The Liberation of Sita Read online

  Do you think the rise of identity movements is a blow to ideological movements?

  Ideological movements had reached a stage where if they did not receive that blow, they would have been totally destroyed. That blow was needed and timely. It did not happen accidentally. Identity movements rose out of indifference, neglect. It is true that identity movements created splits initially, and women, Dalits, minorities separated. But I think such separation helps them to know their own identity, strengths and weaknesses. This process will take some time. But perhaps after that they will again arrive at a common identity. Oppression, for instance, is a common factor since all these movements were born out of oppression. Arriving at an understanding of what is common among their different oppressions may take a long time, but because of technology it might also take a very short time. But whatever is happening now, I feel, is for the good. Let everything come out—even if it is hatred, even if it is hatred arising out of misunderstanding, let everything that has accumulated over centuries come out. Once it has all cleared up, then there will be a realization of your true self. Then the atmosphere will become clearer. I’m optimistic.

  Ideological movements encourage you to rise above the limitations of the self and see yourself as part of the larger group. Identity movements, on the other hand, are focused on the self. How can they come together?

  Identity movements too are group-based. When women and Dalits are reduced to miniatures in the larger picture, there is a need to look at them up cose. Ideological movements overlooked them, and out of that neglect emerged identity movements. When the marginalized are seen closely, the picture that emerges will also be seen by the ideological groups and then perhaps there will be an interaction between the two.

  What are your views on translation? How can translations become a bridge between the familiar and the strange?

  Translations are very necessary. It was translated Soviet literature I read at a young age that shaped my perspective. I could arrive at some understanding of the wider world, of exploitation even at a young age. If I had read only our magazines and what contemporary women writers [in Telugu] were writing, my understanding would have been very limited. I wouldn’t have been as politically aware at that young age of fourteen or fifteen. Later when I started translating, I did it with the conviction that those works needed to reach our readers. The essence of human experience is the same everywhere—pain, love, suffering, exploitation, struggle. But how does it work in different backgrounds? What is common among all these experiences? These are the interesting aspects of translation. For instance, the Russian context may be totally different, but a mother is a mother, anywhere.14 So when I see a similarity between that mother and my mother, I feel happy. When I realize that the feeling called ‘mother’ is the same all over the world, my happiness is doubled.

  Why is there a huge asymmetry between translations into Telugu and translations from it?

  The asymmetry is very true. Very few of our works have been translated into other [Indian] languages. Nobody outside [the state] knows about our writers, even about the great ones like Sri Sri, Chalam, KoKu. To tell you the truth, as far as I know, few other Indian languages have writers like Sri Sri or Chalam. There was no one in the 1920s who wrote novels like [Chalam’s] Sasirekha (1921) or Maidaanam (1927). Similarly a poem like [Sri Sri’s] ‘Kavita o kavita’ is very rare in any Indian language literature. As Sri Sri once said in a poem, ‘Andhraness is my curse’15. Maybe the Telugu people have a poor opinion about themselves and so they don’t come forward to get their works translated. Speaking from my own experience—some of my works have been translated into Kannada, Marathi and Hindi. I don’t usually try to get translated and am quite satisfied with writing for readers in my own language. But I really wanted at least a few of my stories translated into Malayalam, Bengali and Tamil, but it still hasn’t happened!

  Why are Telugu works not getting translated into English, then?

  Publishing is the main hurdle. There are only a few publishers who publish translations. Moreover, there are several other issues: Who will do it? Who knows both languages well? How do you get to know of them or contact them? How to get it published? Very few Telugu writers think about all this. Unlike our writers, writers in other languages promote themselves well. Also, in other languages, those who know the language and are well versed in English promote their writers with zeal. In Telugu, there is no such zeal, I must say. Take your own example. Till you [and Vijayasree] translated Kanyasulkam, nobody thought about it although it is an acknowledged modern classic16. A few years ago, when [Alladi] Uma and [M] Sridhar translated my book17 and invited me to speak at its launch, I felt so guilty the whole day! In hindsight, I feel that I may have hurt them, but I did not say anything about the book as I felt a little embarrassed that my book was translated into English when books of Gurajada, Chalam and KoKu were not! But, by and large, I have to say that there isn’t much awareness in Telugu of the whole process of translation.

  Self-publishing seems to be the norm in Telugu. Is it a sign of impatience or is it happening because there are no publishers? What is the publishing scene in Telugu?

  There were many publishers during the 1960s when women were writing serials. There were many writers and readers, and the reading culture was strong. It disappeared in the ’80s due to various reasons like the spread of English education, television, etc. At the same time, good writing was displaced by popular and pulp fiction. The whole scene became murky and publishers stopped publishing. So everyone started publishing their own books, which means there is no appraisal. But even before that, publishers went by names. If it is a book by a famous writer, they published it because they were sure of the sales. Even books by not so well-known writers were assured of a sale of a few thousand copies through public libraries, lending libraries, etc. But when the sales stopped, publishers withdrew from the scene. But a process of gradation, assessment, filtration, was never there in Telugu publishing at any time. It’s a major flaw. There are no standard publishing procedures, and there is no guarantee that a book published by a particular publisher will be of quality.

  What has been the response of readers and critics to your work? Are you satisfied with the critical scene in Telugu?

  In 1987, my second novel Swechcha (Freedom) won the first prize in a competition. It got wide publicity and the magazine Chatura which had a good circulation published one lakh copies of the novel and they were all sold out. The magazine received a lot of letters about the novel from readers. For the first time I realized that a novel is read by so many people, that it can be read and understood in so many ways. It was an eye-opener. The editor of Chatura, Chalasani Prasad Rao, was a meticulous person. Unlike now, no contact number or address of the author used to be given in those days. So the magazine would get the letters, which were filed and given to the authors. The editor gave me three–four such files of readers’ letters. From those letters, I could see that the common readers understood the novel well—understood it in the way I had intended—and appreciated it. At the same time, on the other hand, people with whom I worked—members of the Progressive Writers’ Association, Revolutionary Writers’ Association—were tearing the novel to pieces in their reviews and public discussions. It became clear to me then that these so-called critics could see only through their prejudiced eyes, and that their views are not what one should go by. My experience gave some clarity about criticism—that we don’t have to bother about them, that what they want is different from what the common reader wants, and so we just have to write what we want to write. Readers’ response is different and is often not partisan, and I seem to have been in sync with their thinking because my writing has always been well received by them. In general, I would say that constructive criticism is in extreme short supply in Telugu. For instance, very few critics take the trouble to do a detailed analysis of a book’s components—its theme, style, imagery, characterization, etc.—as I did in Athadu, aame, manam. The lack of such crit
icism is a disadvantage for writers. It has come to such a pass that, today, if anyone attempts that kind of analysis, writers are unable to stomach it. They seem unwilling to take any comment that is not to their liking. By and large, it seems to me that the critics’ hostility is the outcome not of incomprehension but of ideological prejudice.

  But you have been an ideological writer yourself from the very beginning. So, does ideology limit a writer? Does it make the writer’s response predictable?

  I don’t think there can be a writer without an ideological framework—whatever that ideology is—it is not possible. No one is neutral. But what is important is how the writer sees that ideology, understands it, and uses it in a systematic way to understand literature. In my case, for instance, I like the Bharatam very much—I read it, and know the poems by heart. I also adore the romantic poetry of Krishna Sastry18, Nanduri’s songs19. I am a Marxist, I know. While on the one hand I was working in the Students’ Federation, on the other hand, I was writing love poems, like any other sixteen-year-old. For anyone with any poetic sense, it is impossible not to write love poetry, particularly at a certain age. But I never used to show it to my Student Federation friends for fear of being ridiculed for writing poetry about things like love. So such ideological constraints exist, I don’t deny that. But many writers transcend those restrictions. It is important to observe how a writer views and understands human emotions. Love is a human emotion. So how beautifully and how tenderly a writer has presented that emotion is what one should look at instead of saying that you should not write love poetry at all because you’re a Marxist. That is dogmatism, and I have never subscribed to such dogma. So, I never faced that kind of ideological barriers while reading or writing. I don’t think any of the great writers faced it either. Sri Sri, for instance, absorbed the entire literature and did not write simply by reading Das Kapital. He did not rewrite Kapital as Mahaprasthanam (1950). He could make those compounds fall into place because he had read Kasi-khandam,20 and we as readers fell for them! So a writer transcends the ideological limits within the work. The critics don’t seem to understand this at all! If you don’t transcend such limitations, then you’re not a creative writer.

  How did the idea of Vimukta originate?

  The stories in Vimukta were written at different times and were later put together. I first wrote ‘Samaagamam’ (‘The Reunion’) to counter Doordarshan’s censorship, to show Surpanakha’s suffering and how she overcame it. Once I wrote the story, I almost forgot about it. Then two years or so later, I wrote ‘Mrunmaya naadam’ (‘The Music of the Earth’). I don’t know how I wrote that story; I was in a trance. I never planned to write it or knew how I would do it. I only remember writing the first two–three lines. After that I don’t know how it proceeded. I have never had such an experience. We all plan our stories, the starting point, development of the plot, characters, etc. Poetry can perhaps be written in a trance. But I don’t know how I wrote that story. It must have come out from the depths of my unconscious. Something deep inside me must have been touched, I don’t know what. Anyway, that made it two—stories of Surpanakha and Ahalya. Then I wanted to write a couple more around Sita. So I wrote about Urmila and Renuka consciously.

  What is the intention in Vimukta? Is the focus on Sita or the other women?

  Both. I wanted to show the kind of strength Sita got through others. It is not possible to achieve liberation all by ourselves, we need fellow groups—women or other exploited groups. Their experiences help us. Likewise, the experiences of these women help Sita. Sisterhood is an important concept in feminism. I have been able to grasp that concept through these stories. The other women are all Sita’s sisters.

  What has been the response to Vimukta?

  It has received very good response. No negative responses at all! Even extreme traditionalists have responded quite positively and have appreciated its execution. I did not portray anyone as a villain, I described circumstances—historical and cultural contexts—in which women suffered and how they came out of them. I did not blame Rama or Ravana for Sita’s plight. I took a balanced view which was well liked. Many readers told me that they felt that things must’ve happened exactly as I had narrated them. In fact, many people asked whether these stories are in the Ramayana itself. So, the stories have given me a lot of satisfaction.

  Do you see this balanced approach as your evolved understanding of feminism?

  Yes. Over a period of time one evolves a mature understanding and realizes that it is not a simple conflict between us and them, heroes and villains, but that there are larger issues which cannot be simply reduced to binaries.

  Notes

  Sita Herself Can Save Us

  Volga

  1. Popularly known as Kaviraju, Tripuraneni Ramaswamy (1887 –1943) was a lawyer, poet, playwright and reformer. He is considered the first poet to introduce rationalism and humanism into Telugu poetry and literature.

  2. Gudipati Venkata Chalam (1894–1979) is one of the most influential writers in modern Telugu literature. Bold, women-centric themes, unconventional narrative technique and a philosophical outlook characterize his writing.

  3. Kodavatiganti Kutumba Rao (1909–1980), an important writer in Telugu, was a firm believer in the social purpose of literature.

  4. Kancherla Gopanna (c 1620–1680), popularly known as Bhakta Ramadasu or Bhadrachala Ramadasu, was a devotee of Rama and a composer of Carnatic music. He is one among the famous vaggeyakaras (a person who composes the lyrics and also sets them to music) in Telugu. The reference here is to his famous keertana ‘Nanu brovamani cheppave seethamma thalli …’.

  5. Kakarla Tyagabrahmam (1767–1847), popularly known as Tyagayya in Telugu, is one of the greatest composers of Carnatic music. He composed thousands of devotional songs, mostly in praise of Rama, including the famous pancharatna kritis (‘five jems’). The reference here is to his kriti ‘Brochevarevarura …’.

  Translated from the Telugu by T. Vijay Kumar

  Volga: An Interview

  T. Vijay Kumar

  1. Srirangam Srinivasarao (1910–1983)

  2. Devarakonda Balagangadhara Tilak (1921–1966)

  3. A group of six rebel poets who formed the group in 1965

  4. Gudipati Venkata Chalam (1894–1979)

  5. Kodavtiganti Kutumba Rao (1909–1980)

  6. Panchadi Nirmala: a woman Naxalite leader from Srikakulam, killed in a police ‘encounter’ in 1969.

  7. Rachakonda Viswanatha Sastry (1922–1993)

  8. Pendyala Varavara Rao (1940–)

  9. Baddam Bhaskara Reddy (1944–1982)

  10. An analysis of Uppala Lakshmana Rao’s novel of the same title published in 1950.

  11. On 17 July 1985, in Karamchedu village of Prakasam district in Andhra Pradesh, several Dalits belonging to the Madiga caste were killed by upper caste landlords belonging to the Kamma caste.

  12. Gurajada Venkata Apparao (1862–1915)

  13. by Unnava Lakshminarayana (1877–1958)

  14. The reference here is to Maxim Gorky ’s Mother (1906).

  15. ‘aasayaala kemo anantam, Appa Rao antati vaanni, andhratvam naa saapam’ (‘as for aims, they are infinite, I am an equal to Appa Rao, andhraness is my curse’; the reference here is to Gurajada Venkata Appa Rao, the author of Kanyasulkam); from the poem ‘Aakhari maata modati maata’ (‘Last word first word’) in Khadga Srushti (1966).

  16. Kanyasulkam, a play by Gurajada Venkata Appa Rao, was first published in 1897. The revised and expanded version, which is now considered the standard edition, was published in 1909. The first complete translation in English was published in 2002.

  17. The Woman Unbound: Selected Short Stories (1997)

  18. Devulapalli Venkata Krishnasastri (1897–1980)

  19. Yenki Patalu (‘Songs of Yenki’) by Nanduri Venkata Subbarao (1895–1957)

  20. A kavya by the poet Srinatha

  Translated from the Telugu by T. Vijay Kumar

  About the Book
/>   WINNER OF THE SAHITYA AKADEMI AWARD 2015

  VALMIKI’S RAMAYANA IS THE STORY OF RAMA’S EXILE AND RETURN TO AYODHYA, A TRIUMPHANT KING WHO WILL ALWAYS DO RIGHT BY HIS SUBJECTS.

  In Volga’s retelling, it is Sita who, after being abandoned by Purushottam Rama, embarks on an arduous journey to self-realization. Along the way, she meets extraordinary women who have broken free from all that held them back: husbands, sons, and their notions of desire, beauty and chastity. The minor women characters of the epic as we know it – Surpanakha, Renuka, Urmila and Ahalya – steer Sita towards an unexpected resolution. Meanwhile, Rama too must reconsider his roles as the king of Ayodhya and as a man deeply in love with his wife.

  A powerful subversion of India’s most popular tale of morality, choice and sacrifice, The Liberation of Sita opens up new spaces within the old discourse, enabling women to review their lives and experiences afresh. This is Volga at her feminist best.