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Wednesday, June 20, 2012

MY STORY SERIES - 2


Dreamer


Sarojini Sahoo


 (The story was originally written in Odia and has been included in her anthology SRUJANI SAROJINI under the title ‘Swapnabhuk’. It was translated in to Bengali by Arita Bhowmik as ‘Jara Swapna Dekhechhilo’ and was included in author’s short story collection Dukha Aparimit (ISBN 978 984 404 243-8), published from Bangladesh by Anupam Prakashani, Dhaka. The Hindi translation of this story by Dinesh Kumar Mali  is going to be included in author’s  next publishing book Sarojini Sahoo Ki Dalit Kahaniyan ,publisher: Yash Prakashan, Delhi.)



Mother was combing their hair very neatly. Their hair had not been oiled for a long time; it was dry and waving around. She had gone to Sabari and asked for oil for one rupee. Sabari made oil by grinding castor seeds. She sells them to the shopkeeper and kept a little leftover from that.

Mother did not have any money. She said, “Keep this glass as a deposit. When I get money, I will pay you back and then take the glass back.”

Sabari twisted her mouth and said, “What will I do with the glass? A steel glass is the same as broken clay to me.”

Mother said, “I have a brass bowl, but I am attached to that bowl. When I look at the bowl I feel as if I had a bowl of rice. Don’t turn your attention to that.”

“If you could feel your stomach just by looking at the bowl, why would you want to keep your glass with me? Show me the container. I treat your daughters as mine. Go. Get lost from here. I don’t have time for you.”

Mother was very happy. She mixed water to the oil and put it on their hair. While combing their hair in the wooden comb, she also killed a few lice as well. But she did not know how to make braids. She had never braided anyone’s hair before. She still tried but wasn’t happy with the result.

Her elder daughter said, “Maa, you leave it. Let me braid her hair.” Now the elder baby took the place of her mother. Her mother got up and went inside. Elder daughter said, “Mother does not know anything. Don’t you see? She wanted to get coconut oil from the shopkeeper but finally she settled for castor oil from Sabari. Your hair has gotten so stuck together that the comb cannot go inside now. You have to look at the granddaughter of Pradhan. See how she pulls the hair from the sides of her ears and has two braids and then joins them with the braid in the centre? I also know how to make braids like that. However, mother has got castor oil so the hairs are twisting and looking like the tail of a mouse.”

The younger daughter was very disappointed when she heard about the tail of a mouse. She ran and got a small mirror and started looking at her face closely. She looked at her face while twisting her lips and blowing her cheeks. Her hair was looking like a newly tarred road. Her forehead appeared broad. She gave the beaded hair band that she had once bought from the market to the elder sister and said, “Put it in the beginning of the braid; if you put it on the end it won’t show.”

“Then what should I put in the end?” her elder sister asked.

“Put your ribbon there,” she replied, pointing.

“If you will put everything, what will I put?” her elder sister questioned.

The younger baby did not say anything. She knew that her elder sister did not have to go anywhere. However, she did not say a word fearing that her mother will be angry if she said that.

The elder daughter braided her hair neatly and put the beaded rubber band at the beginning of the braid and put a ribbon at the end, making the ribbon look like a flower. She wet the end of her saree and wiped her younger sister’s face, who then looked at her reflection in the mirror, smiled, and ran out of the house.

Then elder daughter then combed her own hair with a comb. She parted the hair into three sections and braided them. While pulling the thread from the roof to tie the end of the braid, mother came out of the house and shouted, “What did you do with the red ribbon? Why are you putting on this dirty thread?” Mother did not approve of the elder sister’s hairdo but kept quiet because as she did not know how to braid hair.

Mother handed her elder daughter a wooden charcoal and instructed, “Go and get your teeth cleaned.” She also told her if she took a bath also, then she could put on a nice saree as well. 

The elder daughter took out a red printed saree from a box and looked for her younger sister. The younger one was chatting with two other girls on the village road. The elder daughter called her in a loud voice and she came inside running and asked her elder sister, “Why did you call me?”

“Let’s go to the canal,” the elder daughter replied. She went inside the house, got a saree from the box, and said, “Let’s go.”

Both of them had grown up together. The elder one had inherited her looks from the father and so looked a bit rough. The younger one looked exactly like their mother, always with a smile. Since childhood, both of them had gone together to fetch mahula, to cut sticks to make brooms. They also went together to pluck kendu leaves. Sometimes, they even collected the seeds of the sala tree.

Their mother exchanged the mahula flowers for salt and rice from the shopkeeper. Both sisters put the mahula sticks meant for the broom on rows to dry on the village road.  When the sticks dried up, the two sisters put the sticks together, braided them, and made them into brooms. While the brooms sold for five rupees at the market in Dharmgad, in their own village, they got two rupees for a piece. A hundred kendu leaves fetched one rupee. These are not everyday earnings. But they didn’t always get mahula or kendu leaves. Sometimes they come back empty-handed.

When that happened, mother would shout at them and try to hit them, accusing that they just came back without anything. Then, both of them would run away to collect some roots to eat and would be starving. Their stomachs would make all kinds of noises, always prompting her to ask her elder sister, “Listen Didi (elder sister}, put your ears here. The birds are chirping.” Her elder sister would sit down and put her ears to her stomach and would smile when she heard the sounds. Then she would say, “Wait. Let’s listen to the sounds of the birds in your stomach.” When her elder sister stood up, she would put her ears to the elder sister’s stomach, listen carefully, and say, “Didi, I can hear a sound like ‘kan’ in your stomach.” Both of them would laugh their hearts out. They would each pluck a bunch of Kurehi flowers and put them in their hair and would set out to look for roots to eat.

Mother did not let them go for kanda that day. They did not go near the bushes, and didn’t even cross the canal. Mother said, “I have already made contacts. Everything will be alright. You will see how our days of misery will be over soon.”

 Their father used to say the same thing. “Our misery will be over.” He said that and set out with their two brothers one afternoon in the scorching sun. They never came back. Mother said their father had little brains and that if he had them, he would have gone to Raipur. Many from their village went to Raipur, the city within their reach. No one knew where their father went. They could not reach there. He never came back after he left that day. Her mother said their brothers must have become rich and settled down there with their families.

They had been listening to the story since they were five or six years old. They were very young then. Their father left the village with several other people from the village. Mother had gone up to the end of the village to see him off and had said, “Please feed the boys. Come back as soon as you finish the work.” But neither their father nor their brothers ever returned.

Mother borrowed money from local money lenders by keeping their things, one by one, as collateral. But their father and brothers never came back. Mother had brought the girls up by working on the farms of people and taking care of goats. But neither her father nor her brothers ever returned.

One day, Purandar Majhi and Sanatan Nag returned to the village from one of their many trips. People from all over the village heard of their arrival and flocked to their houses. By then, Purander Majhi’s father had passed away and Sanatan’s wife, Katayini, had left the village. Sanatan Nag looked like an old vulture; Purander was limping. Their master, it seemed, never gave them any food. They said that they had not seen their father.

The water in the canal only covered their feet. Elder sister scrubbed younger one’s skin and gave her a bath. She put water on her by folding her palms. After her bath, younger one asked, “Didi, will I put on your red saree?”

Elder daughter laughed and said, “How can I wear your kurta? You may wear the red saree, if you want.” Elder one squeezed the wet saree, folded it twice, wrapped it around her body, and returned home. Both of them chatted on their way home. Younger asked her elder, “Wasn’t mum mentioning that someone’s coming to our home today?”       

“Yes. Ravi Nahak will come,” the elder one replied.

The younger one responded, “Didi, the birds have started flying in my stomach.”
 “Oh no, I can’t put my ears and listen to them now,” her elder sister said repulsively.
  
Then the younger one continued. “Look Didi, cucumbers are hanging from creepers in Pradhan’s garden.”

“Don’t look inside there,” the elder one ordered.

“What would I lose by looking at them?” the younger one questioned.

Elder daughter then got angry and said, “If you keep looking at them, I am leaving.” She did not stay there and younger one then followed after her elder sister.

When they came home, mother shouted at her younger daughter  when she saw her in the red saree. Even the elder daughter had to listen to accusations from their mother. Finally, younger one put on her frock and her elder sister wore the saree.

They went over to the verandah and sat there. Their mother had opened the door and it seemed was whispering with somebody.

 “Didi, the bird in my stomach has started chirping again. Mother is really foolish to get oil in exchange for the glass. Would it not have been better if she had gotten some rice from the shopkeeper?”  Then after a short moment, she continued, “You sit here. I will be back shortly.”

The younger one then ran to the village road. Her elder sister yelled from behind, “Don’t enter Pradhan’s garden,” not sure if she heard it or not.

Meanwhile, mother was painting the mud wall and muttering accusations on Ravi. Elder one was sitting in the same place when the younger one came back with a few water lilies.

Elder asked younger, “Where did you get those water lilies?” She did not answer. “Nobody saw you when you entered their pond?” the elder questioned.

The younger one replied, “I did not enter the pond. A man was going to the temple with the flowers on a bicycle. I just got four of them.” Mother then snatched the water lilies from her hand and went inside. The boiled stems of the water lilies were very tasty. She had eaten them once.

Evening approached beginning an end to the day. Mother was still accusing Ravi and his forefathers. Younger one was too scared to ask her elder sister why mother was scolding elder. None of them ate anything that night. Instead, all three of them shut their doors and went to sleep.

Younger one woke up at daybreak with the call from her elder sister. “Wake up, wake up,” the elder was yelling. “Let’s go out and see where mother has gone early in the morning.”

“She must have gone to the fields”, younger replied to elder.

“No I don’t think so. How can she be in the fields for so long? I have been awake since when it was still dark and mother was not here then either.”

“Then she must have gone to the forest,” younger said.

Both the sisters huddled together. Mother was not back. Elder sister brought the broom and started sweeping the verandah. Then she mixed coloured mud with cow dung and wiped the mud oven. Still their mother was not back. Younger one worried, “Didi, let’s go and look for mother.”

Elder’s face appeared as if she would break down into tears. She said, “Should we inform Aunt from next door?”
They did not know what to do. Finally, both of them got out of their door of dried leaves. On the way, their aunt caught them and asked, “Where is your mother? I haven’t seen her since morning?”
“She has gone to the forest to dig some roots,” the elder one responded.

There was no forest anymore and whatever they referred to as forest did not have any roots which they could use as food. “Where has mother been since morning?” the aunt pressed on.

The girls had not eaten anything the night before. Their mother must have gone to get something. Younger one’s attention again went to the cucumber in Pradhan’s garden. She said, “Look Didi, it’s been hanging there since yesterday; no one has plucked it yet.” Elder gave younger a sharp slap on her hand.

She screamed and shouted, “Why did you hit me?”

“You don’t look that way. Pradhan’s farm worker will hit you naked,” the elder responded angrily.

Finally, they saw their mother coming from afar swinging on the borders of the fields. “There she is,” younger one said and left her sister and ran toward her mother. Mother was carrying half a kilo of rice in her saree and two fish in a polythene bag. Younger was so happy to see the rice and the fish that she shouted, “Didi, we will have a feast in the house today.”

The elder one, who by now had caught up to her, put her palm over the younger sister’s mouth and said, “Shut up. Somebody may hear you.”

“So what? Let everyone hear that our mother has brought home rice and fish.”

Her elder sister eyes started glistening but again, the light went out in them. Maybe they were subdued because she was thinking how her mother got the money. Moreover, where had she been so early in the morning?

The elder one did not move forward but kept waiting there under the Peepul tree. However, the younger one ran over to her mother. Her elder sister cut a grass with her teeth and started sucking the juice but then remembered the brass bowl that was in the house wasn’t there anymore.

After their mother joined them, all three of them started walking. The elder one asked her mother, “Did you give the brass bowl to the shopkeeper?”

Mother answered, “Why would I give that to the shopkeeper? That’s the only thing left.”

The elder continued questioning their mother. “Where did you go early in the morning? Why didn’t you let us know before you left?”

“I have been to the nearby village. If I had not left early, how could I return now? If I were late, I could not have met him?”

“Whom did mother want to meet?” the elder asked.

“Ravi,” she flatly replied. “You know, these people are very shrewd. He had come to our village yesterday but left without meeting me. I went early in the morning so that I can meet him before he leaves for the town.”

The elder decided not dig for any more information, having the wisdom to figure out what was going on. Her mother said, “Let’s go home as soon as we can. We have a lot to do.” So the three of them walked as fast as they could and reached their home. Fortunately, the woman next door woman was not there waiting at the doorstep.

Her mother sent younger one to the neighbour’s house to get some fire in the metal ladle. They had not lit their oven the night before so there was no fire in the oven. She jumped up and got hold of the iron ladle and was leaving for the neighbours who lived inside the village road when her mother called out for her loudly from behind. As she came inside the house, her mother addressed her in a very abusive language and said, “Don’t jump around about like that. When you go to get fire, if you say anything to anyone I will choke you to death.”

She started sobbing and said, “I won’t go until you give me a reason for scolding me.” She was the youngest in the family and could never tolerate harsh words from anyone. She could not help crying.

The elder one smiled and said, “Look at her, showing off.”

Mother asked her to come closer and said, “Listen, if you tell the neighbours that we are having rice and fish, they will ask you a thousand questions. How did you get them? Who got them? Your aunt next door does not tolerate us. She will come and peep when we are having food.” She was satisfied to hear her mother’s words. Even then, she danced her way through the village road to get a ladle of fire. She could not suppress her happiness. After passing over four or five houses, she was able to get a few burning wooden pieces.

While mother was trying to put rice on the oven by blowing into the wooden pieces, she gave her elder daughter a bit of oil in the small bowl and asked her to go and take a bath quickly. “Wear the same saree that you wore yesterday,” mother said to her and the elder one had put on the saree she had worn the day before but had taken it off at night. Why is mother asking her sister to wear the saree again the younger one wondered?
The elder one was getting ready to go to the canal. The younger also got ready to accompany her elder sister. The elder’s face did not appear as lackluster as the day before.

Today, there was also more water in the canal compared to the day before. Somewhere on the other side of the hill, it must be raining cats and dogs. When there was rain on the other side of the hill, the water level on this side always increased. When the water level increased, the water smelt fishy and its colour changed.  

As the elder one was happily taking her bath, putting her legs in the water she said, “You know, you can have a stomach full of rice with fish that is roasted on fire and smeared with garlic and chilies.” As the younger one took off her frock and entered into the water, her elder sister said, “You have grown up now. Why don’t you become intelligent? How can you take out your dress and get into the water?”  

But the younger one got hurriedly into the water and asked her elder sister, “Have you ever eaten fish smeared with garlic and chilies?”

“Yes I have eaten. You also have many times,” the elder stated.

“When did I eat them?” she asked, not really remembering.

“When father was around. You were very small,” the elder replied.

She quickly stepped out of the water and put on the dress. Her elder sister said, “The stitches of your dress are coming out. Look how the stitches have come out right from the underarm to the hand. Mother got this one from the Pradhan’s house. It’s old.”

Both of them came back after taking their baths. Her elder sister had put turmeric on her dark face. Their mother took out a new blouse from a polythene packet and gave it to the elder one and ordered, “Put it on.”

When the younger one saw the new blouse of her sister, she became upset. “You got a new one for her and why not for me? Look I am wearing a torn dress. Look.” She lifted her arm and showed her mother as tears welled up in her eyes.

Mother did not know how to console her youngest daughter. She said, “Let me first finish with your sister and then I will get for you as well, okay?”

Mother made elder one sit down on the verandah and combed her hair neatly. She then brought a necklace of golden and black beads and put it around her sister’s neck. She had a packet of designed bindis around her waist; she took out a bindi in the shape of the temple and put it in the middle of her eyebrows and looked at her for a long time. No, she did not approve of it. Next, she put the bindi in the shape of a snake. No, even that did not satisfy her. Finally, she put a bindi in the shape of a round wheel and said, “Yes, this suits you.”

The younger one was getting jealous seeing her mother decorating her elder sister for such a long time. She stamped her feet and said, “Will you give me some food to eat or will you carry on decorating her?”

“Wait. I will serve you shortly. Why are you shouting?” the mother said. As she got up, she asked the elder one to put kajal in her eyes.

The younger was very jealous and she got the impression that her mother loved her elder daughter more than her. She wanted to put kajal in her eyes but mother did pay any heed to her words. She was so upset that tears welled up in her big brown eyes. Her elder sister hugged and consoled her and said, “Let’s go and eat.”

Mother served them sticky rice on a steel plate. She had roasted the fish and smeared it with chilies and mixed it well. The younger asked, “Ma, why didn’t you put garlic?”

“Where would I get it?” mother replied.

All three of them ate the hot rice from their own corner in the steel plate. After eating, the younger one felt very heavy and sleepy. As she lied down on the sack, she fell asleep...

In her dreams, the younger one saw the canal was full of rice and the house was full of fish but not really. There was a feast somewhere. Everyone was running around with buckets and ladles. The scene was similar to the feast when Pradhan’s daughter got married. There were fish and rice. No, there were shining fish in the canal and on leaf plates, with heaps and heaps of rice. Everyone was just running around. In the backyard of the Pradhan’s house, someone was cutting a big fish. That cucumber was also hanging in Pradhan’s garden as well. Looking around, she saw many people sitting down and eating rice...

Just as she was getting tangled in her dream, she was awakened by her mother’s call. She saw somebody sitting in their home. Still half asleep, she was thinking, ‘Is this man, Ravi?’

Mother had been decorating elder one for the last three days for this man? He seemed quite over-aged. Mother said to her, “Go. Go out and play.”

She was so surprised to hear her mother’s words.  Was she still dreaming? “Go out and play.” What words! Previously, when she went to play hopscotch on the village road, she would be hit. She always heard her mother say, “The silly girl is drawing lines and jumping over broken pieces of burnt earth. Wouldn’t she receive some rice to eat had she gone to school?” She did not like going to school then. The teacher would make her kneel down with stones under her knees. Sometimes, he would even ask her to rub her nose on the ground. She did not go to school anymore. Now she had grown up! It had been almost two years since she left school. She had also forgotten everything about studies. After she failed for three times, her teacher said, “Don’t come to school anymore. Leave your studies.”

Mother would insist on her going to school because she would get some rice to eat as part of the midday meal programme of the school  when she did attend. Once, her mother had gone to school and fell at the feet of the teacher and pleaded with him not to strike her name off the school records. The teacher was very angry with her mother. “Your daughter will fail in one class for so many times. Do you think that the government will be feeding her rice and dal till she is old? Give up on her studies. She is not meant for them.” She was not exactly enjoying studying with youngsters and it didn’t exactly help when the teacher was always insulting her all the time either.

She was not to play hopscotch anymore either. She was with her sister, sweeping the floor, cleaning lice from their hair, and going to pluck kendu leaves. And now, her mother asked her to go and play? She was utterly surprised.

She came out of the house and sat next to her elder sister and asked her, “Who is that man sitting inside? Is he Ravi?”

Her elder sister put her hand over her mouth and said, “Shut up.”

Inside the house, mother and Ravi were arguing over the price of something. “Thousand, twelve hundred. You think you will get it so cheap?” her mother loudly quarreled.

The man with mother was saying, “The current rate is thousand. If you ask for two hundred more where will I get it? I am also a poor man like you my dear. Do you think I am making any profit from this?”

Her mother was saying, “Won’t you get your money back in two months? What are you saying? ” Finally they settled for eleven hundred. Her mother asked, “Do you want to see again? You had seen when you came.”

The younger one thought to herself, ‘They did not have any land nor did they have any cows; their only possession was the house. Why was the man attracted to them?’ Although she thought to herself, she did not dare ask her elder sister as her elder sister would again shut her mouth.

She had not gone to the toilet after waking up from her sleep and she badly wanted to go to the toilet. She got up from the verandah to go to the toilet. ‘Mother was waiting for this man for the last three days?’ she wondered to herself. When she went to the toilet, she saw there were two young bitter gourds hanging from the creeper. She touched the bitter gourds and expressed her love to them. She could not help her excitement and ran and said, “Didi……….”

But her elder sister put her finger to her lips and said, “Quiet. Be quiet.”

She then came closer and said, “Do you know there are two young bitter gourds in the creeper?” Her elder sister was not happy. She was surprised that her sister was not happy. She could not enter the house to give the news to her mother. Mother and that man were still arguing inside the house.

Mother said, “Look, the two of them don’t have the same strength; the elder one has bigger arms and legs. She has got more flesh and she can do more work. You can earn more.”

“That’s true” said the man named Ravi. “However, look, does your elder daughter have a smile on her face? She has a long face all the time. The middleman will burst into tears as soon as he looks at her. He would say, ‘Whom did you get?’ If the police notice her, they will think that we have tormented her so much that her smile has disappeared from her face. I like the younger one, no matter what you say. She is agile. Her arms and legs are steady. Her eyes are very beautiful. She has got your features. She will be quite good for work when she is fed and looked after properly.”

She turned to her elder sister with a questioning look. Her face had become pale. She did not know what to say to her elder sister. She showed the two bitter gourds behind the leaves and laughed. Yet her sister did not laugh. ‘My elder sister is really haughty,’ she thought to herself. ‘Why did her sister always sit around with a long face?’ This Ravi person had also mentioned the same thing!

Mother then came outside and called out for the younger one. She ran up to her mother inquiring why she called her. Her mother will get eleven hundred, she thought. She was asking the man. Once her mother received the money, she would ask her mother to buy a dress for her. She had a blouse for her. Would she give it to her?

Mother hugged and kissed her younger daughter and said in a tearful voice, “You go with him. You will get a stomach full of rice to eat every day. If you miss me or your sister, just ask him and he will bring you to the village to see us.”

She felt like crying. Where would she go leaving behind her mother, her elder sister, and her village? She could not tell her mother that there were two bitter gourds in the garden.

The man lit a bidi , took two puffs and said, “Come, let’s leave quickly. Otherwise, it will be evening by the time we reach where we’re going.”

Mother said, “Let me comb the girl’s hair.”

He said, “Leave it. We will be late.”

The elder one had gone somewhere; mother called out for her tearfully. The elder came and stood next to her with her head down. Now the man said in a threatening voice, “If all three of you start crying, people will gather around. I am leaving. You are good for nothing. Come on, give me my money back.”

Mother angrily responded, “Why are you behaving like that? All right, leave the money. You go ahead. We will follow you. I will see her off till the end of the village. You leave…….”

The man puffed his bidi and left without taking the money. Her mother closed the door of leaves. She asked her mother, “Why didn’t you return his money?”

Mother put the corner of her saree on her mouth and said, “You go. You will get good food and live well.”

“And then, what about Didi? How will she get good food like me?” the younger daughter questioned.


(Translated by Gopa Nayak and edited by Paul McKenna)

Saturday, May 12, 2012

MY STORY SERIES - 1


    

(The story was originally written in Odia and has been translated in to English, Hindi and Bengali. The Hindi translation of this story has been included in author’s book Rape Tatha Anya Kahaniyan (ISBN 81-7026-921-3), published by Rajpal & Sons, Delhi.  Bengali translation has been included in her short story collection Dukha Aparimit (ISBN 978 984 404 243-8), published from Bangladesh by Anupam Prakashani, Dhaka. The English version has been included in author’s book Waiting for Manna (978=81=906956-0-2), published by Indian Age Communication, Vadodara.

                                                               

If Sonali had not snatched the pen from me, it would never have fallen down. Mum had cautioned me repeatedly not to take the pen to school. But it was so wonderful and beautiful that I was tempted to show it to my friends. I would everyday play with the pen for sometime and then put it in the locker. It was a foreign made pen which my Auntie had brought it for me. Light glowed out from it while writing. A tiny watch was also mounted on one end of the pen.
Mum said, “it must be very costly”.
I had taken it to school to show to Premlata, because whenever I told her about the pen she thought I was lying, and said, there was not at all such a pen in the world. I had taken the pen to clear her that I was not lying. Taking her to a corner of the field, I showed her the pen. With a fear that it might be stolen, I didn’t go out during the recess. Premlata had promised not to tell anybody about it, but disclosed to Sonali. After the school closed down that day, Sonali asked me to show the pen. At first I didn’t give her, and thought I would go home soon when the school bus came. But the school bus was late. Mum had cautioned me never to come by walking from school because there was a liquor shop on the way between the school and our home. Drunken people would be moving intoxicatedly. Besides, the path was horribly lonely, too. It would remain unnoticed even if one was kidnapped. But the most important thing is the broken wooden bridge over the canal. The canal was no more used; wild plants had grown, and it was chocked with slush. Even if Mum had cautioned me, I would sometimes come walking with my friends that way. Because, our school bus always used to reach our colony very late as it had to ply on other road and to halt at all the places. And on most days, it would arrive at our colony in the evening. If we would return by walking we could reach home at least one hour earlier to our bus  . But Mum had cautioned me never to come by walking and I should have obeyed my mother’s advice. It was not fair to return home by walking. Sonali snatched the pen from me, and it fell in the canal. The pen was visible from above. If it would have been buried I would surely have returned home weeping, and never remained stuck in the slush. Sonali and I descended slowly down the bridge, and tried to hook the pen out with a stick; but it wouldn’t come. Still I did not like to go home back leaving the still-visible pen there. I stepped into the canal; my first foot sunk in the slush. With a fear that I might get burred, I looked helplessly at Sonali, but she asked me to go a little further and bring the pen.
          My feet had been glued in the slush; I couldn’t come out. I stretched my foot towards Sonali: Pull me out. But she returned a few steps lest she should also sink down. And said; she would get someone there; and left me. She went up the bridge, and could no more be seen. And below – I, remained all alone there – amid the jungle of weeds.
Nothing goes right with me; this has happened even before my birth. My mother says, I came to her womb unwanted. When she came to know that I had been conceived she was unhappy the whole day. Thinking that it would be a sin she did not kill me at that stage. Before my birth an astrologer had told my mother, that she would give birth to a born-sick girl. She felt sad at that moment, but forgot it afterwards thinking that astrologers always told lies. But, perhaps the word of the astrologer came true. Strange things even happened at the time of my birth. I had torn the sac in the womb. Mum crawled in pain, and was rushed to the hospital. Doctor said both the mother and the child would have died if there was a little more delay. A thief broke into our house while we were in the hospital. And Mum said,”The child is inauspicious; thief entered my house as she is born”. The thief was a stupid one; he left the gold ear-ring my mother had kept carelessly on the dressing table thinking it was spurious, and only took away the ten rupees from the drawer. I vomited blackish in the hospital, Mum was scared. My belly was washed with pipes. And then as I caught infection and diarrhea, I was given Saline treatment after even only two days of my coming to this earth. I had had one or other ailment throughout.
I didn’t like my mother’s milk. She tried much, but I would not at all suck. Rather I would sleep happily with the powdered milk from a bottle. Know, why all this now comes to my mind? My Miss asked us in the last test, to write an essay ‘an autobiography of a Dustbin’. I could understand what it meant by ‘dustbin’ but could not understand what ‘autobiography’ was. With much difficulty I wrote a few lines. No one ever throws dust in the dustbin; I had seen it and therefore, wrote: Dustbin says, “Use me, use me”, but nobody uses it. Mum was pleased with the sentence, but said I was wrong. Autobiography means story of one’s own. That is, I should have written considering myself a dustbin.
But the essay was very difficult, Mum? She said, “Why difficult? We used to write in our childhood ‘Autobiography of an old ox’, ‘Autobiography of a farmer’ etc” “It would have been better if I had been asked to write my autobiography.” Mum laughed, “How long have you lived that you would write your autobiography?”, and went away. Sonali had not yet returned with anybody, and I still there, stuck in the slush. Mosquitoes were a bother. I was buried almost knee-high; and was sinking lower even with a little movement. With such fears I could not drive the mosquitoes away. Why did I get a name like Titili? (1) I cannot fly like them from flower to flower in the wink of an eye. As I cannot be so agile and active like them, I have to bear all the abuses at home. They all scold me saying lazy, dull and lethargic. Mum says, after I was born, I would always get into sleep even before the milk from the bottle was finished; and got moved me. No one in the hospital had ever heard me cry. I was not crying or making limb movements like other children. My elder brother takes me by calling ‘sister of Kumbhakarna’.(2) I love to sleep; I love it very much. But no one likes me for this nature of sleeping. I fall asleep while watching television. Get some beating as I drowse off while studying. Mum says, this sleep is my enemy. It has stunted the growth of my intelligence. It has obstructed all the paths to my brain. Therefore, I am so dull in studies. Whoever has taught me, has become irritated in a few days, and has beaten and scolded me.
Sometimes I feel as if I am born only to be abused and beaten. And all this is only because of my studies. I remember many things, but never studies. There was always a disturbance among my parents regarding my studies. If Mum beats me in anger while teaching, Papa would rebuke her. And when Papa sits teach me mathematics I cannot recall the tables. Sometimes I cannot even recall the ninth table. Infuriated, Papa would press my neck, and ask repeatedly, “Nine sevens are/ nine sevens are? Tell, tell quickly or I’ will kill you.” Mum would rush out of the kitchen and say, “Tell daughter, nine sevens are sixty-three.” Papa would now rage upon her, “She has become so dull only because of you. Don’t have a bit of patience!” And then, he would maul me on my back. “Can’t say the ninth table, why should you need? You are born as a curse for us!”
Mum would once again come out of the kitchen and say, “How do you say such things to your own child?” They get into a quarrel only because of me, that I feel anger with myself. In the quarrel mother always succumbs to a defeat before the wide, infuriated eyes, and roaring of my father. Mum weeps profusely. I wish to fondle her at such times.
I can’t remember studies but I still remember so many things. When I was a child, I couldn’t write ‘m’ that Mum once again threw me out. Everything looked dark to me for sometime; still the windows of intelligence didn’t open up. So many tutors have been changed during my childhood. When a new tutor came asking him to sit in the drawing room, Mum would serve tea, and starts talking about me as one would talk to the Doctor about one’s disease.
“The girl cannot remember studies. When she was a child she would develop fits if there was a little high fever. She used to be given medicine to keep her asleep. she is a bit dull perhaps because of that ,Of course ,she hasn’t had those problems after she was five .she has sound mathematical intelligence; but fails   to cram up . IQ is also low .I am tired of trying upon her .see ,if you can ,,,,’’ And the tutor says, “If  she is sound at mathematics everything else will be all right .There is a different technique of teaching ; you please don’t worry for her.”
I felt myself as a serious patient at that time .As my grand father ,when he was ill , had to be moved form one doctor to another doctor ,one hospital to another ,and again to a nursing home- my condition is also like that .He had same disease that blood circulation to most part of his brain had failed .At home they were talking  of a stroke .But ,has a great part of my brain dried up ,and became a desert ?Well, is there so much desert in Africa ? One is Kalahari, and the other is Sahara, but I always forget which one is in south and which one is in north; and therefore, get some beating at school.
There are some children in our school who are even duller than me, but Mahapatra miss beats me more, and scolds too. No one loves me even at school. Like my  grand father shifting from hospital to nursing home ,I  have also changes many schools .All I remember about my first school is that  there was a bulky miss, who used to hold my hand and make me write pages after pages. But I never write if she dropped my hand .she would rage and roar, “I ‘will tie you to that mango tree. The monkey will bite you,’’ There actually was a monkey in that tree; and I was very much afraid of monkeys .I would close my eyes in fear when I saw its teeth.
Sometimes my mother says in grief,” All  fault is mine, Thinking that  it will be convenient to me in my service, I sent the girl to school even she was only two and a half years old , “ And if ever I say the same thing to her with same anger, she would get angry ; and say ,” What else would I do ? Would I leave you alone with the house-maid? Wouldn’t have you cried without seeing me for so long? You know, sometimes I find you, when I return form office, lying with shit and pee in the napkin? There fore, I sent you to school so that you would play with other children, and wouldn’t be looking for me .But that miss ruined your future .I had told her that there was no need to teach you. You would only go to school and return. Such was my discussion with her,’’
I don’t know whether my mother did the right thing with me or not. Unlike my brother I cannot replay anything promptly nor can I nurture my anger upon mum for more than two minutes. My mother says, she made my brother learn all the twenty-six English alphabets by making him write those in the yard with a broken candle of the filter. Sitting him on the wing, she made him learn the rhymes. While feeding him she would tell him stories about Dhruba, Prahallad and Shravan Kumar, but that can not be possible with me. Her service at that time was in much tension. And, she was in so great tension that she was even thinking of quitting the job. She had to listen some grumbles in the office if she was a little late  to arrive, or a bit early to leave. And perhaps because of this, she couldn’t take much care of me. Mum says, my foundation is weak; therefore, I am always weak in studies despite all efforts to teach me.
If I tell mum the same thing, when she beats me mercilessly, “you didn’t teach me from the beginning; why do you beat now?”, she would get angry; and say, “most parents do not teach their children. Did our parents teach us at home? You know, my father didn’t know what form I was in. he didn’t even know whether my school name was Padmalaya or Aparajita.He sent my uncle to get me admitted in school. My uncle couldn’t recall my name or the year of my birth. He told my name as Yasoda, and guessed the year, and as a result I still remain one year older than I actually am. I read with that and became a somebody. Besides, the father of Annapurna, your class-mate, is a driver; does he teach her? Still she comes out first in the form. The father of Vaijayantimala is a watchman; yet how does she read well? One can read well if one wishes.
Yes, I remember from this name of my friends, that the names of all my friends are like Annapurna, Vaijayantimala, Premlata and Rupkumari. There are also boys in our forms with names like Hiralal, Jagannath, Prasant and Baburam. My brother would always laugh at such old-fashioned, humble names; and tease me saying, “You read, in a poor school; you don’t know anything,” I always want to read, like my brother, in a big school. I told it to my mother. She scolded my brother, “There is nothing like rich or poor in schools. Therefore, you wear uniforms.” But I was obstinate to go to a big school. My brother would tease me saying none of my friends’ fathers was rich; and I would ask to take me to his school. My mother said, “How can you go? You don’t read well!”
          My brother and I took admission in the best school of our city. My brother got admission after an interview, and my mother had approached the principal for me. After reading in that school for a few years, my brother moved to a more tip-top and best school , and I, to the worst school of the city. Because, I didn’t at all read in that previous school. Of course, when I was new in the school, my class-teacher would sit me in the front row only because I was daughter of my mother, but could never prove myself deserving for that row. I did not at all like to write anything. Nor did I listen anything in the class. After I returned home, my mother would go through the lesson-notes of my friends, and then help me finish the homework, Gradually, I lagged far behind in my studies, just as I am now sinking lower and lower slowly in this slush. Palommy, Arpita, Amrita and others ridiculed me, and no more befriended me. Expert for one or two, I failed in all other subjects. Our principal sent for my mother, and humiliated her. But, is study the greatest thing in life? My mother says, “Yes, it is; and the life of an un-educated person is dark”. Kiran, our house-maid has not read at all; but she is so happy! Unlike me, she doesn’t have to remember the spelling of distance or disturbance! I don’t know what happens to me that, if the first letter of the word is‘d’, I read it as ‘donation’, although it is ‘duration’. And, I would read ‘separation’ instead of ‘superstition’. I cannot understand the difference between ‘constitution’ and ‘constituent’. I feel tired even at the sight at the of a book, as if I have a very long way to go. I lose interest in reading after only one paragraph.
All the tutors who have come to teach me are of different natures. Upon sometime, an unemployed engineering student used to come our home to teach me. He would teach regularly for one hour. As he had much other tuition, he would never stay even one minute more than his hour. He would ask for the bulky lesson notebook as he came. He would always learn from other students about our daily class lessons, and write the answers in my note book. I would sit silently while he wrote the answer. He would, then, ask me to cram those lessons by the next time he came; and would storm out of our house, But he know well that I couldn’t cram anything. He would ask me questions as the unit test approached; and I could never answer. He would, then, punish me; make me sit like a chair; twist my fingers through pencil. And sometimes, he would pinch my nose and ear, with the sharp nails on his left hand to bleed. I cannot weep before him; tolerated everything silently. Mum could never know anything as she was in the kitchen. But when she comes to know it later, she would feel sorry, massage ointment and said she would ask the tutor that he need not come anymore. But the next day, she would speak smiling, “Sir, please don’t beat the girl. Her ear and nose had scratches yesterday.” Neither my mother nor I was little satisfied with this tuition. My mother said it was better to buy guidebooks than have a such tutor; he never tried to make me understand the lessons. And my tutor was dismissed. Mum vowed that she herself would teach me; and taught me too without caring for her household work; she would make me finish my lessons regularly. But I would always get frightened even at the sight of the teachers, and I could never show them my lesson-notebook. There was not even a single red-mark in my notebook for months. Out of shame my mother didn’t go to the school, lest the teachers should counter-allege. Rather, she would often weep, blaming all this upon her luck; and weeping she would say, “the doctor said when you were born that none of the mother or the child would survive. But see you survived, and me too. You suffer so much sorrow, so much beating and abuses; and thinking of you, how pathetic I am!” seeing my mother weeping, I wipe tears from her eyes, and say, “please don’t weep, Mum. I’ll read well this time.” Our principal flung away report card of the final examination, and ordered to bring the parents. She showed the report card to my mother, and said, “see it. Shall I promote the girl? It is not enough to get the child admitted in a school; one has to teach at home. I’ll drop this girl.” But God knows why my mother never told, “My son comes first in the upper form of this school; I’ve never been a bit careless,” She stood there with drooping head, and words did not come out through her lips. It seemed as if she would break into tears with only a touch. I was astonished at her patience. The Principal kept rebuking my mother as if she was a little student. I wished to kick and turn down her chair. Mum did not speak anything on our way home; not even during the meals. While going for rest, she said, “why did you come to this earth dear? If at all came, why didn’t you take birth in a wealthy family?” I didn’t say anything; not did I know what I should say.
My school was again changed. They brought me to this school because the course here was lighter. It was really much lighter. English of form one was being taught in form five. Still, I couldn’t do that. I never like to read or write. My brother used to go on excursions to Mumbai and Chennai; participate in science exhibitions. Also used to go for trecking on behalf of school to Hill-Station. But in our school, we didn’t go even on picnic. Our teachers always told against the Principal; and the principal also dismissed them from their service. Atleast two or three teachers used to be changed in a year. Hiralall here always pees in the school’s well. Baburam broke his leg while jumping from the roof. Annapurna was a lice-headed girl; and she always teased me because my mother still wore dress instead of saree. I never wanted to read in such a school. I was aware of the nature of the children of this school. So I didn’t want to bring the pen; but I had to bring only for Premlata.

But, where is Sonali? Did she go back home? One uncle passed here by bicycle. I called at him, ‘Uncle’, but he could not hear. I have buried up to my waist; but what shall I do? Shall I really get buried here to death? Sonali is not a good girl. I felt like weeping. My mother would have waited for me at the gate unaware that I am here buried in the slush. While scolding me, she says, “…. Go….die”, but really die, she will weep much. She may weep now, but she will not have to weep everyday. Shall I die, then? No…. I shall not. Because Mum had once shown my horoscope to an astrologer who said, “She will not read, but her luck is not so bad. There is a danger from fire for this girl, lethal danger….”. My mother wept profusely that day.
“I know, her in-laws will burn her to death….Why don’t you understand, dear; even, well-educated girls are burnt these days because of dowry. And, you don’t read, too. I reared you with so much care; but someone will burn you….’, she began to sob as she said all this.
So, I shall not die buried in the slush. Someone must come and rescue me. I’ll be saved. If I die here now, how shall I be burnt? No, I shall not die now. Even if I get buried up to my face, people will drag me out with my hair. But, Sonali should have returned by now. Someone is coming towards the bridge; I waited a cow passed after a few moments. But someone must come, before night sets in. My mother will get worried and send people to search me. They will open the locks of the school to search me; also will be searched road sides and my friends’ houses. But will they look below the bridge? Who knows? No, no; they must see, because I cannot die buried in slush; I have to be burnt to death.
(Translated by Ipsita Sarangi)
© Author



Thursday, March 1, 2012

Taking V.S. Naipaul to Task


(The Spectator September 15, 2007 has published this cartoon  of Naipaul drawn by  Vasant Sarwate)


In May 2011, talking to Royal Geographic Society in London, V S Naipaul, the recipient of the 2001 Nobel Prize in Literature, lashed out at female authors saying there is no woman writer whom he considers his equal. Even he claimed Jane Austen couldn't possibly share her sentimental ambitions, her sentimental sense of the world. He felt women writers were “quite different.” He said, “I read a piece of writing and within a paragraph or two I know whether it is by a woman or not. I think [it is] unequal to me.”
Without naming Diana Athill, Naipaul told that she was as good as a taster and editor, but when she became a writer, lo and behold, it was all this feminine tosh.  Athill was Editorial Director of the publishing company André Deutsch for 50 years, and was the first person to promote Naipaul.
In giving her response to Naipaul’s attack, Diana Athill felt the need to disinter this dreg.  In her response talking to The Guardian, she told, “It seems very odd. He doesn't realise what a monkey he's making of himself.”
But what made Naipaul to describe women’s writing as ‘sentimental’ and ‘narrow?’ Naipaul chose the word ‘sentimental’ to describe the writings of women. If we suppose that the word was chosen carefully, then the implication is that Naipaul thinks the writings of women are swayed more by emotions rather than reason. Readers may mark Naipaul is not saying it in so many words; however, the context in which the word ‘sentimental’ was used has a pejorative connotation. Is the subordination of women by a construction of femininity does not allow them to be rational thinking subjects? But before looking into the matter, let us first decide what does ‘rational thinking’ mean here?
When Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man was first published in England in 1791, it encountered a response like no other in English publishing history. The poor pooled their pennies, supplementing it with meager savings to buy the book. The Rights of Man became an underground manifesto, passed from hand-to-hand, even when it became a crime to be found with it in one's possession. But when it was printed in America, it created a new sensation. The book became a bible to thousands of citizens who dreamed of a free America. Time after time, when men were tried for treason, invariably the Crown offered as evidence to the jury the fact that these men possessed a copy of The Rights of Man.
Mary Wollstonecraft not only appropriated a space for the rights of women to be discussed in A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792) but she also gave a literary reaction to Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man (1791). Through an analysis of her text, I will assess the argument for the education of women which prevented them from entering into the public sphere of masculine Romanticism. The impact this had on female writers such as Jane Austen is presented in Mansfield Park (1814) which articulates, fictionally, Wollstonecraft’s concept of a rational woman in the character of Fanny Price.
Wollstonecraft and Austen both advocated women’s rights on the grounds of sexual equality but this position is complicated by the specificities of their own early in nineteenth century culture which tied the acquisition of equal rights for women to the issue of marriage and becoming better wives for men. In Mansfield Park, Fanny Price in could initially be read as the familiar Austen character. We are not simply being offered a woman’s view of life through Fanny Price but a questioning of the structures which gender rational discourse as masculine and therefore exclusive to men. The other women depicted in Mansfield Park are those ideological constructions of women by masculine rationalism who offer ‘a woman’s view of life.’
Women’s writing has been accepted by patriarchal society as the manifestation of a woman’s view of life, a feminine Romanticism. The intention of women’s writing was not to offer a woman’s view of life but to bring to literature a social critique. No one asked or tried to find how the men’s view of life included the interrogation of patriarchal structures which bound literature to a gendered Romanticism. On refusing to support the notion of gendered writing, the rational rather than masculine discourse of Wollstonecraft in A Vindication of the Rights of Woman was an appropriation of a space for women to exist as literary writing subjects within masculine Romanticism.
Naipaul has decided rationalism or reason has nothing to clutch with emotions and that rationalism was only associated with a plain, factual, and methodical way to approach a problem and to obtain a valid and logical solution.
Descartes says that rationalism is independent and absolute of experience, whether Kant proposed it is critical that can be perceived is within the limits of the mind. Influenced by Descartes’ philosophy of rationalism, Spinoza adds approach to the emotions, which have implications for modern approaches to psychology. So it is very false to say philosophically that rationalism has nothing to relate with sentiments and emotions.
Kant, who discussed in detail the scope and limits of reason in his remarkable work Critique of Pure Reason, also saw emotions as an essentially curative phenomena, but grouped them with inclinations enticing the will to act on motives other than that of duty.
Those who, while arguing Naipaul’s misogynic comments, often cite Hilary Mantel, A.S. Byatt, and Iris Murdoch to stand with them as writers who are away from sentiments and who never write ‘feminine tosh.’ I want to ask what do these term ‘sentiments’ and ‘feminine tosh’ really mean? Isn’t the so-called rationalism defined and constructed by a masculine discourse and ideology, a ‘masculine rationalism?’ The gendering of rationalism, therefore, articulates the cultural understanding of the current literary scenario. Nobody, I found in Naipaul’s misogynic debate has raised any question on gendering rationalism.
But in fact, reason is an instinct that is subject to humanities and the human intellect is limited by its physical and social surroundings which impose on it constraints that show its limitation. Mind is also a subjective entity influenced by group myth, group culture and social format and is responsible for the basic mental models used to structure social interaction. So, rationalism could not be above any social basic model like patriarchy and others.  In her essay “The Ethics of Ambiguity,” Simone de Beauvoir claims that at one point or another, every human being will of necessity feel the ambiguity of his existence.
So here are the two things I would like to consider: first, what is the ambiguity of the human condition? And second, how does this ambiguity affect the rationality of a human, if it has any effect at all?
Considering these group myths, prejudiced condition of mind with social formats, and the ambiguity of human existence, I think we have an open window to discuss more whether rationality is effected by patriarchy or not. And I hope the answer will be a positive one.
Now allowing rationalism to struggle with a question mark, let us return to misogynist discussed author. Naipaul is no stranger to his misogynistic comments and attitudes.  In the past, Naipaul has criticised India's top female authors for their ‘banality’ on the topic on which he is best known for writing: the legacy of British colonialism.
Naipaul, famous for a caustic portrayal of his female characters, is a known misogynist and his once friend Paul Theroux, wrote for The Sunday Times in 2008 that Naipaul was “violent, unstable, a racist, and a misogynist.” Theroux laments that he had been forced to be kind in his book.  He wrote: “I wanted to write about his cruelty to his wife, his crazed domination of his mistress (which lasted almost 25 years), his screaming fits, his depressions, his absurd contention that he was the greatest writer in the English language (he first made this claim in Mombasa at the age of 34). Theroux further wrote, ‘“I am a new man,” he assured me once, ‘as Montaigne was a new man.”’ But did Montaigne frequent prostitutes, insult waiters, and beat his mistress?
Slash, change; slash, change. Even so, when my book appeared, the reviewers howled at me for my audacity. “An unfair portrait,” “a betrayal,” and the usual jibes – all of them portrayed me as an envious upstart. Just a few weeks ago, in a sycophantic piece about Naipaul by a rival newspaper, my book was described as an example of “literary pique” because I had suggested that Naipaul was a monstrous egotist.( See: http://www.timesplus.co.uk/tto/news/?login=false&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.thetimes.co.uk%2Ftto%2Farts%2Fbooks%2F)  
That Naipaul started to create controversy (for him, controversy was not new) was an old topic and in the June 1998 issue of Harper's Magazine, Francine Prose opened a debate through her essay “Scent of a Woman's Ink: Are Women Writers Really Inferior?,” in which she expressed her agony for neglecting female writers by insisting that despite the sales success of middlebrow “women's fiction,” as epitomized by Oprah Winfrey's hugely successful television book club, women writers of “serious literary fiction” don’t get any respect, not, at least, from “the more cerebral book-review pages and the literary prizes.” Prose  has revived the debate by asking whether women writers are really more prone to “diminutive fictions, which take place mostly in interiors, about little families with little problems,” and are they really more inclined toward a soft, self-absorbed emotionality or not. Actually, Prose maintains that male writers do all of that just as women produce works that are “fiercely unsentimental, sharply observed, immensely ambitious and inclusive.”
In one of my old essays “It is Risky for a Woman to Deal With Female Sexuality in India,” I once wrote, “(Patriarchal readers and critics) are the ones who persist in seeing a fiction as inevitably colored by its author's gender, and the male critics always think that the domestic issues [like] love are of less consequence then the depth of thought produced by male writers?”
In short, it is a big question now who will determine the difference in importance between a woman's inner or outer life and a man's. The answer, until recently at least, has been men. Uma Parmeswaran once wrote an article on Kamala Mrakandeya at Sawnet where she described that Salman Rushdie, in his novels Shame and The Satanic Verses, raised the issues of race riots in Britain. But 20 years before Rushdie, Kamala Markendeya talked not only about the violence of racism but also about other diasporic realities: educational degrees that are not given accreditation, the resistance of immigrants to the expectations of the “host” culture, chasms of communication between generations, cultural values, and needless cultural baggage. But the male-dominated literary criticism placed Rushdie as a pioneer of diasporic struggle.
Our literature thus is highly male-dominated, and the hidden male-centric agenda masks the capability of the writings of women under the pseudo-mask of such biased universal standards of aesthetic judgments, to which Naipaul played a clever game at the Royal Geographic Society in London.
Before concluding this, I want to show my readers how our literary world is figured by a masculine shape.  VIDA, an organization for women in literary arts, compiled a survey in 2010 and found in the UK, the London Review of Books reviewed 68 books by women and 195 books by men with men taking up 74 percent of the attention; 78 percent of the reviews were written by men. Seventy-five per cent of the books reviewed in the Times Literary Supplement were written by men; 72 percent of the reviews were written by men.
Meanwhile in 2010, Granta magazine, which does not review books but includes original contributions, featured the works of 26 female writers and 49 male writers, with men making up 65 percent of the total.
In the United States, The New York Review of Books, in 2010, showed a stronger bias. Among the authors reviewed, 84 percent were men with 84 percent of the reviews written by men. The New York Times Book Review fared better.  There, among the authors reviewed, 65 percent were men with 60% of the reviews being written by men. (See: http://www.vidaweb.org/the-count-2010)
Returning back to Naipaul’s discourse, at last I want to quote the response of Diana Athill made after Naipaul’s attack. She comments, “When I stopped admiring him so much, I started writing ‘feminist tosh.’”
 There are many Naipauls today with their misogynic attitudes and agendas constantly revolving around us. Think what they could do if they held a sword instead of a pen!

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Sarojini Sahoo in Odisha TV

A distinguished bilingual South Asian feminist writer, and an associate editor , a feature oriented English journal Indian AGE, who has been enlisted among 25 Exceptional Women of India by 'Kindle' English magazine of Kolkata and has been conferred with the Orissa Sahitya Academy Award, 1993, the Jhankar Award, 1992, the Bhubaneswar Book Fair Award and the Prajatantra Award. She is also in the advisory board of Indian Journal of Post Colonial Literature; published from the English Department of Newman College, Thodupuzah, Kerala.

In English ,one novel and two anthologies of short stories have been published to her credit so far . Bengali translation of two of her novels have been published from Bangladesh and in Oriya ,there are eight short stories collections and eight novels in published form to her credit.

She is also a known blogger for her ideas in feminism and has gained world wide fame. Her Blogs are SENSE & SENSUALITY, FEMININE-FRAGRANCE and INDIA

Source: You Tube.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

"As if you have been inspired by us by writing the novel..." Says a German poetess

Silke Liria Blumbach, a German poetess, translator, blogger writes a few lines after reading my novel The Dark Abode. I want to share her words with my readers:

"As if you have been inspired by us by writing the novel...

You understand what few people understand: that a very deep love can exist between people who have never met in person.

After browsing the book, I have the impression that people reduce your writing unjustly to the mere aspect of sexuality, whereas you write about love and life in its fullness. Maybe you write about sexuality in a way it has never been written about before by an Indian woman, it may even be a kind of mission, probably it is also a great deal of sensationalism, but it is a reduction, and I can imagine that this reduction distorts also the image people may have of you and that this is not easy especially in Indian society.

"Yet she could feel his presence every moment." - EXACTLY.

We have experienced so many things, and verified them empirically (e.g. by checking the time), which cannot be explained by science.

I wonder whether you or a relative or friend of you has already experienced such a love - your writing describes it all so exactly that it is hard to imagine that all these true, significative and characteristic details come only from your imagination."

Details of Book: The Dark AbodeBook: The Dark Abode

Author: Dr. Sarojini Sahoo

Language: English

Translator: Mahendra Kumar Dash

ISBN: 8190695622

ISBN-13: 9788190695626, 978-8190695626

Binding: Paperback

Publishing Date:07.10.2008

Publisher: Indian Age Communication
Number of Pages: 174

( Online Source for free down load of full novel: SCRIBD

Online Purchase: FLIPKART )

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Excerpts from the book 'Sensible Sensuality'

Title: Sensible Sensuality

Language: English

Genre: Essays

Author: Dr. Sarojini Sahoo

ISBN: 81-7273-541-8

ISBN-13: 978-81-7273-541-8

Binding: Hard Cover

Publishing Date: 2010

Publisher: Authors Press, E-35/103, Jawahar Park, Laxmi Nagar, Delhi- 110 092, email; authorspress@yahoo.com

Number of Pages: 184

Price: 475 INR or 10 US $

Excerpt:

* I can say only in Oriental perspective. I think, sexuality has a major role in understanding feminism. Let us consider a girl’s condition in adolescent period. If she becomes pregnant, the male partner is not blamed for his role.it is the girl, who has to suffer.If she accepts the child, she has to suffer a lot in socially and if she goes for any abortion, she has to suffer emotionally for the rest of her life.In case of married woman, there are many restrictions with respect to sexuality whereas her male partner is free from these restrictions.Even now a days in Oriental countries, you can find most of the married woman are un known about their feeling of orgasm.If a female admits about her sexual pleasure, there may be every chance to misunderstand her as a bad woman by her own husband.She may be misunderstood for having pre marital sex.In the time of menopause, though except some biological phenomena, nothing has changed in sexual life , but a woman has to suffer a lot mentally thinking herself disable for sexually meeting with her husband.I think till now in Asian and African countries ,the patriarchy society has its control over sexuality .So, the women need two type of liberation. One is from financial slavery and another from sexuality. Women are always victims; men are oppressors. I believe in theory that "a woman's body, a woman's right."that means women should control their own bodies and people should take them seriously.( Page 16-17)

* Like anger, fear, hatred, humour, love is also an emotion. This emotion, however, is different from other emotions because material elements like marriage, childbirth, divorce, dating, etc., build up upon this emotion to give a person's life a definite direction and shape. Love is the only emotion that channels itself into paving a path for our life. It is an integral complementarity of men and women, rather than the superiority of men over women or women over men. It is the sharing ness of emotions and of life. I think that it's more important to be a complete human being than a writer, or a feminist or any other label one may be known by but I also realize the reciprocal nature of living and writing. I believe that living gives you material (pleasure, pain, angst, loneliness, joy and what not) for writing while writing helps you interpret your existence in a meaningful way. I live, I write, I grow and live some more and write some more and hopefully grow some more)...That's my theory!(Page 138)

*Monogamy is always a double standard activity by masculine world. It is deliberately an extremist idea which is built into its core rule that men can have multiple spouses but women cannot. Even worse, traditional polygamy is always used by the masculine world to exploit feminine world sexually. Women these days expect and demand to have the same standing in relationships as men. To which polygamy denies and women find a lesser status in such traditional polygamy . Either the polygamy turns to polyandry , where a single woman is sexually used by men or very soon she is rejected by her lover .The purity of love and the emotional bondage does not act in polygamy . On the other hand , by allowing monogamy we make ourselves confined to a double standard system created by masculine world .( Page 33 to 34)

* Our feminist thinker always tries to skip the idea that offspring begging is a natural instinct of a woman and it is related to our ecological and environmental situation .Anything against it may resulted to disaster ,We find , a woman has to pass through a different stage in her life span and there is a phase where a woman feels an intense need of her own offspring .Feminists of second wave feminism have always tried to pursue a woman against the natural law because it is seemed to them that motherhood is barricade for the freedom of a woman . But if the woman has her own working field , doesn’t have it mean that her working assignments would demand more of her time ,of her sincerity and of course of her freedom ? If a woman can adjust herself and can sacrifice her freedom for her own identity at out side her home, then why she shouldn’t sacrifice some of her freedom for parenting, when parenting is also a part of one of her social identity ?And it could also be solved by rejecting the patriarchal role of parenting, .We have to insist the idea of the division of labor in parenting .This equally shared parenting is now common in Western ,but still in South Asian countries we find it as a taboo factor rather because of economic inequality between men and women, our crazy work culture, and the constrictions that are placed on us by traditional gender roles. (Page 40)

*In this so called ‘sex war’, I think, the actual importance of the issues like ‘sexual freedom of a woman ‘ or ‘woman’s right over her body’ had been demoralized and became insignificant. . The sex negative feminists often forget that they accept the sex-negative characterization of feminism that has been imposed on us by people who are not feminists, and who in fact are generally our opponents . On the other hand the sex positive feminists also always forget that the value of sex depends on the people involved, what they want to get out of it, whether they’re able to achieve that, and whether they are causing harm to themselves or others. That requires the ability to think again while they are supporting pornography or prostitutions or BDSM . Sex never was introduced first in Human history as a tool for any exploitation or any hegemony. Sexuality is always an integral part of the personality of every human being. Its full development depends upon sharing ness of the satisfaction of basic human needs such as the desire for contact, intimacy, emotional expression, pleasure, tenderness and love. (Page 43 to 44)

* The writing process is a sexual process. When a writer wants to expose a physical life or an energetic life, a creative tension and a flow of energy is generated in the creative process. This creative tension can be experienced as a sexual tension and the flow of energy creates life or describes a new life. Religion or society never cares for any artistic sensibility as Plato’s domination and so this inherent sexual influence over creativity has also always been denied by our sexual gurus. So, we find there are descriptions of fetishism, voyeurism, exhibitionism in the writings after the Second World War. We also find our writers/artists/musicians always have an inclination towards their sexual orientation and sexual behaviour and we encounter how much sexual desire they have.(Page60)

* What I want to point out is that Kafka’s relationship with those close to him has always remained under suspicion and through his physical intimacy with other gender (say Gregor’s sister), it kept him away, mentally. This may be why Kafka didn’t find any particular success with relationships in his love life. Unable to reconcile his physical urges with his romantic longings, he had a series of prolonged, probably chaste, engagements that invariably ended in his breaking off the relationship. It makes a clear distinctive reason that the ‘suppressed libido’ of Kafka may have caused him to write a porno book along with all the other masterpieces he created. (Page 145)

* It is interesting to note Radclyffe Hall’s Well of Loneliness has been declared as obscene and pornographic. I have never found any sexually explicit descriptions or the so-called ‘obscene words’ in that book. Nowadays, it is unbelievable to think that 80-90 years ago, the author was taken to court. I am never a supporter of ‘porno’ and I always believe that it makes woman a ‘product’ always associated with male-dominant consumerism. But it is also true that every sexually explicit topic is not ‘porno.’ I would be happier if Alan Moore would have used the word ‘erotica’ instead of ‘porno’ for his novel Lost Girls. ( Page 152 to 153)

* If the myths are in any way to be considered as the reflection of ‘social ideas’ of any group or society, then we can say that with the development of patriarchal control over feminine civil rights, the sexual freedom described in those myths was cut down from the women’s world and transferred to the men’s world with anti-feminist moral milieus which gradually made the female a sex object, however powerful they might be in their goddess perspectives. This is a strapping point, I believe, that the sex negative feminists have to think of before raising their voice against the sex role attitudes of the female.(Page 55)

*Though Milton appeared as a pro feminist in his free verse epic Paradise Lost, critics blame him for his misogynist attitude (See: Gallagher, Philip J: Milton, the Bible, and Misogyny; Publisher: Univ of Missouri Pr (April 1990), ISBN-10: 0826207359; ISBN-13: 978-0826207357) whereas there was no evidence of misogynist nature of Balaram Das. The sexual right is the main topic for Eve in Paradise Lost. Though Balaram Das wants to skip the sexual topics, still both the poets have made their stand nearer to the social right and social freedom of the feminine masses.It is also an amazing fact to mark that the pro-feminist voice was raised in Eastern world at least hundred years before the Western could think over it. ( Page 130)

*Art is not what you see but what you make others see. What is important is how one views life as a whole and hence, the reader's psyche has indeed a lot to do with how the work is interpreted. I don’t blame Joyce, as some feminist critics did, for being unjust to Nora. Writing is a total difficult and complex process. An author has to make himself/herself a multi-winged personality -- one goes above the surroundings and canvas so that the author him/herself could observe everything with full objectivity. Another enters into the character. And the third one assimilates an author’s self with the character. So, when Joyce tries to paint Molly in Ulysses and Bertha in Exiles, we find not the Nora, but the Joyce with his ‘manly woman’ personality. As Richard Brown explains about Molly, she “surely does represent a new kind of fictional woman: massive, potent and self-possessed. Though few modern feminists have wished to avail themselves of that image of femininity, it was evidently one which Joyce constructed out of his own version of feminist literary tradition, and its obtrusive sexual dimorphism is conceived as a vindication of, rather than an attack on, femininity. ( Page 161)

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

World Wide Words

Words are very unnecessary: the sound of silence is the universal refuge.

Some notes on words

"E" is the first common used letter (12.702%) in English, and the second most common letter is “T” (9.056%) and "A" acquired the third position (8.167%).

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What is the longest word in English? It is a name of a protein. The wall here does not support to bear the word limit. The word has 189,819 letters. It is:

"Methionylglutaminylarginytyrosylglutamylserylleucylphenylalanylalanylglutaminyll-eucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylglutamylglycylalanylphenylalanyvalylprolylphenylalanyl-valythreonylleucylglycylaspartylprolyglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleucyllysyl-isoleucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylglycylalanylaspartylalanylleucy-lglutamylleucylglycylglycylisoleucylprolylphenylalanylserylaspartylprolylleucelalanyla-spartyglycylprolythreonylisoleucylglutamiylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucylarginylala-nylphenylalanylalanylglycylvalyltheonylprolylalanylglutaminylcysteinylphenylalanygll-utamylmethionylleucyalanylleucylisoleucylarginylglutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonyl-isoleucylpriIylisoleucylglycylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparaginylleucylvalyp-henylalanylasparaginyllysylgyycylisoleucylaspartylglutamylphenylalanyltyrosylalanyl-gutaminyllcysteinylglutamyllysylvalylglycylavlylaspartylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylasp-artylvalyprolylvalylglutaminylglutamyllserylalanyprolyphenylalanylarginylglutaminylal-anylalanylleucylarginylhistidylasparaginylvaylalanylprolylisoleucylphenylalanylisoleu-cylcysteinylprolylprolylaspartylalanylaspartylaspartylaspartylleucylleucylarginyglutam-inylisoleucylalanyylseryltyrosylglycylarginylglycyltyrosylthreonyltyrosylleucylleucylser-ylarginylalanylglycylvalythreonylglycylalanylglutamylasparaginylarginylanylalanylleu-cylprolylleucylaspaaginylhistidylleucylvaylalanyllysylleucyllysylglutamyltyrosylasarag-inylglycylphenylalanylglycylisoleucylalanylprolylaspartylglutaminylvalyllysylalanylala-nylisoleucylaspartylalanylalanyglycylalanylalanyglycylalanylisoleucylserylglycyseryla-lanylisoleucylbalyllsylisoleucylisoleucylglutamyyylglutaminylhistidylasparaginylisole-ucylglutamylprolyglutamyllysylmethionylleucylalanylalanylleucyllysylvalylphenylalaby-lvalylglutaminlylprolylmethionyllysylalanylalanylthreonylarginylserine".

It is one of over two million proteins.The word has 189,819 letters. It is also called as 'Titin' in short form.

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'Honorificabilitudinitatibus' is the longest word William Shakespeare used in Act V, Scene I of Love's Labour's Lost. It is mentioned by the character Costard. It means “the state of being able to achieve honours." It is also the longest word in the English language featuring alternating consonants and vowels.

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The least commonly used letter in the English language is "z" and the second least is "q". "E" is also the most common letter in French, German, and Spanish. Friends can access some interesting mathematics to find out the least used word in English from the site at http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080620081413AAQVTSc

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Oxford Dictionary of Quotations says that the shortest poem in the English language (by an unknown poet) is titled 'On the Antiquity of Microbes' and contains only this much – Adam/Had 'em.

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"For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

Above is the shortest short story consisting of only six words. Credit goes to Ernest Hemingway. On a bet, Hemingway once presented his friends with this six words short story.

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Terza Rima is a type of poetry consisting of 10 or 11 syllable lines arranged in three-line format. The first known use of terza rima is in Dante's Divina Commedia. This style has been used by Milton, Shelley, and Byron. The rhyme-scheme is: aba, bab, cdc, ded, etc.

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Cna yuo raed tihs? The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

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Collins dictionary has chosen 102 words and phrases to exemplify a year in the past century and a bit. For example: 1978 test-tube baby; 1979 Rubik cube; 1980 Solidarity; 1981 SDP (ie, the then new and now defunct British Social Democratic Party); 1982 CD; 1983 Aids; 1984 yuppie; 1985 glasnost; 1986 Mexican wave; 1987 PEP (Personal Equity Plan, a type of tax-free savings); 1988 acid house; 1989 Velvet revolution; 1990 crop circle; 1991 ethnic cleansing; 1992 clone; 1993 information superhighway; 1994 National Lottery; 1995 road rage; 1996 alcopop; 1997 Blairite.etc etc.

A similar list produced for the Guardian by the editors of the Oxford English Dictionary is like this: 1978 BMX, Teletext; 1979 space invaders; 1980 Reaganomics; 1981 Walkman; 1982 Exocet; 1983 Star Wars; 1984 Aids; 1985 yuppie; 1986 perestroika; 1987 free market, Black Monday; 1988 lager lout; 1989 poll tax; 1990 global warming; 1991 citizen’s charter; 1992 grunge, annus horribilis; 1993 Whitewater, bobbit; 1994 World Wide Web; 1995 Britpop; 1996 ecowarrior, scratchcard; 1997 New Labour.

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Grammars were originated first in Sanskrit : (6th century BC), Tamil (1st century BC), Greek (3rd century BC) and Latin (1 st Century BC) respectively. In 7th Century Irish grammar was originated and that of Arabic followed in next century. It is very interesting to know that Hebrew grammar was originated very lately in 10thh Century only and the first grammar in English began with John of Cornwall in 14 th Century

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Old English(mid-5th century to the mid-12th century) had two numbers, three genders, four cases, remnants of dual number and instrumental case, which could give up to 30 inflectional forms for every adjective or pronoun. Its syntax was only partially dependent on word order and has a simple two tense, three mood, four person (three singular, one plural) verb system. The spelling of Old English is strictly phonetic.

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In all of his work - the plays, the sonnets and the narrative poems - Shakespeare uses 17,677 words: Of those, 1,700 were first invented by Shakespeare by changing nouns into verbs, changing verbs into adjectives, connecting words never before used together, adding prefixes and suffixes, and devising words wholly original.

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‘An Alligator skin ’, ‘epileptic’, ‘eyeballs’, hot-blooded’, ‘household words’, ‘obscene’, ‘puking’, ‘skim milk’, ‘the game is afoot’ and ‘worm-holes’ are some words and phrases that don't appear anywhere in English prior to Shakespeare putting them on paper.

‘An Alligator skin’ in Romeo and Juliet (First Folio), Act V, Scene I, Romeo Soliloquy.

‘Epileptic’ in King Lear, Act II, Scene ii, Kent to Cornwall.

‘Eyeballs’ in A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act III, Scene ii, Oberon to Puck.

‘Hot-blooded’ in King Lear, Act II, Scene iv, King Lear to Regan.

‘Household words’ in King Henry V, Act IV, Scene iii, Henry to Westmoreland.

‘Obscene’ in Love's Labours Lost, Act I, Scene i, Ferdinand to Costard.

‘Puking’ in As You Like It, Act II, Scene vii, Jaques to Duke Senior.

‘Skim milk’ in Henry IV, Part I, Act II, Scene iii, Hotspur Soliloquy.

‘The game is afoot’ in Henry IV, Part I, Act I, Scene iii, Northumberland to Hotspur.

‘Worm-holes’ in the narrative poem The Rape of Lucrece.

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Various spellings were used at the time of Shakespeare’s marriage with Anna Hathway in the Episcopal Register at Worcester on November 27th 1582 and November 28th 1582- there were at least 16 different spellings of Shakespeare including Shakspere, Shakespere, Shakkespere, Shaxpere, Shakstaff, Sakspere, Shagspere, Shakeshafte and even Chacsper! Shakespeare always signed himself as "Shakspere"

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