WHAT IS MY NAME? BY. P.SATYAVATHI (TRANSLATED BY VADREWU VIJAYALAXMI AND RANGA RAO)

WHAT IS MY NAME? BY. P.SATYAVATHI 

(TRANSLATED BY VADREWU VIJAYALAXMI AND RANGA RAO) 

Smt P. Satyavathi is one of those writers who have brought feminism to the peak in Telugu literature. Though she is aretired English lecturer, she has great understanding of the Telugu accent and the idiom of the respective regions. She is adept in portraying human experience universally. The technique of appealing to the readers by weaving the story wonderfully with a philosophical touch and theological aspect is her forte. She has published four anthologies of short stories, five novels and a collection of essays. She has won a number of prestigious awards. This story "What Is My Name" is originally published as "Illalakagaane Pandagouma" in Telugu in 1990 and has been translated into almost all the south Indian languages and Hindi.

*****

Have you noticed how your father calls your mother? Does he use her name or not? How do the neighbours address her? Does anyone address her by name? What about your grandmother? In this story, P. Sathyavathi describes how a woman forgets her own name since no one addresses her by name. How does a woman gain her identityby name, by marriage, by motherhood, by education, by profession or by anything else? Read the story keeping these questions in mind.

A young woman, before being a housewife. A woman, educated and cultured, and intelligent, and capable, quick-witted, with a sense of humour and elegance. 

Falling for her beauty and intelligence, as also the dowry which her father offered, a young man tied the three sacred knots around her neck, made her the housewife to a household and said to her, 'Look, ammadu, this is your home.' Then the housewife immediately pulled the end of her sari and tucked it in at the waist and swabbed the entire house and decorated the floor with muggulu designs. The young man promptly praised her work. 'You are dexterous at swabbing the floor — even more dexterous in drawing the muggulu. Sabash, keep it up.' He said it in English, giving her a pat on the shoulder in appreciation. Overjoyed, the housewife began living with swabbing as the chief mission in her life. She scrubbed the house spotlessly clean at all times and beautifully decorated it with multi-coloured designs. That's how her life went on, with a sumptuous and ceaseless supply of swabbing cloths and muggu baskets.

But one day while scrubbing the floor, the housewife suddenly asked herself, 'What is my name?' The query shook her up. Leaving the mopping cloth and the muggu basket there itself, she stood near the window scratching her head, lost in thoughts. 'What is my name — what is my name?' The house across the road carried a name-board, Mrs M Suhasini, M.A., Ph.D., Principal, 'X' College. Yes, she too had a name as her neighbour did — 'How could I forget like that? In my scrubbing zeal I have forgotten my name-what shall I do now?' The housewife was perturbed. Her mind became totally restless. Somehow she finished her daubing for the day. 

Meanwhile, the maidservant arrived. Hoping at least she would remember, the housewife asked her, 'Look, ammayi, do you know my name?'

'What is it, amma?' said the girl. 'What do we have to do with names of mistresses' You are only a mistress to us — the mistress of such and such a white-storeyed house, ground floor means you.' '

'Yes, true, of course, how can you know, poor thing?' thought the housewife. 

The children came home from school for lunch in the afternoon. 'At least the children might remember my name' — the housewife hoped.

'Look here, children, do you know my name?' she asked. 

They were taken a back.

'You are amma - your name is amma only - ever since we were born we have known only this, the letters that come are only in father's name - because everyone calls him by his name we know his name - you never told us your name - you don't even get letters addressed to your name,' the children said plainly. 'Yes, who will write letters to me' Father and mother are there but they only make phone calls once in a month or two Even my sisters are immersed with swabbing their houses. Even if they met me in some marriage or kumkum ceremony, they chatted away their time talking about new muggulu or new dishes to cook, but no letters!' The housewife was disappointed and grew more restless — the urge to know her own name somehow or the other grew stronger in her.

Now a neighbour came to invite her to a kumkum ceremony. The housewife asked her neighbour hoping she at least would remember her name. Giggling, the lady said, 'Somehow or other I haven't asked your name nor have you told me. Right -hand side, white storeyed - house or there she is, that pharmaceutical company manager's wife, if not that, that fair and tall lady, that s how we refer to you, that's all.' That's all that the other housewife could say. 

It s no use. What can even my children's friends say - they know me only as Kamala's mother or some aunty, now my respected husband - is the only hope - if anyone remembers it, it is only he.

During the night meal, she asked him, 'Look here, I have forgotten my name - if you remember it, will you please tell me?' 

The respected husband burst out laughing and said, 'What is it, dear, never has it happened before, you are talking about your name today. Ever since we were married I have got used to calling you only as yemoi. You too never told me not to address you that way because you have a name of your own - what's happened now - Everyone calls you Mrs. Murthy, don't they?''

Not Mrs Murthy, I want my own name - what shall I do now?' she said in anguish 

'What's there, you choose a new name, some name or other,' the husband advised. 

Very nice - your name is Satyanarayana Murthy; will you keep quiet if I ask you to change your name to Siva Rao or Sundara Rao? I want my name only,' she said. 

'It's all right, you are an educated woman - your name must be on the certificates - don't you have that much commonsense - go and find out,' he advised her.

The housewife searched frantically for her certificates in the almirah - pattu saris, chiffon saris, handloom saris, voile saris, matching blouses, petticoats, bangles, beads, pearls, pins, kumkum barinas, silver plates, silver containers to keep sandalwood paste, ornaments all things arranged in an orderly fashion. Now here could she find her certificates. Yes - after marriage she had never bothered to carry those certificates here. 

'Yes - I haven't brought them here - I shall go to my place, search for my certificates and enquire about my name, and return in a couple of days.' She asked for her husband's permission. 'Very nice! Must you go just for your name or what? If you go who will scrub the house these two days?' said her lord. Yes, that was true - because she scrubbed better than the others, she had not allowed anyone else to do that job all these days. Everyone was busy with their own respective duties. He had his office - poor things, the children had their studies to take care of. Why should they bother about this chore, and she had been doing it all along - they just didn't know how to do it, of course.

But still, how to live without knowing one's name? It was all right all these days since the question had not occurred to her; now it was really hard to live without a name. 

'Just for two days you manage somehow or other — until and unless I go and get my name I shall find it difficult to live,' she pleaded with her husband and managed to get out of the house.

'Why, dear daughter, have you come so suddenly? Are your children and husband all right? Why have you come alone?'

Behind affectionate enquiries of the father and the mother there was a strain of suspicion. Recollecting immediately the purpose of her visit, the housewife asked her mother most pitifully, 'Amma, tell me, what is my name?' 

'What is it amma, you are our elder daughter. We gave you education up to B.A. and got you married with fifty thousand rupees as dowry. We took care of your two deliveries - each time we alone bore the expenses of the maternity home. You have two children - your husband has a good job - a very nice person, too - your children are well-mannered.'

'It's not my history, amma — it's my name I want. At least tell me where my certificates are.'

'I don't know, child. Recently we cleaned out the almirah of old papers and files and arranged some glassware in their place. Some important files we kept in the attic - we shall search for them tomorrow. Now what is the hurry, don't worry about them - take a good bath and have your meal, child,' said the housewife's mother. 

The housewife took a good bath and ate her meal, but she could not sleep. While scrubbing the house, humming happily, joyously, and making muggulu, she had never thought that she would have to face so many difficulties like this by forgetting her own name.

Dawn broke, but the search for the certificates among the files in the attic had not ended. 

Now the wife asked everyone she met - she asked the trees - the anthills - the pond - the school where she had studied - the college. After all the shouting and the wailing, she met a friend - and succeeded in recovering her name. 

That friend was also like her - married, and a housewife like her, but she had not made swabbing the sole purpose of her life; scrubbing was only part of her life; she remembered her name and the names of her friends. This particular friend recognized our housewife.

'Sarada! My dear Sarada!' she shouted and embraced her. The housewife felt like a person - totally parched and dried up, about to die of thirst - getting a drink of cool water from the new earthen kooja poured into her mouth with a spoon and given thus a new life. The friend did indeed give her a new life - 'You are Sarada. You came first in our school in the tenth class. You came first in the music competition conducted by the college. You used to paint good pictures too. We were ten friends altogether - I meet all of them some time or other. We write letters to each other. Only you have gone out of our reach! Tell me why are you living incognito?' her friend confronted her.

'Yes, Pramila - what you say is true. Of course I'm Sarada - until you said it I could not remember it - all the shelves of my mind were taken up with only one thing - how well I can scrub the floors. I remembered nothing else. Had I not met with you I would have gone mad,' said the housewife named Sarada.

Sarada returned home, climbed the attic and fished out her certificates, the pictures she had drawn - old albums, everything she succeeded in getting out. She also searched further and managed to find the prizes she had received in school and college.

Overjoyed, she returned home. 

'You have not been here - look at the state of the house - it's like a choultry. Oh what a relief you are here, now it is like a festival for us,' said Sarada's husband.

'Just scrubbing the floor does not make a festival1. By the way, from now onwards don't call me yemoi geemoi. My name is Sarada — call me Sarada, understood? 

Having said that she went inside, humming, joyously. 

Sarada who had always cared so much for discipline, keeping an eye on every corner, checking if there was dust, making sure things were properly arranged each in its correct and respective order, now sat on the sofa which had not been dusted for the last two days. She sat there showing the children an album of her paintings that she had brought for them.

ONCE UPON A TIME (POEM) BY GABRIEL OKARA

ONCE UPON A TIME (POEM) BY GABRIEL OKARA 

Gabriel Okara is an Aftrican poet. He was born in 1921 in Nigeria. He was educated at Government College, Umuahia. His parents were not rich. He worked as a book binder and later as an information officer at Enugu. He also wrote plays and features for broadcasting and became a poet of outstanding ability. His poems appeared regularly in Black Orpheus. He has also written a novel called Voice.

***

Once upon a time, son,

they used to laugh with their hearts

and laugh with their eyes:

but now they only laugh with their teeth,

while their ice-block-cold eyes

search behind my shadow.

There was a time indeed

they used to shake hands with their hearts:

but that's gone, son.

Now they shake hands without hearts:

while their left hands search

my empty pockets.

'Feel at home'! 'Come again':

they say, and when I come

again and feel

at home, once, twice,

there will be no thrice -

for then I find doors shut on me.

So I have learned many things, son.

I have learned to wear many faces

like dresses - home face,

office face, street face, host face,

cocktail face, with all their conforming smiles

like a fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned too

to laugh with only my teeth

and shake hands without my heart.

I have also learned to say, 'Goodbye',

when I mean 'Good-riddance';

to say ' Glad to meet you',

without being glad; and to say 'It's been

nice talking to you', after being bored.

But believe me, son.

I want to be what I used to be

when I was like you. I want

to unlearn all these muting things.

Most of all, I want to relearn

how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror

shows only my teeth like a snake's bare fangs !

So show me, son,

how to laugh; show me how

I used to laugh and smile

once upon a time when I was like you.

JAMAICAN FRAGMENT BY A.L.HENDRICKS

JAMAICAN FRAGMENT BY A.L.HENDRICKS

Arthur Lemière Hendriks (1922-1992) was a Jamaican poet, Writer, and broadcasting director (known as Micky Hendriks in his broadcasting career). He was bom in 1922 in Kingston, Jamaica, to a Jamaican father and a French mother. He was particularly well known for his contributions to the Christian Science Monitor, The Daily Gleaner, and BIM. He also contributed as a columnist and literary critic to the Daily Gleaner. He died in 1992 at the age of 69.

*******

Every day, I walk a half-mile from my home to the tramcar lines in the morning and from the lines to my home in the evening. The walk is pleasant. The road on either side is flanked by red and green-roofed bungalows, green lawns and gardens. The exercise is good for me, and now and then, I learn something from a little incident. One morning, about halfway between my front gate and the tram track, I noticed two little boys playing in the garden of the more modest cottages. They were both very little boys, one was four years old perhaps, the other five. The bigger of the two was a sturdy youngster, very dark, with a mat of coarse hair on his head and coal-black eyes. He was definitely a little Jamaican - a strong little Jamaican. The other little fellow was smaller, but also sturdy - he was white, with hazel eyes and light-brown hair. Both were dressed in blue shirts and khaki pants. They wore no shoes and their feet were muddy. They were not conscious of my standing there, watching them; they played on. The game, if it could be called a game, was not elaborate. The little white boy strode imperiously up and down, and every now and then shouted imperiously at his bigger playmate. The little brown boy shuffled along quietly behind him and did what he was told.

'Pick up that stick!' The dark boy picked it up. 'Jump into the flowers!' The dark boy jumped. 

'Get me some water!' The dark boy ran inside. The white boy sat down on the lawn. 

I was amazed. Here before my eyes, a white baby, for they were little more than babies, was imposing his will upon a little black boy. And the little black boy submitted. I puzzled within myself as I went down the road. Could it be that the little dark boy was the son of a servant in the home and therefore had to do the white boy's bidding? No. They were obviously dressed alike, the little dark boy was of equal class with his playmate. No. They were playmates, the little dark boy was a neighbour's child. I was sure of that. Then how was it that he obeyed so faithfully the white boy's orders?

Was it that even as a boy he sensed that in his own country he would be at the white man's beck and call? Could he, at his age, divine a difference between himself and the white boy? And did the little white youngster, so young, such a baby, realize that he would grow to dominate the black man? Was there an indefinable quality in the white man that enabled his baby, smaller and younger than his playmate, to make him his slave? I could find no answer. I could not bring myself to believe such a thing, and yet, with my own eyes I had seen a little dark boy take orders from a little white boy - a little white boy, obviously his social equal, and younger and smaller. Were we, as a race, really inferior? So inferior that even in our infancy we realised our deficiencies, and accepted a position as the white man's servant?

For a whole day I puzzled over this problem. For a whole day my faith in my people was shaken. When I passed by that afternoon the little boys were not there. That evening I thought deeply on the subject. 

The next morning the boys were there again, and a man was standing at the gate watching them. I stopped and looked, just to see what the white boy was making his little servant do. To my utter astonishment the little dark boy was striding imperiously up and down the lawn, while the white youngster walked abjectly behind him. 

'Get me a banana!' The little boy ran into the house and reappeared shortly with a banana. 'Peel it for me!' the little white boy peeled the banana and handed it to his dark master.

I saw it now. It was indeed a game, a game I had played as a child. Each boy took it in turn every alternate day to be the boss, the other the slave. It had been great fun to me as a youngster. I smiled as I remembered. I looked at the man standing by the gate. He was a white man. I remembered what I had thought yesterday. He, no doubt, I thought to myself, was wondering if the black race is superior to the white. I laughed gently to myself. How silly grown-ups are, how clever we are, how wonderfully able we are, to impute deep motives to childish actions! This man, I said to myself, will puzzle all day on whether the blacks will eventually rise and rule the world because he thinks he sees a little black boy realizing at a tender age his superiority over the white. I will save him his puzzle. I will explain it to him. I went across to him.

'I know what you're thinking,' I said. 'You're thinking that may be the black race is superior to the white, because you just saw the little dark youngster on the lawn ordering the little white boy around. Don't think that; it's a game they play. Alternate days one is the boss, the other the servant. It's a grand game. I used to play it and may be so did you. Yesterday I saw the little white boy bossing the dark one and I worried all day over the dark boy's realisation of his inferiority so young in life! We are silly, we grown-ups, aren't we.'? 

The man was surprised at my outburst. He looked at me smiling. 'I know all about the game,' he said. 'The boys are brothers - my sons.' He pointed to a handsome brown woman on the verandah who had just come out to call in the children. 'That's my wife', he said. 

I smiled. My spirit laughed within me. This is Jamaica, I said in my heart, this is my country - my people. I looked at the white man. He smiled at me. 'We'll miss the tram if we don't hurry,' he said.

UNITY IN DIVERSITY IN INDIA

UNITY AND DIVERSITY IN INDIA 

India, a country of many ethnic groups, is a land of myriad languages, a veritable babel of tongues and numerous modes of apparel. For the most part, the continental dimensions of the country account for these variations and diversities. Besides, there are several religions, sects and beliefs. But there are certain common links and uniting bonds that people have sought to develop in order to achieve the eminently desirable goal of unity amidst diversity. 

It is true that superficial observers are likely to be bewildered by the astonishing variety of Indian life. They fail to discover the one in many, the individual, in the aggregate; the simple in the composite. With them the whole is lost in its parts. What is needed is the superior interpretation, synthesis of the power of the mind that can give rise to a vision of the whole. 

A keen penetrating insight will not fail to recognise the fundamental unity beneath the manifold variety in India. The diversity itself, far from being a damaging cause of disunity and weakness, is a fertile source of strength and wealth. Sir Herbert Risely has rightly observed: "Beneath the manifold diversity of physical and social types, languages, customs and religions which strike the observer in India, there can still be discerned a certain underlying uniformity of life from the Himalayas to Cape Comorin." 

From his long and first-hand experience in India, Vincent A. Smith says that the civilisation of India "has many features which differentiate it from that of the other regions of the world, while they are common to the whole country in degree sufficient to justify its treatment as a unity in the history of human, social and intellectual development. 

" Even the early Indian history unmistakably shows that the political consciousness of the people has from the very early times, grasped the whole of India as a unit and assimilated the entire area as the theatre of its activities. India is not a mere geographical expression, nor is it a mere collection of separate peoples, traditions and conventions. India is much more than this. The best proof lies in the fact that Indian history has quickened into life. 

India has many races, castes, sub-castes, nationalities and communities, but the heart of India is one. We are all heirs to a common and rich culture. Our cultural heritage consists of our art and literature as they flourished centuries ago. Our cultural heritage serves as a bond of unity between people of different faiths and creeds. 

The streams of different cultures have flowed into our subcontinent to make us what we are and what we will be. There were Dravidians in India before the coming of the Aryans and Hinduism is a blend of the cultures of the North and the South. 

India has one hundred and fifty dialects, and twenty two recognised regional languages, but Hindi, like English, has come to stay as the lingua franca of our nation. From Kashmir to Kanyakumari and from Mumbai to Nagaland, Hindi is now understood and is recognised as the national language of India. 

India has a rich cultural heritage. We are inheritors of several grand treasures in the fields of music, fine arts, dance, drama, theatre and sculpture. Our sages and seers have left behind a tradition of piety, penance, spiritual greatness, conquest of passion, etc. Our scriptures are the storehouses of spiritual wisdom. Our saints aspired to the realisation of the infinite. We have inherited great spiritual values contrasted with which the materialistic progress of the West appears insignificant. 

The West has to learn a lot from India, and it has now been realised when people in the United States and Europe are turning to the Indian way of life. Indian yogis and maharishis, musicians and spiritual leaders, have all attracted them in a big way. A significant move to project India's cultural unity has been the holding of Festivals of India in various parts of the world. The West is fast inclining towards our spiritual values which include meditation and contemplation, charity and love, universal brotherhood and fear of God, piety and unselfishness, control of passions and peace of mind. 

Our cultural unity is further exemplified by the temples of the South and of Khajuraho, the caves of Ajanta and Ellora, which are shining examples of India's proficiency in sculpture and architecture. Our music has come to enjoy worldwide popularity. 

Indian classical music, like the Indian dances, is built on the concept of ragas and talas. Each raga is regarded appropriate to a certain time of the day or the night. There are believed to be about 250 ragas in common use in the North as well as in the South. In the modern times, people like Ravi Shankar have taken Indian music to the West and thus bridged the gap between the music of the East and the West. 

Other significant features of India's cultural unity are the variety, colour and the emotional richness of its dances. The country abounds in tribal dances, old-dances as well as classical dances of great virtuosity. Throughout India, need is regarded not merely as an accompaniment to social intercourse, but also as a mode of aesthetic expression and spiritual realization. 

The great symbol of dance is Shiva, the Cosmic Dancer, depicted in sculpture and poetry as Nataraja. Similarly, the classical theatre in India has a history of more than two thousand years. It was performed in palaces and in temples. The classical plays combined music and dance. Tragedy was, and is, still discouraged otherwise; the range of themes covered is wide. 

It is this strand of cultural unity running through the country that we are heir to, and to which people in the West are increasingly turning now. It is up to the younger generation to uphold this torch of cultural unity for the rest of the world to see, follow and emulate, and not get dazed by the superficial prosperity and material achievement of the West, where man has set foot on the Moon in his quest for space travel, but finds himself isolated in his own society and community.

A PLEA FOR INDIA (POEM)

A PLEA FOR INDIA (POEM) 

We, Indians are proud to be a strong nation, 

our roots, we declare, cannot be shaken. 

Then why these fights, 

which leave us in poor plight? 

Irrespective of our region, 

forget the castes, 

which makes us lose our charm, 

let's ignore the selfish call of each region. and listen for once to the call of the nation. why do we spend our time bickering? 

when so many tasks need finishing. 

Don't we have better things to do? 

Than indulge in creating problems a new? 

Is all this violence needed? 

with the people being cheated! 

Who will return this only son? 

Whom she loves a ton, 

Who will bring back his brother? 

Whose ashes he is still to gather. 

Where has all the love gone? 

Which resided in the heart of all, 

there is no reason to be proud, 

and be on high cloud, 

we have to go a long way. 

we have to think seriously. 

Else we end up miserably. 

Then let our minds throw out the rot, 

And devote our time to pious thoughts, 

Let us control the riots, 

which leave us with no choice, 

But to hang our heads in shame, 

And say we have miserably failed, 

We have the power to win, 

So why not end this din, 

Let us unite, 

And fight against those who incite, 

Let us not be misled, 

By those who want to see us dead, 

We are a strong united nation 

All we need is a bit of dedication.