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That Man on the Road:
As for the eclectic selection, its contemporary nature manifests itself in the very first story titled Thieves by Boya Jangayya. It is a satire on the rampant corruption in our public offices, where many a palm is greased to smooth out the creases in the path of a file. The unique anti-climax, where the victim revolts, is what makes the familiar, unfamiliar. Kolakaluri Enoch’s Cattle Thief is also a silent revolt against the caste system, where those at the fag end of the spectrum are damned if they speak up and damned if they don’t. The gruesome end of the high-caste cattle-thief at the hands of an outcaste reflects the system’s perverse ways. Vinodini’s Mariya is doubly damned, for being both an outcaste and a female. The girl’s poignant tale, recounted by her sister, touches a chord. Without flooding the tale with waves of sentimentality, the author portrays the plight of a girl exploited by the rich high-caste male. These stories are certainly in the league of Kanyasulkam (by Gurzada Apparao), Brahmaneekam (by Chalam) or Illu (by Rachakonda). Can’t Dance? Blame the Percussionist! by Kandalam Kamalamma and What is My Name? by P. Sathyavathi, a blend of fire and ice, flavour the edition with their unique brand of feminism. They represent the new hands-on approach to problemitising the perverse treatment of women in literature and life. Slush by Allam Rajaiah and Kareemun Laughed by Saleem once again highlight the pain of women, whose very existence is straitjacketed by society. Black Skin by C. Ramachandra Rao talks of India’s peculiar encounter with the Raj, but the issues unveiled are the same, i.e., of domination and subjugation. Other stories like K. Sadasiva Rao’s little sci-fi piece Manava Factor takes a peek into the future, while The Mango Tree by Raavi Sastry goes back into the past with nostalgia for a mango tree that lives no more. The Ice Palanquin by Sripathi captures succinctly a child’s hopefulness and helplessness in a world ruled by adults. It is the Way it is by B. V. Rammana Rao, Sunday by Kalipatnam Ramarao and By the Grace of our Goddess of Wealth by Toleti Jaganmohana Rao provide the much-desired comic relief. By and large the edition is a typical Andhra thali, which lets us sample the sweet and sour social realities from casteism, corruption, feminism, science fiction and humour and provides wholesome fare of Telugu ethos. But a word of caution, as a North Indian sampling the typically exotic ‘down-South’ stuff, I have to sometimes grate my teeth and gulp down the pungent translation with lots of water. I fully agree with Mr Ranga Rao’s contention in the ‘After word’ that we should have neither a ‘rinsed-pickle’ translation (toning down the exotic hot spices for tender foreign tongues) nor a fig-leaf one (one that does away with ‘crude eh`85hmm’ references altogether). Yet the syntax, at least, should be faithful to the language being translated into, in this case English, in order to make it more reader-friendly (or the English, dear sir, and we, their remnants, might run away at the sight of the red-chilly garnished meal in the future!) It is good to argue thand all,
doesn’t that mean assuming a position of power over the reader?
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The short story and the novel are
two popular forms of literary expression in Telugu in the 21st century. These
have replaced poetry, which was the traditional vehicle for literary expression
in the previous nine centuries of literary activity in Telugu. Since the output
the editor had to deal with was prolific, Ranga Rao’s choices were as myriad
and confusing. Apart from editing the volume, he has also translated many of
the stories, which makes his effort all the more praiseworthy.