Tag: Andhra Pradesh

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The Mango Thief

By Naramsetti Umamaheswara Rao

Ricky was a boy known for his mischievous nature. Though he was in the eighth grade, he had the sharpness and boldness of someone older. Ricky rarely attended school, preferring instead to roam around the fields beside the road, cutting sugarcane and plucking groundnuts, causing damage to the crops.

In his class, there was a bright and studious boy named Anand. Ricky thought it would be advantageous to befriend Anand to get his notes. The next day, Ricky brought some guavas he had stolen and offered them to Anand, saying, “These are from our orchard. They’re very sweet; take them.” Although Anand initially refused, Ricky insisted and placed the fruits in his hands, and Anand, not wanting to seem rude, reluctantly accepted them.

Over the following days, Ricky brought sugarcane and groundnuts, further solidifying their friendship. Ricky began inviting Anand to accompany him when he went out, and Anand, hesitant to refuse, would often join him. Their classmates noticed this and warned Anand, saying, “Don’t hang out with him. Being with him could get you into trouble.”

But Anand dismissed their concerns, thinking, “I’m a good person, so nothing bad will happen to me. Maybe Ricky will change for the better.”

One day after school, as they were walking home, Ricky suggested they enter a mango orchard along the way. Anand hesitated, knowing it was wrong, but Ricky was persistent. Ignoring Anand’s reluctance, Ricky said, “If you’re so scared, stay here. I’ll go in alone.” Ricky then climbed over the fence, entered the orchard and began plucking ripe mangoes, stuffing them into his school bag.

What Ricky didn’t know was that the orchard’s caretaker had been keeping a close watch. He was already angry about frequent thefts and was determined to catch the thief red-handed. Seeing Ricky pluck the mangoes, the caretaker approached the tree with a stick in hand and shouted, “Hey, you little thief! Come down! I’ll teach you a lesson!”

Ricky, momentarily startled, quickly regained his composure. He was used to such situations. “What can you do?” Ricky challenged, “You’re all alone, and there are two of us. We could easily overpower you, and no one would know.”

The caretaker, growing more furious, demanded, “Where’s the other one?”

Ricky pointed towards Anand, who was outside the fence, and said, “He’s waiting over there, keeping an eye out for me.” The caretaker, not seeing clearly, took a couple of steps to get a better view and thought he spotted someone. But when he turned back to the tree, Ricky had already jumped down and escaped.

The caretaker, enraged, thought, “Not only does this kid steal, but he also dares to threaten me?” He chased after Ricky but couldn’t catch him. Frustrated, he decided to catch the other boy instead, thinking it would lead him to Ricky later.

Ricky saw the caretaker running towards Anand but chose not to warn him.

Anand, seeing the caretaker approaching, remained calm, thinking, “Why should I be afraid? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

But as soon as the caretaker reached him, he grabbed Anand’s hair and began hitting him on the back. “Why are you hitting me? What have I done? I didn’t even enter your orchard,” Anand cried.

The caretaker slapped him twice and said, “You dare ask what you did? No shame? You came here to steal, sent your friend inside, and stayed outside to keep watch? Come with me, I’ll tie you to the tree. You two have been stealing my mangoes every day. I won’t release you until my boss arrives,” he said, dragging Anand inside the orchard.

Despite Anand’s protests and pleas of innocence, the caretaker refused to listen and tied him to a tree.

Passersby noticed Anand tied to the tree and, shocked by the sight, informed his parents. They came and freed him, explaining the situation to the villagers. Anand insisted that he hadn’t done anything wrong.

The villagers scolded him, saying, “Your mistake was befriending a bad boy. What else did you expect?”

Regretful, Anand lamented, “Despite my friends’ warnings, I knowingly continued my friendship with Ricky. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t make this mistake again.”

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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Stories

Imitation

By Naramsetti Uma Maheswara Rao

Public Domain

“Mom, if you stick this on your head, your splitting head will heal. Here, take it and stick it on,” said four-year-old Ravi, handing over a roll of round plaster.

“Who told you to stick this for a headache?” Rajani asked in surprise, not quite understanding what he meant.

“Earlier, you told the neighbour aunty that your head was splitting. That’s why I brought it. Whenever something in the house tears, Dad sticks it with this. You should stick it on your head so it doesn’t split,” Ravi replied innocently.

Rajani laughed at her son’s sweet words. As a festival was on in the village, Rajani had invited her parents, siblings, and their families to her home. With everyone staying at her house, her daily chores had increased. Even though she woke up at dawn to start working, she couldn’t finish everything. Just then, the neighbour had come asking for a loan of some sesame oil.

“No matter how much I do, the work never ends. My hands are hurting, and my head is splitting,” Rajani had told the neighbour.

Ravi heard these words, and to help his mom, he brought the plaster his dad used to stick his brother’s torn books. He told his mother to stick it on her head to ease her headache. Now, Rajani understood the situation and laughed at her son’s cleverness.

“Why are you laughing? Won’t the headache go away if you stick this?” Ravi asked innocently again.

“You don’t stick plaster for a splitting head. A splitting head means I have a headache. If I apply Amrutanjan[1], it will go away,” Rajani explained in a way he could understand.

Rajani shared the incident with the rest of the family, and they all had a good laugh. 

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That afternoon, the family sat down for lunch. Rajani served a curry made with chicken eggs to everyone.

“What is this?” Ravi asked. Rajani replied that it was a chicken egg.

“I want a donkey egg,” he said.

At first, Rajani didn’t understand what he meant. Everyone else also looked at Ravi with interest.

“There’s no such thing as a donkey egg. There are chicken eggs and duck eggs,” his grandmother tried to explain to Ravi.

“No, there is. I want that one,” Ravi insisted, starting to cry. No matter how much they tried to explain, he didn’t stop crying.

Ravi’s father suspected that someone must have mentioned it, as kids don’t come up with these things on their own. He took Ravi close and gently asked, “Who told you about a donkey egg? Tell me, and I’ll ask them to bring it for you.”

Hearing this, Ravi’s face lit up, and he pointed to his grandfather.

Everyone’s attention turned to the grandfather. “Did you tell him about it? Is there such a thing as a donkey egg?” everyone questioned him.

“Hold on! Why would I tell him that? Give me a moment to think,” the grandfather replied, trying to recall the incident. After some thinking, he remembered something.

That morning, one of the workers had done a job incorrectly, and in anger, the grandfather had said, “Is this how you do it? This is not a donkey egg!” Ravi, who was sitting on his grandfather’s lap at that time, heard these words. He had asked what a donkey egg was, but his grandfather, in his irritation, didn’t respond.

After learning the real story from the grandfather, the rest of the family laughed. Ravi’s father lovingly explained to Ravi that there’s no such thing as a donkey egg and that it was just an expression his grandfather used. It took some convincing, but eventually, Ravi understood.

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Ravi also had an elder brother named Ramu, who was eight years old. Whenever Ramu came home from school, he and Ravi would fight over something or the other.

One day, as soon as they returned from school, they fought over the TV remote, leaving Rajani, already exhausted from housework, feeling more frustrated.

“I told you to change out of your school uniforms and wash your hands and feet when you come home. I’ve kept snacks on the table. Instead of eating, why are you fighting? Behave, or I’ll smack you with a hot spatula,” Rajani said.

“Mom, I want that. Don’t give it to my brother. Spank me now,” Ravi cried, running to his mom.

“What did you understand? Do you know what a spank is?” Rajani asked, calming down.

“Oh, I know. It’s a hot pancake. I’m hungry. Please spank me quickly,” Ravi said innocently. Hearing his sweet words, Rajani’s frustration disappeared, and she laughed wholeheartedly.

She kissed Ravi on his cheek and said, “Wait. I’ll get you the snacks,” and ran to the kitchen.

Rajani realised, “We shouldn’t use such words in front of children. They can misunderstand and repeat them in front of others, causing embarrassment.” From that day on, she learned to be cautious with her words around Ravi.

[1] Balm for healing headache

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Stories

Belacan

Migrant stories of yore from Malaysia by Farouk Gulsara

“There she goes again,” thought Saraswati as she cut vegetables she had never seen in her native country. “Here goes Ah Soh cooking her stinky dish again.”

Ah Soh with Nand Lal, Sarawswati’s son.(Photo taken circa the early 2000s).Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

Saraswati, Ah Soh and the rest of the pack are people commonly called fresh off the boat. They hail from various parts of China and India. 

The loud beating of a metal ladle against a frying pan, accompanied by the shrilling Chinese opera over the radio and her shrieking at her children, need no guessing whose kitchen ‘aroma’ is coming from. Everyone knows Ah Soh is frying belacan, a fermented Malay shrimp paste. 

A house in the New Village (Photo taken circa the early 2000s). Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

Ah Soh is Saraswati’s immediate neighbour in a New Village in Ipoh. Ah Soh, by default, is the self-appointed leader of the pack. Since she is one of the oldest occupants of New Village, she leads the group of housewives, all living along the same row of single-story wooden houses. These houses were the brainchild of the British when they wanted to keep the communist at bay in the 1950s. More than ten years into its inception, the houses are still strong and are a catch for many newcomers to Malaya.

Ah Soh and her husband, Ah Leong, hail from Canton, China. Escaping poverty and famine, Ah Leong scrapped the bottom of the barrel to buy himself a one-way ticket to Singapore in the early 1950s, then an up-and-coming international port, to try his luck. 

After trying a few odd jobs here and there, Ah Leong heard of an opening in newly opened tin mines in Ipoh. He made a dash for it and found Ipoh and the work he liked. Soon, he saved enough cash and paid an agent to bring over the newly married wife that he left behind in China. Ah Leong, Ah Soh and later, their two young daughters develop roots in the New Village. 

Life was no bed of roses for Saraswati either. Losing most of her family members to famine, a 13-year-old Saraswati was bundled off to a distant relative’s house in Bihar. Saraswati is pretty sure she was sold off to work as a maid, as she scrubbed and cleaned from dawn to dusk.

Lady Luck manifested most peculiarly. Saraswati was labelled bad luck when many mishaps hit her new family soon after joining them. One of the kids died of diarrhoea, and a big branch of a peepal tree growing in the compound fell on the house, destroying the roof. So, when the family heard of an elderly widower looking for a suitable bride, Saraswati was bundled off yet again. 

Hence, Saraswati’s next phase of life started with her boarding a ship, S Rajula, from Calcutta to Penang, Malaya. She spent an entire month suffering from motion sickness, not only from the ship’s motion but by the various smells of people and their cooking. Starting life as a complete vegetarian, by the time she arrived in Malaya, after overexposure to a plethora of aromas and sights, she had garnered enough courage to taste various types of meat. 

So, Ah Soh’s pungent belacan was tolerable to Saraswati’s smell buds, even though she hails from the Hindi heartland where, by design, everybody in her community was vegetarian.

Saraswati’s husband, Lal, had his own tale of melancholy. After losing his family to famine, he became an orphan and a guardian to his 12-year-old sister. With much difficulty, he somehow, doing odd jobs, managed to sustain his little family to adulthood. He was in the marriage market after getting his little sister happily married off. Unfortunately, three months into his marriage, the young bride succumbed to tuberculosis, then a deadly death sentence to anyone. Even the President of Pakistan had died of TB.

Nursing a heartbreak, he heard the news that some people he knew were going to try their luck in Malaya. The talk around town was that Malaya, the land of milk and honey, was the darling was the Empire and had great job opportunities. So that is how he landed in Malaya. 

Again, after doing whatever work that came by, he landed in a more secure job washing the British Army’s dirty laundry in a camp in Ipoh. Cleaning, starching and ironing kept him busy, but he was happy for the first time. With money in his pocket and regular meals to look for, he ventured out for humble accommodation. That is how this New Village house came about.

He returned to his hometown in Bihar, India and got a bride for himself. So, here he is, with his second wife, Saraswati, and two young boys. 

The New Village is a melting potpourri of people escaping from famine and depravity. If in the 1950s, this place protected the country from communist threat, in the 1960s, it was a pillar of hope for displaced people to start life anew.

Ah Soh had her kind, who hailed from China, and Saraswati had hers hail from various parts of India. It is incredible that despite the skirmishes between the two countries, they were bosom buddies here. These economic immigrants soldiered on, straddled in unfamiliar circumstances, struggling towards an uncertain future with zest in their chests and youth in their limbs. They go on to build their camaraderie, work, mingle, and live in harmony. Graduating from convenient sign language, they have now mastered the art of communication. Like how a cat would communicate with a dog in an adverse situation, such as absconding from the animal catcher, they cling to each other desperately as they go on with life. 

Saraswati’s new home gave them, the newcomers, a simple language that contained many Chinese and Indian words to use. Language or no language, they were still able to communicate and fulfil each other’s needs. If one person from one part of China or India could not connect with a fellow compatriot, here they had a motley crew of economic migrants from these countries speaking, eating and looking out for each other. 

Lal’s contract workers took him to various towns and kept him away from the family for months. An illiterate Saraswati with only street smartness skills would go on to manage the children and household on her own. With the convoy of housewives from New Village, Saraswati would do her marketing and grocery. Pointing and making gesticulating would constitute making an order, and hawkers were honest enough to return correct change. Slowly, she began to develop a liking for Chinese food. 

Monthly grocery was by credit, and things were obtained from Ah Meng’s sundry shop, packed to the brim with everything under the sun. Lal would pay the bills at the end of the month as he returned from numerous contract jobs. 

Besides her Chinese neighbours, Saraswati had neighbours from Punjab, Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh. Ajit Singh had a few dairy cows at the back compound of his house. From Ajit, Saraswati and her children had an uninterrupted supply of fresh milk. 

R-L: Shobha(Saraswati‘s daughter) , Ah Soh(by then in her early 70s), Meela (Sarawati’s daughter), Saraswati and Kamala. (Photo taken circa the early 2000s). Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

Two doors away from Saraswati’s house was Kamala’s. It was always a hive of activities from day to night. Kamala had so many children that Saraswati had lost count. People came and went as if it were the marketplace, and their main door was always open. There were always people singing, dancing or simply yakking there. 

Ah Soh’s house was next to Devi’s house. Her household was loud, too, at the end of the month, but for a different reason. Devi has five children to show for her seven years of marriage. Her husband, a postman, also had something to offer, a mistress. Somewhere along the way, he picked up drinking, and his frequenting at the local liquor shop introduced him to a dancer. It was a routine that at the end of the month, as everyone received their pay, the neighbourhood would be filled with much noise; the clanging of kitchen utensils from Devi’s, music from Kamala’a and shuffling of mahjong tiles from Ah Soh’s front porch. Devi’s family quarrel noise over money got buried over the rest.

Saraswati has been feeling easily lethargic these days. She realises that her monthlies have been delayed. Her husband’s monthly visit has been productive. She now has to get used to the idea that there will be an addition to the family. 

Maybe it is the pregnancy; she is getting a little pensive these days. She sometimes reminisces about the life that she had. Uprooted from her family by the forces of nature, she started a life as a child labour. Because of superstition, she was packed off again into marriage. Driven by economic hardship, she and her husband crossed the dreaded Black Waters to try their luck in a new land. 

From an illiterate teenager, now she has morphed into a woman who could command leadership in her circle of friends and care for her family. From a meek non-adventurous vegetarian, she has savoured all meats and dishes, some of which her ancestors would have never dreamt of tasting. 

She wonders what the future holds for her, her husband and the three kids she will raise to adulthood in this independent young country called Malaya as it crawls into the mid-1960s.

The foreground: Rohan, Saraswati’s grandson. In the background, Kamala’s son, Raja, in deep conversation with Nanda Lal and Shobha (Saraswati’ kids). The same house they all grew up in, albeit the extensions and refurbishments. (Picture taken circa the early 2000s) Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

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Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, ‘Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy’ and ‘Real Lessons from Reel Life’, he writes regularly in his blog ‘Rifle Range Boy’.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Essay

A Different Persuasion: On Jane Austen’s Novels & their Adaptations

By Deepa Onkar

Recently, a realisation dawned – it has been over a year since I have watched an adaptation of a Jane Austen novel as a film or television series. My earliest memories of watching them go back to 1995, when the BBC’s version of Pride and Prejudice was released – I would watch the DVDs, or episodes on YouTube, with some enthusiasm. Over the years, I didn’t lose a chance to watch others: Sense and Sensibility, (film), Emma (BBC television series) Pride and Prejudice (film) and so many others. Looking at the comments on YouTube, it was evident that the Jane Austen adaptation fandom was large, and on a global scale. The seamless way in which the adaptations were consumed in so many Indian homes, including mine, puzzled me. I was familiar with the novels, as I had been a student of English literature in postcolonial departments in India, but that could not be true of so many others.

I fretted about the fact that my literary moorings were not so much in my own mother-tongues, but in English. Middle-class India was forgetting its own languages. English has crept in slowly, unnoticed. We could of course, think like Chinua Achebe, the Nigerian novelist, for whom writing about our own cultural contexts, our histories, landscapes, and memories in English, changes the texture of that language, and diminishes its colonizing weight. It is also the attitude, conscious or unconscious, of so many Indian writers in English. Curiously not many Indian producers have picked up on the idea of serializing the novels of these writers – either in English or in an Indian translation – which should be easy to do. It was the BBC that first produced an Indian novel – Vikram Seth’s novel, A Suitable Boy as a television series (for a global audience).  

The Kenyan writer Ngugi wa Thiong’o has a much more radical perspective than Achebe – that it is not enough for people in previously colonised cultures to write in English, nor to claim it as their own. The very process by which English was acquired was violent and repressive. “(So) wherever you look at modern colonialism, the acquisition of the language of the coloniser was based on the death of the languages of the colonised. So it is a war zone.” Unless previously colonised cultures begin to train to think in their mother tongues again, he says, we will never really be able to shake off the mantle of colonisation.

This is a compelling, if daunting prospect – the work of decolonizing our minds perhaps begins within the education system which, in India, shows little inclination to change – it continues to lie in the shadows of the Anglo-American system, as it has for centuries. I draw comfort from Achebe’s attitude to English, which is the reality of many Indians. I don’t have to give up on Austen. But how do we rescue ourselves, and Austen? A critical and self-aware engagement with Austen – both the novels and the adaptations – seems to be a good place to begin. Reading Austen is arduous for those not born into English: I could hear my mother tongues tiptoe away as I read her. Reading is a solitary activity that connects us with the worlds of others, through the imagination. Watching an adaptation, on the other hand, can be solitary, or not. The visual text communicates through the senses rather than the imagination, although it does not mean it is not involved here.

It was not difficult to identify signs of England’s colonial links in either Austen’s novels, or the adaptations. Distant colonies such as the Caribbean and India were mentioned not infrequently in the novels: much of the income of the vast estates owned by the gentry was obtained from the colonies. Watching BBC’s Pride and Prejudice – and not for the first time – I spotted the tea, drunk in fine cups, the cigars that the men smoked, the cotton print dresses that women wore. I mentioned to a friend that some of the fabrics looked like the double-shaded handloom weaves from Andhra Pradesh, or Tamil Nadu. She agreed. Sometimes, the dresses also had paisley designs – these hugely popular prints were adaptations of Mughal mango motifs on textile. We, the global audience, need to train our gaze to the material roots of the English imagination, and be critical of it, rather than unreflectively consume its creations. Scenes of opulent country manors would appear repeatedly in many of the adaptations, and it was hard not to notice a kind of nostalgia for the glories of Empire. So much of the popularity of the adaptations seemed to be the result of clever packaging of Regency era settings and countryside.

Even as the lavish settings seemed to engulf Austen’s ingenious stories at times, a great deal of effort went into modernizing them. When Colin Firth came striding out of the lake in dripping wet shirt in 1995, the scene seemed to set the tone for other serials and films to become more inventive – as long as it created a stir. Almost every adaptation slipped in new scenes to suit their own narrative. They brought about a kind of visual cohesiveness to the series or films. Informal and relaxed body language, and facial expressions, and the manner in which emotions were expressed were adopted – rather than the stiff, stylized ways of the past. What we watched on screen was a hybrid text. I had no problem with this, unlike many die-hard Jane-ites the world over, who are perhaps purists at heart. Modern informality is, after all, a sign that the boundaries of class have become less rigid.  

When Austen’s world in the novel became too distant, and removed from my own, I would turn to the adaptations. They became relatable on screen. Besides, the adaptations were open to emotional expressiveness, where in the novels, emotions are sub-textual: I have lost count of the number of times I watched Elizabeth Bennett’s (Jennifer Ehle) fiery rejection of Darcy (Colin Firth) in Pride and Prejudice (1995, mini-series) or Elinor Dashwood (Emma Thomson) fall in love with Edward Ferras (Hugh Grant) in Sense and Sensibility (1995, film).

One of the main features of modernisation is the highlighting of the romantic plot. Love, is of course, central to Austen’s concerns, but on screen, it is difficult to see the larger moral order of which it was a part. Often, the biggest obstacle on the individual’s path to win over the object of their love is a moral flaw within themselves. Instead of Austen’s ironic, witty voice showing us the complexities of the individual, and of their interactions with society, we have to rely a lot on dialogue, and the point of view of the main character. Rather than the multiple layers of narrative in a novel, we have a linear effect in an adaptation. Everything is propelled towards a rather sentimental ‘happily ever after,’ which is not necessarily the point of a Jane Austen novel.

We do not – perhaps cannot – get to know the thoughts of Elizabeth Bennett or Elinor Dashwood on screen, independently of others. If emotions were more readily expressed on screen, we also had to contend with the loss of inner worlds, which a reader has access to. Action is all-important in an adaptation. The expression of physicality was thought to be enough to drive it, making up for our inability to know anything else. This seems to be the view of Andrew Davies, one of the most prolific adapters of Austen to the television screen. According to him, sexuality was already a major driver of the novels – his only task was to flesh it out. “Don’t be afraid (to represent) physicality… these are young people full of hormones and they are bursting with energy,” he says, when asked for pointers on adaptation.

In the novels, we also see how a character is separated from, or unable to communicate with the object of their love, until a morally satisfying solution is found. In Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Wickham’s true character had to be exposed, and Elizabeth could overcome her pride, and could accept that Mr. Darcy was right. In Emma, the eponymous heroine had much to learn in order to fully grow up: to be more self-aware and free from vanity, and realize she loved Mr. Knightley. Austen’s dislike of melodrama and writing that was overly invested in emotion is well-known. And so, it seems logical to think that she would not have liked mere ‘feel-good’ romanticism in the productions of her writings.

Morality as a force was more vivid on the page rather than the screen. It was arguably, an imaginatively constructed entity that was contemporaneous with the white man’s burden of colonization. Austen’s depictions of the world she lived in make her a ‘quintessentially English’ writer that is difficult for others to understand. But over the years, I learnt to understand her from my vantage point in post coloniality – the world is constituted of multiple identities and historical contexts, and being curious and open about others is a reasonable way of engaging with my own existential and sociological identities. 

Austen was an insider to her world – she deferred to the fact that women were very dependent on male approval and protection in order to survive. Most of the women in her novels were teenagers when they began their rounds of courtship, and often subjected to severe scrutiny by the world at large. But her women also used wit and rationality to make themselves seen and heard. Elizabeth Bennett (Pride and Prejudice) and Emma Woodhouse, (Emma) for example, challenged the existing model of the ‘superior,’ rational man.

Within the psychological worlds of men and women, Austen sought to describe the play of feeling, will and reason. Post-feminist critiques of Austen have been critical of her acceptance of these opposites and their implied gendered roles. Many adaptations exist, such as Lost in Austen, Pride and Prejudice Zombies, that satirize and parody Austen to a degree that ‘faithful’ adaptations do not aspire to. The comparisons and defenses could go on.

After years of reading Austen, my sympathies have recently begun to shift, imperceptibly – from the ‘wild and rational’ women of Austen’s novels, as Mary Wollestonecraft might have described them, to the quiet and introspective ones – more precisely, to Anne of Persuasion. Austen’s final novel seems to have achieved an introspective appeal that the other novels lacked. Anne’s deeply reflective and melancholic acceptance of her situation – a single woman stranded amidst a family that often exploited her situation – is the culmination of all of Austen’s literary prowess, and she herself seems to be on new ground as she explored Anne’s silences. A little into the novel, when she meets Captain Wentworth after eight years, there is some halting dialogue, as Anne comes to terms with her lost love, perhaps for the millionth time. Through these silences and halting dialogues, Austen seems to be testing the waters of what it means to be deeply self-aware. I’ve also read the dialogues to be a way in which words could be used to establish equality between them. It is through friendship that an egalitarianism of sorts is reached, that grows only gradually in strength.

The 2007 film adaptation of Persuasion portrayed the silences and the hesitant relationship between Anne and Wentworth admirably. It is difficult to portray interior worlds effectively on screen, and Sally Hawkins played the brooding, inconsolable Anne sensitively, particularly in the early scenes. Rupert Penry-Jones was striking as the embittered Captain Wentworth, seeking love elsewhere. The tension in their silences was palpably thick.

The letter Wentworth writes to Anne — “I am half-agony, half hope” — is a study in vulnerability: he is the flawed man who has to let go of his own stubborn refusal to acknowledge his feelings. The letter also indicates the difficulty of speech between them; writing is his only recourse. Men’s points of view are rarely presented in the novels. The adaptations turned this around – nearly all of the men have moments of vulnerability. This is a major breakthrough in modernization. Women all over the globe suddenly came upon visible evidence formen’s struggles with their feelings. This single factor alone, may be the reason for the huge popularity of the adaptations – men suddenly, were human and relatable.

When I learnt in 2022 of Netflix’s release of a new version of Persuasion, I began to watch it excitedly. But only a few moments in, I was sorely disappointed. The character of Anne (played by Dakota Johnson) was nothing like Austen’s – she was talkative and answered back. The key shortcoming of the film was the loss of Anne’s interior world.  When Anne and Wentworth (played by Cosmo Jarvis) meet, in the film, they engage in banter, from their very first meeting. Nothing much is left unsaid.  The absence of speech between Anne and Wentworth, which gives rise to one of the main tensions of the novel, and the earlier adaptation, is completely missing. They have finished saying a lot to each other in the very beginning. We cannot help wishing they hadn’t. Many of the characters were changed beyond recognition, and the sense of many scenes changed.

We know, early on, what the end is going to be. Austen plays words out in the final letter not coldly, but without a trace of extra emotion — that Wentworth’s maudlin show of tears were not for her. Perhaps, that was the final straw that drove me away from the film. I have not gone back to watching a film or adaptation after that. Something within me had died.

References

Language is a ‘war zone’: Conversation with Ngugi wa Thiong’o, The Nation, Rohit Inani, March 9, 2018

Adapting Emma for the 21st century:  An Emma no one will like; Laurie Kaplan, Jane Austen Society of North America (JASNA) V.30, no.1, (Winter 2009)

How to adapt Jane Austen to the screen, with Andrew Davies: Guardian Culture, YouTube, 2018

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Deepa Onkar has degrees in English Literature from the Universities of Madras and Hyderabad, India. She was a teacher at Krishnamurti schools in Bangalore and Chennai, India, and a journalist at The Hindu. Her articles and poems have appeared in The Hindu, Punch magazine, The Bombay Literary Magazine, and The Lake, among others. 

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Categories
Stories

       My Eyes Don’t Speak

By Chaturvedi Divi

                                             

The City Mall assistant walked behind Vikas up to the exit door and handed over a small pack of apples. Vikas climbed down the broad steps at a gingerly pace, walked through the parking area waiting for his cab to arrive. His cane vibrated and a cyclist brushed past him. The bag he was holding got entangled in the rear rack of the cycle, and Vikas loosened his grip and let it go. As he was regaining his balance, someone rushed towards him.

“Are you all right? It is a narrow escape.”

“No worries, I am fine, thank you.”

After five minutes, Vikas heard the same voice. “Wow, believe it or not. This is great. The cyclist, the poor boy, was frightened. He handed over your bag and rode off.”

Vikas thanked him and moved on.

At home, to beat loneliness, Vikas listened to the audio book, Anne Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl. At 5 P.M he opened the bag, and took out one apple, and noticed that the apples were not the ones he bought. The stickers were intact. At the mall, every time he bought fruits, the mall assistants removed the stickers before packing. They knew that removing stickers would be a cumbersome affair to him. 

So, my bag was lost. Out of pity, the man gave the apples he bought. He lost control over his thoughts and he felt depressed and angry. He wanted to tell everyone that at 25, he was the most accomplished singer of theme songs on TV commercials and he made a fortune, and was not living on charity.

The doorbell rang. When Vikas opened the door, Suresh started humming a tune. It was always how he announced his visit. “Yesterday I worked late in the night…  Installed new music system in our studio.” 

“Did the company send its audio engineer to help you?”

“No, just their electrical engineer and his assistants. I was the only audio engineer responsible for checking the sound quality. It was hectic.” Suresh went into the dining hall and brought two glasses of water and plates. “I brought snacks from our favourite restaurant. Guess what.?” When he opened the pack, Vikas could smell samosas.

“Today, I want to try The Bird’s Opening.” Vikas nodded his head. After 20 moves, Suresh said, “BXE5.” He waited for a few seconds.  “I called out my move. It seems that you are not your usual self today. What happened?”

Vikas told him the trick played by a stranger at the City Mall, and societal categorisation made him feel humiliated.

 “Weird! He tried to play smart. He may even post the incident on social media. Question of attitude.  Don’t give it the colour of humiliation. That is nothing but your imagination. Cheer up boy.”

I shouldn’t blame him for ignoring my feelings. He didn’t face any serious challenge in life. I should never broach this subject again with Suresh. Vikas had a disturbed sleep that night.

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In the studio, while singing a theme song, Vikas missed a beat, for the first time in his career. The time signature was set to a slow waltz. In his second attempt, the sliding from one pitch to the other was not smooth. His third attempt too was not satisfactory. The creative director, Sankar had remained with the sole option of rescheduling the recording.

That evening while Vikas was pacing the patio up and down restlessly, Suresh called him. “Geetha and I will be at your house at 7.30.”

“Did she sing her lines this morning?”

“No, some re jigging.”

“Oh!” Vikas paused. “7.30 dinner time. I’ll order dinner for three.”

“Not this time, Geetha will bring home made food, just for a change.”

While dining, Vikas’ phone started singing. “It is from Educational Trust for the Blind,” Suresh handed over the phone to Vikas.

“Oh my god, I was supposed to address the students this afternoon.” Vikas apologised. His voice was shaky.

After they settled in the living room, Suresh said, “Sankar sir was a bit upset this morning.”

“But that was not because of you, Vikas,” Geetha quickly added. “Multiple takes…natural in the music world. There is lot of pressure from our customer, in-charge of the political campaign.”

“Yes, Vikas,” said Suresh. The fight between political parties resulted in a tough competition between ad agencies.”

“This morning you were a bit distracted,” Geetha smiled.

“Sankar sir gave me a good break in my career. I won’t trouble him. If it is required, I’ll opt out of the campaign.”

“Cheer up, boy. The same team will be retained for the entire campaign. I’m sure about it.” Suresh tapped on the centre table. “We all had a very long association with Bhavana Ad Agency.”

“Just relax, things will fall in line soon,” Geetha gently touched his hand.

After they left, Vikas sat in the patio switching from one audio book to another till midnight.

Two days later, Vikas received a call from Sankar. “Tomorrow evening there will be a small party at my house at 5.30.  My daughter’s birthday. please do come.”

Did he invite Suresh and Geetha too? Who else would be in the party other than his daughter’s friends? Would there be a music performance? Would he ask me to sing? Will he tell me I am out of the campaign?

On the way to Sankar’s house, Vikas bought a branded pen set. Sankar led him into his house. His wife Jyothi and their daughter Vani thanked him for sparing time and Vani introduced him to her friends. Vikas noticed that it was a small gathering and all the guests were Vani’s school mates. Sankar guided him to a corner table and said, “My childhood friend Dr. Pravin will join you soon.”

A couple of minutes later, Vikas heard footsteps. “I’m Dr Pravin.”

“Pleasure to meet you, doctor.”

“The pleasure is all mine. You know, I was caught in a traffic jam… a procession… some political party. Pravin lowered his voice and said, “I believe that the world will be a better place without most of these politicians.”

“Yeah, they whip up regional feelings simply to gain support from a section of the people.”

“Exactly, every day some kind of unrest somewhere. I feel that every morning before venturing out, we should check whether it is safe to go out or not,”

“The way people check in some regions whether it is snowing or not.” Vikas laughed.

“Snowing. It reminds me of beautiful places in Kashmir… You know there is a village in the eastern ghat of Andhra Pradesh, Lambasingi, the Kashmir of AP.”

“Lambasingi? I visited that place when I was in school. Those images are still fresh in my mind. Thajangi reservoir… Susan Garden….  Amber coloured flowers.”

“I understand you are not blind by birth.”

“How do you…”

Cutting in Dr Pravin said, “You told me just now.”

“Did I? …Yeah… I was normal till I finished my bachelor’s degree in music. One day I had some discomfort in my eyes. I was treated for macular degeneration but there was no improvement and after a few months I lost sight.”

“Visual impairment… Things changed. There were times when it was tough to handle even day to day activities like crossing busy roads or making a phone call. Those days have gone. Technology is of immense help now.”

“Yeah.  The phone I use is voice activated, it has programmed buttons in Braille. Routine activities are not at all challenging to me. My real challenge is…” Vikas crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and leaned back.

“Go ahead Vikas.”

“I mean… I believe there is a mismatch between my self-image and social identity. Except my colleagues in the agency, others often times, in the name of helping me, place me in embarrassing situations.” His voice choked. “They give a fancy name to their behaviour… social etiquette.”

“I understand the lowered expectations offend you.  You feel disturbed, agitated and you lost focus on your work. An issue, considered trivial sometime back, has grown into a serious problem now. Am I right?”

“I try to divert my thoughts but…” Vikas leaned forward. My colleague Suresh says it is in my head… cognitive dissonance. Is it not real?”

“There are several planes of consciousness. At one plane, it is real.”

“You mean?”

“Identity– psychological or social is a complex experience. It involves a host of things influenced by family values, beliefs, media and social interaction. The question, what is my identity, led many from physical to metaphysical…”

“Dr, I’m not bothered about…”

“Interact with people more and more. Socialise.”

“Will it solve my problem?”

“Certainly. Perceptions will change.”

 The next morning Vikas went to the neighbourhood park and sat on a bench. He heard noises- children playing, adults jogging, some discussing politics. No one came to share the bench with him. After one hour, he noticed that the park was almost deserted. While returning home, he could exchange greetings with his immediate neighbour, but there was no more interaction. After four days, he stopped his morning visits to the park.

The park was a nice place to meet people, but in his case, Vikas had to find better ways to socialise. He thought of  running chess classes for children… I could take Suresh’s help without disclosing the motive. Or, he will again come up with his imaginative theories…

On that Sunday, while playing chess, Vikas shared his idea with Suresh.

“Really!”

“Yeah, Sunday mornings.”

“Interesting. The patio is just enough for a small group. We’ll insist on nominal entry fee. You know, free coaching doesn’t carry any value.”

In the first session, Vikas explained to the boys the nuances of opening, middle and end games and about classical, rapid and blindfold formats. Suresh analysed the different strategies and tactics followed by world class chess players and asked them to start with foot soldiers. Despite their attempts to make the session interesting, none of the five boys turned up for the second session.

 “Street cricket is popular here. The boys don’t want to miss it. We should have thought of it,” Suresh said.

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Vikas woke up at 5.a. m to the devotional music that invaded his bed room from the new temple, about 100 feet to the north of the park.

 I should tell the priest to lower the noise.

He had a bath and then waited till he felt the warmth of the sun. Then he went to the temple. When he entered, he noticed it was crowded. He heard adults guiding children, breaking coconuts and ringing the temple bell. Some devotees were chanting Durga ashtottram[1]. Puja was going on.

While he was wondering which way he to go, one devotee approached him. “For darshan[2], turn to your right and move on.”

“I’d like to wait for some time.”

“Come with me. I’ll show you a place where you can sit comfortably.”

Vikas was in a dilemma whether to lodge a complaint with the priest or not. After half-an-hour, Vikas noticed that except for the footsteps of an occasional visitor, there was silence.

“Did you have darshan? Are you waiting for anyone?” Vikas was startled. The voice continued, “I am the temple priest.  Do you need any help in getting back home?”

“No, thank you. My house is close bye, the other side of the park.”

“Oh, you stay nearby.  There will be a veena recital this evening. Please do come, sir.”

Veena recital! I can think of giving a musical performance in the temple.  Festive season. Almost everyone in the neighbourhood visits the temple. Can there be a better place for socialising. Not the usual devotional songs? Must be different and fit into the festive theme and mood. How about folk songs?

When he shared his idea with Geetha and Suresh, they were not enthusiastic.  “Folk music. I am not sure that the trustees of the temple and the priest will encourage the idea,” Geetha said.

“It is not easy to convince the devotees too,” Suresh said.

“Don’t feel disappointed Vikas. We are not giving up the idea. You know my brother Ravi. He is in event management. I’ll speak to him,” Geetha assured.

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“It is possible if we can find a sponsor and a suitable venue. Temple premises are not ideal. Sponsors can’t erect banners and they don’t come forward if you tell them, you are invisible.” Ravi patted Vikas on the shoulder. “Any other venue? Not the expensive conference halls.”

“Park?”

“Park, yeah, brilliant idea. Now, I can look for a sponsor, and even cosponsors like ice cream stalls, coffee stalls. How about Bhavana Ad. Agency?”

Geetha laughed. “You are asking us about our own agency!”

“Why not? Your director will inaugurate. The local MLA[3] will be the chief guest. No doubt, we will get good media coverage.”

 When Ravi raised the subject with ad agency, Sankar said, “I’m not convinced that the agency gets lot of publicity by just placing a few banners. The finance Dept. will object. The agency must be able to show case its achievements…  an audio- visual show may be ideal. I’d like to involve local people by organising a slogan writing contest for the school children. Can we open a stall there?”

Ravi was taken aback. He asked for two days to look into the feasibilities. He and Vikas met the colony welfare association president and secretary and shared their idea with them. When Vikas and Ravi proposed to contribute generously to the association welfare fund, the president and secretary gave their consent.

“Now, we have to reschedule our plan. We should make the event more attractive to the business community. A few more stalls should come up. Otherwise, we just can’t organise it,” said Ravi.

Ravi contacted several business establishments and Vikas, Suresh and Geetha accompanied him for personal interaction with the heads of firms who showed some interest in the event. At the end of the third day, there was some clarity. Dealers of hand-loom sarees, handicrafts, children’s

books and confections agreed to open stalls. It turned out to be a mini exhibition that would run for three days with music performances in the evenings.

Suresh said, “Now I am confident. Yes, we can make it happen. I’ll take care of the sound system.”

“Ravi, please see that everyone gets due recognition,” Vikas said.

“Recognition… monetary benefit… we can discuss later.”

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Geetha and Vikas selected a few folk songs highlighting Sankranthi[4] theme and practised. They added commentary to every song  explaining the significance of the cultural traditions of India. One TV channel signed an agreement with Vikas and Geetha for telecasting one song a day for one month.

Though there were frequent references to his blindness in the media coverage, Vikas didn’t get irritated.

One morning, to gauge the mood of the people in the neighbourhood, Vikas went to the park and sat on a bench. Children surrounded him asking for autograph. Adults were eager to shake hands with him. One of them said, “I enjoyed the programme a lot. It was unique and memorable. Adding commentaries highlighting the profundity of the traditions is a wonderful idea. Most of us follow the traditions casually without paying attention to the message they carry.”

Vikas heard a faint and distant voice. “Do you know, he is blind. He lives around here; we didn’t even notice it. The other day, in the general body meeting, some questioned the colony welfare association president for granting permission for holding a commercial event like this. The president said he thought the residents would appreciate his decision for being sympathetic towards a blind man.”

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Vikas remained cool and confident. The doctor said perceptions would change… But…  but whose perception? Planes of consciousness…. Physical…. Metaphysical?   I should delve deep into my inner being to know my reality, my true identity. 

[1]  Chanting a God’s name 108 times

[2] Viewing a deity

[3] Member of Legislative Assembly

[4] An Indian festival to highlight different phases of solar transmigration

Chaturvedi Divi’s short stories and poems have appeared in the anthology of Only Men Please, Reading Hour, America the Catholic magazine, Twist & Twain, Spillwords  and elsewhere. He has an MA in creative writing from The University of Wales. His doctoral thesis is on diasporic literature.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL