Chaso (Sri Chaganti Somayajulu) is one of those
finest short story writers of Telugu language. He was born in 1915 in the north
Andhra town, Srikakulam. As a young student living in Vijayanagaram, he was
engaged in intellectual and aesthetic pursuits: spent time in reading Time
Literary Supplement, the Criterion, London Mercury, etc., and discussed with
friends late into nights about the works of modernist poets like TS Eliot,
Ezra Pound and so on.
This cultivated intellectualism of Chaso well reflects in his hostility towards Romantic Movement: his contemporaries felt that he preferred Gurajada Apparao poetry over that of Rayaprolu Subba Rao and Devulapalli Krishna Sastri—the known romantic poets of Telugu world. He later identified himself with a new literary movement driven by ‘progressive’ ideology: He was one of the founders of Abhyudaya Racayitala Sangham—Progressive Writers Association, and attended its first official meeting held in Tenali in 1943.
Although he had identified himself with progressive
movement, and despite his contemporaries classifying him as a Marxist writer,
we hardly witness any influence of Marxist doctrine on his stories. His
literary output was relatively small—say around two dozen stories, most of them
stretching to not more than 7-8 pages. Yet, they occupy a special place in the
world of Telugu stories with a distinct identity: they are free from
sentimentality, quite rational and their protagonists display survival spirit
amidst all odds. His stories show these human endeavours in action rather than
the author narrating them and that is his unique style of writing.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=9dSv-
The story, Enduku Parestanu Naanna can be heard at this link
Against this backdrop, let us now examine one of his understated stories, Enduku Parestanu Naanna (Why Would I Lose it, Naanna?) textually to understand its theme that is universal and why it simply makes us cry. It is a story of an accountable son’s longing for education; his agony at its discontinuation, socio-economic constraints of the family and the overarching love of the parents. The beauty of the story is: the theme is nowhere explicitly stated, but the readers are sure to infer it from the action of the protagonist and his father.
Like any other Chaso’s story, this
story also begins with a pretty innocent statement: “Krishna was chatting in
the kitchen with his little sister on his lap. His father called him over and
gave him money to go and buy some cigars.” Then we are casually informed about
the current mood of Krishna: “These days Krishna never showed his face outside.
He sat at home like a woman recently widowed. … He set out [for getting
cigars], struggling in his mind as to how to get past the school”.
However, it is not clear to the
reader as to what is that holding him back from walking along the school. As we
move forward with the curiosity to know the cause of his current plight—“embarrassed
even to show his face in the street”—we are told that seeing the school that is
already full of life, Krishna, head bowed, ran along the side of the school. This
further accentuates reader’s curiosity.
Despite his running with head
bowed, somebody called from the school veranda, “Hey Krishna!” It was his
friend, Narasimham. Coming to him and putting his hand on his shoulder, he askd,
“Aren’t you coming to school?” Krishna replied, “I‘ll sign up on Monday”.
Here,describing the smart
attire of Narasimham, the author tells us that all that Krishna had to wear was
two pairs of worn out shorts and shirts, that’s all. He never asked for a pair
of pants, for he knew pants need more material and it cost money. All that he
begged for was two more pairs of shorts. It didn’t however help. He went to
school with the same rags, for he was aware of his family’s economic
constraints.
Then, out of his innate love
for books, taking the English book from Narasimham, Krishna put his face right
into the pages and took in the fragrance of the new book. This prompted his
friend to question him: “You didn’t stand first in English, did you?” Krishna
said, “I was four points short”. As their conversation turned to marks, Krishna
felt proud, for people respected him for his intelligence.
It is here that the author, commenting
that it was hard for Krishna “to stand outside the school, to see Narasimham go
inside, for the first time shared the underlying cause for Krishna’s
embarrassment: “his father clearly told him that he couldn’t send him to school
this year”.
As Krishna was conversing with
Narasimham, his competitor in the class, Sakuntala arrived. Seeing him, she
mocked at him saying, “Krishna, I got first mark in English”. Krishna replied,
“Only in English, right? I got the first marks in three subjects. 100 percent
in math.” As the school bell rang, asking him to come to class, she said, “… I
won’t let you get even one First [this year]”. At his reply, “from now on
you’ll take all the firsts”, readers’ hearts quiver.
As Sakuntala ran to school,
Krishna froze, watching her. As classes began, everything quietened down in the
school. Watching students listening to teachers, Krishna’s agony overwhelmed
him. He walked on to the veranda. Leaning against a pillar, he said to himself,
“I am not going to move from this spot”.
As he stood there, memories swarmed
his mind. While he was in 7th grade, a student stopped coming to
school after Dasara holidays. After a
long wait, teacher struck down his name writing a remark, ‘discontinued’. The
moment the word, ‘discontinued’ came to his mind, tears welled up. His agony of
discontinuing education at once busted, face turned red with crying and his
nose was stuffed up.
His
father, who set out for bazzar, seeing
his son on the school veranda, yelled, “Rascal, I told you to get me cigars and
you ended up here”.
“Look”, said Krishna.
“Look what?”
“You can’t even see”
“What is it that I can’t see, you
idiot?”
“Yes, I am an idiot”.
“Tell me, what is it?”
“They are all at school”
At
this point, seeing the lines of sorrow on his son’s face, father said, “You
poor kid. Is that what it is?” Krishna started sobbing, gasping for breath,
shaking.
Interjecting,
the author said: “father understood the pain his son was feeling. He felt it
himself”. I am sure these two small sentences are powerful-enough to make every
reader experience Krishna’s innate resonating urge for education and the agony
of its discontinuation.
As the
emotionally charged father pleaded him to come home, Krishna demanded: “Then
put me back in school”.
“I will even mortgage my head. I’ll put you
back in school. Let’s go home.”
“You will go home, and then you
will say no.”
“Annu (won’t say [that]) naanna!”
…
“Then buy me the books now.”
“You don’t understand. We need
money for that, too.”
“Just buy one book”
…
We will buy it. Don’t cry. I can’t
see you cry,” said the father.
Having
said, “I can’t see you cry”, the father, the author says, thought deeply: “He
had wanted to give up smoking. He’d tried, but couldn’t succeed. If he gave up
smoking, he’d have enough to pay the school fees. There was no other way.”
And
remember, it is the same father, who when his wife said, “Who stops sending
their kids to school? If we don’t beg or borrow and make him learn something,
will the boy be of any use later? ... Find a way”, brushed her off saying:
“It’s no picnic, sending him to school. He is in the ninth grade. The fees are
higher… Where do I get money? It’s not written on his forehead. That’s his
fate. Our fate…”
But
the reader is still left in dilemma: Is it a mere thought? Or, firmed up his
mind to quit smoking and use the savings to get his son admitted in school?
It is
perhaps, to clear this doubt that the author makes the father ask his son thus: “Do you
still have the money I gave you for cigars, or did you lose it?” Here, by making
the father question Krishna, “…did you lose it?” the author is perhaps
suggesting that Krishna's expending the money given on cigars is as good as
losing it, for he had already made up his mind to admit his son in school by
quitting smoking. That is the ‘Kanna
prema’ —over-arching concern of the father for his son.
And,
the son, who is known to have a strong sense of accountability, responds to father's question in an
equally effective way: “I d-d-didn’t lose It …—“Enduku parestanu naanna—Why would I lose it Nanna (Dad)!” This reply suggests that he would put all that his
father bestows on him for the best of use. And their conversation terminates with that functional question. And the story too—what an end!
These innocent laconic dialogues that carry deeper meanings, conveying pure and forceful thoughts afforded a distinct identity to Chaso’s style of expounding rather a universal theme—love, love for education and love of parents. It’s a narration of a ‘loss’ and the resultant trauma and the melancholy, but both the son and father faced it unflinchingly with a stoic conviction and the result is: heart is not giving up, and the hope is kept alive.
The beauty of author’s
narration lies not in didactic description of events or discussion of
characters or through authorial binding interjections to convey a sharp idea
about the theme, but in it taking the reader through the interaction of the
characters as a natural progression—slowly removing the veil over the
embarrassment of Krishna through interactions with his classmates Narasimham
and Sakuntala; being tickled by these interactions his agony at once bust out; seeing
his son sobbing in the veranda of school father realizing his innate longing
for going to school and in turn experiencing himself all his son’s agony and
finally overarching himself to fulfil his son’s desire by quitting smoking.
It is these unique features of the story—though written long back (Bharati 1945 – Telugu monthly)—that stirs the readers to think how to educate the marginalised lot of the society.
**
Courtesy: Thanks to Dr Chaganti Krishna Kumari for the link to the story
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