoted Kodavatiganti Kutumba Rao, our
top-ranking Marxist writer and critic, as saying, "In these stories we read about the same events we see in
real life and ignore, and are electrified." Translating the entire essay is beyond the scope of this article. I will
quote a few salient points relevant to my discussion from the aforesaid essay.
Ramachandra Reddy elaborated on his views on short story as follows:
I wrote these stories with a hope that they would imprint a strong sense of emotion in the readers'
hearts. … In fact, the entire literature is oriented towards hearts. There is no literature without feeling.
That feeling however must not turn into a melodrama.
One popular notion is that a story must have a point" I am not sure if there is an equivalent in Telugu
for the word 'point'. For the present, I would call it lakshyam. A story must convey a truth, a moral, a
principle, or a hypothesis. …
In the previous century when the story was born, its point was either a truth or a moral. That means it
is only a concept in the mind of the writer.
Then there is the question, what about feeling? … The reader continues to experience the emotions of
the characters while reading a story. Then the question we must ask is whether a story can be written
to either invoke a feeling or convey a message exclusively?"
Ramachandra Reddy discussed the topic at length quoting a few European writers like O'Henry and
Katherine Mansfield and then posed the question of how it was relevant to his discussion on hand. He stated
that currently the short story in Telugu has gotten entangled in the steel arms of the commercial magazines,
lost its original form, and been reduced to a skeleton. He further added:
Because a story will inevitably contain "feeling" in some form or other, and because nobody is writing at
Katherine Mansfield's level now, let us limit our discussion to the point in a story. … A short story must have
only one point; and, characters and incidents should contribute toward that end, the point.
From that perspective, Ramachandra Reddy attempted to write a story as an experiment in structure, an
indispensable characteristic to achieve the point in the story. The author observed that most people in the
world live a tedious, uneventful life, and most of them are women understandably. Therefore, he decided to
depict the life of one such woman.
The story, mana jeevita kathalu [Stories of Our Lives], opens with the statement, "I could search her entire
life and still find not a single incident worth writing about. How can I write a story without anything special in
her life or lifestyle?" That is the problem for structure, says the author.
Mr. Ramachandra Reddy took it as a challenge since he had never come across a story without point, which
makes it impossible to make the story structurally strong. The closest he could think of was "Madame
Bovary" (Gustavo Flaubert) in which Emma, the main character, lived a droning life. She was not without
emotions. In fact, she had a fantasy in her mind, which clashed with her surroundings outside, leading to her
mental breakdown. Her husband on the other hand was willing to take life as it came and so he had no
problem. There was no conflict in his life. He was a flat character.
Ramachandra Reddy decided to create a character similar to the husband in "Madame Bovary" in
peddamma, the main character in "the Stories of Our Lives." Since there was no conceivable tension or
conflict in peddamma's life, the author created two more characters, a couple living next door. He based his
story on the responses of the couple to the dull life of peddamma. Readers are expected to respond to the
husband/writer/narrator's anxiety to find a thrilling incident in the old woman's life and the wife's twofold
anxiety. She attempts to squeeze out a story from peddamma for the sake of her husband, and in the
process, builds a bond with the old woman rather unwittingly. In the end, the wife sees a story in the life of
peddamma but not the husband. Is that a comment on the way men and women think and respond to a
fellow human; or, a writer and a non-writer would respond?
In his analysis of structure, we see three perceptions - that of Ramachandra Reddy the writer, Ramachandra
Reddy the critic, and the narrator in the story. The author and the critic explain the why, how and the result of
writing a story without plot. The narrator within the story lives it. There is however some overlap, I think
between the writer and the narrator.
The author says, "Peddamma had a husband, children, the usual events such as children's weddings, and life's
little tribulations like everybody else … That is a common denominator for almost all people. Other than that,
there are no events, nothing unusual, in her life. She has not experienced intense pleasures or unbearable
hardships. She believes that life is the same for everybody. Her understanding of life is so narrow."
As I was reading this analysis, I had to stop at the last line. Suddenly it felt like the critic became the narrator
in calling the woman's understanding of the world into question. The narrator in the story had the same
impression from peddamma's life; his wife could relate to peddamma's account of her life nevertheless. That
is obvious in the question the wife asked her husband later, "Did you hear peddamma's story?" There is a
story for her.
Ramachandra Reddy the writer decided to write a story about the way people around her would respond to
peddamma's unflustered life in the absence of passion in her own life. "Others may react to her in any number
of ways. Some may be sympathetic to her; others may resent her apathy, or even be aggravated; or turn
philosophical. If I could depict all these responses effectively, it could turn into a good story," said
Ramachandra Reddy.
There was also a comment about the names in the story. In response to the comment by another critic, the
author said, "Somebody commented that I did not give a name to the old woman to imply that she is a very
ordinary person, insignificant in a way. I did not think so. In fact, I did not give names to the other two
characters in the story either. I agree that names do carry weight in stories but I did not find the need to do
so in this story."
I would like to add a note on this aspect in our stories. In Telugu culture, we often address people using
relational terminology such as peddamma, akka, and maamma, even when we are not related by blood. I
see the term peddamma as a name in itself. Other minor characters in the story such as son and daughter are
also not given names.
Acchamamba's story, "Women's education," is comparable to the above story in some ways. Both the
stories deal with no major heartbreaking issues or earthshaking resolutions. In Acchamamba's story, the point
is women's education, a mode of communication between husband and wife, while the husband is away, to
be specific. The crux of the problem is wife's lack of reading and writing skills, there is an elaborate
discussion of the superior benefits of women's education and so forth.
In both the stories, the incidents leading to the end are not played out or described in detail, as is normal
practice in storytelling. They are verbalized in brief statements. In "Women's Education," the wife says she
would have her younger brother read and write the letters on her behalf. In "The Stories of Our Lives,"
peddamma says she was married, her son and daughter were married and so on. Each incident is a one-liner
or a few lines at best.
I thought it would be interesting to study the two stories written in juxtaposition, using the criteria, Mr.
Ramachandra Reddy had identified.
The story, "Beyond Belief" (Polapragada Rajyalakshmi)) brings up yet another question regarding the
element of reality in fiction. Can a reader suspend his disbelief in the illusory nature in the story temporarily
and enjoy a good story for its point of view? Is it possible to sift truth from fiction and apply one's mind to the
underlying argument in the story? I liked this story for its narrative technique. While the author addresses a
potent issue, a social malignancy, the technique she adopted to tell the story raises questions in regard to its
authenticity. Or does it?
The story, "A Memory" (Souris) may be construed as one more romance fiction; or, a brief peek into a
specific moment in human psyche based on how we look at it. Some readers may perceive this story as an
illustration of a woman's heartbreak. I am inclined to see it as a stop, a turning point, in one's lifespan. The
key point is, or so it seems, when she asks, "When did all this - the daughter, the son-in-law, and the children
-happen?" It would appear that she blocked out, knowingly or unknowingly, a considerable portion of her
life between the kamini flowers and the grown up children. Strange as it may sound but I have known of
male retirees ask the same question after a long period of their public life. They would ask, “Where are the
little children?” The point is we all get carried away by one preoccupation in our lives (the woman in the story
enjoyed her husband's wealth and social status for the time being) and then return to what captured our
hearts in our adolescent years.
Souris' father, Gudipati Venkata Chalam, spent major part of his life on his rebel writings advocating freedom
for women and later settled down in Arunachalam for peace. One may imagine him asking himself the same
question, "What happened in the past several years?”
On a different note, I am also wondering if the story, "A Memory" was inspired by her father's story, "O
Puvvu Poosindi," [A flower blossomed], a story about girl's coming of age.
***
Malathi Nidadavolu
January 2007