Setu 🌉 सेतु: Telugu Tableau

It was nearing 4 pm. Just a little while ago Hussain Bi got up from her siesta. She came out into the veranda and began pacing up and down. A few minutes thereafter, she stepped back in, to wash her face with cool water before returning to sit down in a chair and unwind herself.

She felt her tummy empty. Somehow, she couldn’t relish her lunch. The rice grains were dull, and the curries were tasteless. Unable to eat any of it, she finished it off by having some rice mixed with buttermilk.

If rice is not cooked with an optimal quantity of water, the grains, once it cools down, will loosen apart and turn stiff and dry. She could eat rice only if it was a bit soft and sticky, for it easily digested.

Hussain Bi mentioned it to her daughter-in-law.

“Las! But your son doesn’t like the soft, pasty rice. He can relish only the loose type. How can I prepare different styles of the same food?” The daughter-in-law replied in a warbling tone, with slick gestures.

That’s why Hussain Bi couldn’t take the liberty of asking her to prepare soft boiled rice separately for her. There were days when she used to recook the half-cooked rice by adding some water to soften it and then eat it.

But sometimes when she wasn’t strong enough to recook the rice, she would pick up the loose and stiff morsels and squeeze them as hard as she could to soften them enough for her to chew. Of course, it was laborious process. Of late, she had weakened quite a bit, unable even to move about as earlier. She became sapless with pounds in the heart, sleeplessness, and frequent sickness.

Trying to reconcile herself that all these problems were due to her advancing age, she was somehow pulling along. She had already crossed seventy.

***

Hussain Bi had no option but to relocate to his son and daughter-in-law and live with them after her husband’s death. Ever since, she was suffering loneliness and cold treatment at their hands. The son and his wife were both in work. Once they got up in the morning, they would hurriedly attend to their routine chores, pack their lunch-boxes, and rush out to their workplace, after laying her lunch containing rice and curries on the table. They would ask her to have breakfast along with them, but it would be too early for her. She wouldn’t feel hungry until after nine o’clock, and sometimes for that reason she would skip breakfast and have lunch direct.

She would eat the food placed on the table, but she would feel lonely having none to talk to. She had two grandsons but both of them stayed away in the hostel. She didn’t know how to pass the time.

Post-lunch after some hours, feeling hollow in her stomach, she liked to eat something. She looked around for something or the other to consume but didn’t find anything. She opened the fridge, only to find veggies but not something like fruits.

Then she suddenly remembered that the daughter-in-law’s brother had brought them chocolates from America a couple of days ago. She began to rummage for them. Somehow, she was too fond of chocolates and would crave for them like little children. When she was young, she gobbled up lots of sundry chocolates and she couldn’t overcome that temptation even at this age. She wanted to ask his son to buy them but felt delicate and shied away. Though she was his mother and he her son, she never felt comfortable to ask him for anything. Anyway, she was now thrilled that she would find out the chocolates.

She searched every inch of the fridge, and every container in the kitchen, but could find not even a single chocolate. The daughter-in-law might have stored it in her wardrobe. She got to open it but found it locked.

Disappointed and tired, she sat down. Then an incident that happened a few days ago hovered before her mind’s eye…

Her son brought a basketful of mango fruits. And they were the pedda-rasam variety, her favourite.

The grandsons were also at home for it was the vacation time. The wife and the husband kept them covered in the basket saying that they would ripen after a couple of days with their unique sweetness. But the children couldn’t wait, so they bit the half-ripe fruits here and there and dropped them down half-eaten, finding that they weren’t delicious enough. Hussain Bi expected that her son or daughter-in-law would take out one or two of them from the basket and offer her. But the son was totally indifferent.

“Lassie, the mangoes seem to be ripe and good enough,” she said, looking at her daughter-in-law. “And couldn’t you give me a couple of them?” she asked, with a mixed sense of hurt and taunt.

“Tsk! They’re very much there, attaiah! You could have picked them out yourself, and you can do so right away,” chirked the daughter-in-law.

‘Anyway, let me eat them tomorrow morning,’ thought Hussain Bi.

The next day after everyone else had gone out, she went to the basket and dipped her hand into it. To her surprise, it was empty. She searched the entire house for the mangoes, but she couldn’t find even a single one, except the ones scattered here and there. They were the mangos the kids had half-eaten and left over. After washing them well, she squeezed the juice into her mouth, relishing every pulpy tittle and drop of it. The taste was so delicious that she greedily finished off all the leftover mangoes to her heart’s content.

Nobody in the family had any concern for her likes and dislikes.

When her son was young, she gave away all the chocolates and mangoes to him, without keeping anything for herself, on a number of occasions, since he loved them so much. The reel of memories made her hearty heavy. All of a sudden, she began to be clouded by dullness and debility. She lay down there itself for some rest.

Her eyes closed. And they never opened again.

***

A year rolled by.

That day, Hussain Bi’s son and daughter-in-law arranged a big banquet and invited their kith and kin, colleagues from office, and other known persons.

The couple also visited an old-age home and distributed a number of mangoes and chocolates.

“Today is the death anniversary of my mother. We’re doing this charity in her sacred memory. She was very fond of mangoes and chocolates. That’s why we are gifting them with our own hands so that her soul should rest in peace,” said the son and his wife, both shedding crocodile tears.

People who curtly dismiss the sensibilities of their dear ones and neglect and even ill-treat them when alive, put on their best face and resort to extravagant displays. What should such people be called?

Anyway, may the Almighty forgive them! May Allah bless them with goodness!

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1. Original Telugu story titled ‘Oka Amma Katha’ from Naannaku Salam (Salute to Dad), a collection of Telugu stories by Shahnaz Begum. Fazulullah Khan (Late), Anantapuram, Jul 2019, pp 111, ₹ 100.

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Shahnaz Begum

Shahnaz Begum

Shahnaz Begum (b. 2 Jul 1953), from Anantapuram of Andhra Pradesh is a well-known Telugu storywriter and translator, whose works include a novel Manasa Bandhavyam (Hearty Kinship), and three story-collections – Mouna Poratam (Silent Struggle), Anumanam Katesina Vela (When Suspicion Stung), and Sesha Prasna (The Remaining Question) with over 200 stories. She has taken part in many AIR (All India Radio) programmes. Some of the prestigious awards she has received are – Best Woman Writer award from the Potti Sriramulu Telugu University (2007); Binadevi Award (1991); Vasireddy Award; Ananta Ani Mutyam (2000).

Shahnaz comes of a well-educated family. Her grandfather Roshan Saheb, IPS was a Dy. Inspector General of AP. Her father was an officer in the LIC of India, and her husband Fazalullah Khan was Secretary (Anantapuram Zone) of the SBI Officers Association (Hyderabad Circle). A woman of social awareness & consciousness, Shahnaz served the Anantapuram municipality as a corporator.

Email: pshahenazbegum@gmail.com

Setu, October 2022

The tale of a clothier

Telugu original ‘Shashidhar’¹ by: Dr Siri

Translated by: Atreya Sarma U

Cover of source book: Rakshasudi Padaraksha

Long ago there was a clothier by name Shashidhar in Varanasi. A man of good conduct and honesty, he always sold only quality textiles and at a fair price.

There was another cloth merchant in the same city. He was Karunakar, a man with a crooked temperament. He used to sell every item, including substandard ones, at a high price. He was greedy of getting rich and rich whether by hook or by crook.

Karunakar didn’t like Shashidhar who was always complimented by one and all for his integrity and business values.

Coming to know that the people in a neighbouring village were going to have a round of godly festivities shortly, and that they would be interested in buying new clothes, Shashidhar planned to visit that village next day along with his stock.

Karunakar, who always kept an eye on Shashidhar, got wind of the latter’s initiative. Bent on stymying Shashidhar in the business, he hurried all of a sudden with his entire stock of clothes to that village.

The villagers, who with no quality shops at their place were thinking of going to Varanasi to buy clothes, felt happy on seeing that a merchant from Varanasi himself had come to their doorstep. All of them bought the clothes from Karunakar without any murmur even as he quoted high prices.

He stayed in the village until dusk and succeeded in selling off all the stock. With a pocket full of profit, and dancing on cloud nine for having spoiled the chances of Shashidhar, he returned to Varanasi.

The next day, as planned, Shashidhar proceeded to the village along with a bale of clothes. The villagers told him that only the day before all of them had bought their requirements, and they didn’t need to buy any more items. Thereupon, he started back.

As Shashidhar was crossing the village, he ran into a twosome.

“Who’re you? We’ve never seen you in this village. And what’s that stack in your hands?” one of them asked him, suspecting that he could be a thief.

“My name is Shashidhar. I am a cloth merchant from Varanasi. I came here to sell the clothes to the villagers,” he answered, gently.

“But the bundle reveals that you didn’t sell any item, did you?” asked the other one.

“You’re right, sir. None of the items got sold. The villagers told me that they had already bought their requirements yesterday from another merchant who had come here. That’s why I am returning with my stock,” said Shashidhar, calmly.

“My goodness! So, you’re going back empty-handed. Don’t you feel pinched by going back with no earning at all? And how come you’re so cool in spite of it?” said the first one, with a bit of pain.

“No sir, I don’t feel so, for business is not just for money. It’s also a duty toward the people. A merchant needs to notice the people’s needs and accordingly supply the products to them. But I couldn’t make myself available to them in their time of need. That’s why I’m going back with the stock as it is. At least from now on, I’ll try my best to be aware of the customers’ needs and attend to them well in time.” Shashidhar replied, with a smile.

Impressed by the individuality and goodness of Shashidhar as also with his sense of duty toward the customers, the first of the strangers heartily congratulated him. He then revealed his and his companion’s identity. They were Dheera Pratap and Vidheya, the king and the minister respectively of the kingdom.

And the king bought out the entire stock from Shashidhar. Not only that. He also promised to order the entire royalty’s requirements from him, henceforth.

Shashidhar returned home, happily.

Coming to know of this development of the king himself buying the clothes from Shashidhar, Karunakar who had been overjoyed for marring the chances of Shashidhar, was now upset a lot. His evil design of sabotaging the sincere initiative of Shashidhar had finally become a tool in enhancing the latter’s good reputation. Karunakar’s grief redoubled, and he regretted his wrongdoing.

From then on, Karunakar gave up his habit of hoodwinking or dealing a blow to others, and began doing his business in a fair manner.

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1. Original Telugu story titled ‘Shashidhar’ from Rakshasudi Padaraksha (Ogre’s Shoes), a collection of Telugu stories by Dr Siri. Shashi Ram Publications, Miryalaguda, Dec 2019, pp 110, ₹ 100 / $ 3.

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Dr Siri

Dr Siri

Dr Siri is a prolific poet and writer, mainly for children. A dentist by qualification, she has been fully drawn into creative literature and service to the differently abled section of children. In recognition of her contribution to the field of children’s literature, the Telangana government feted her with the ‘Vishishta Mahila Puraskar’ for 2018. Some of her books have been translated into Hindi, Urdu and Tamil; and the translations into Marathi, Sanskrit, English, Kannada, and Koya are in press. With a view to acquainting the readers with her literary endeavours and philanthropic bent of mind, Atreya Sarma, Chief Editor of Muse India, engages her in the following conversation.

Setu, October 2022

‘The law courts within us’ and ‘In the broken mirror’

Telugu originals¹ by: Mohammad Khan

Translated by: Atreya Sarma U

Cover of source book: Prakriti Santakam

The law courts within us

Every country has its supreme court

And so has the world its International Court of Justice.

In fact, every person within himself

Has a central court set up by the Almighty.

Anyone who obeys the judgments

And goes ahead in life

Can rise to lofty heights unimagined.

But the moment we defy the judicial verdict

Every second will experience a veritable hell.

Everyone knows the consequences of contempt of court.

The court within us responds more than the courts

Of the people or the judicial system.

The people’s courts and the judicial courts

Depend upon evidences and witnesses

And they have the facility of appeal as well.

But the evidence and witness for our innate courts

Throbs in every pore of our body and conscience

And they hesitate not to give us away if we’re guilty.

The appellate court above our innate court

Is the Almighty Himself. If He finds in us virtues

Like repentance, righteousness, and godly devotion

He may after considering them holistically

Either revoke the punishment or commute it.

I resolve all my problems in my inner court itself

With every pore of my body and conscience

Guiding me forward and clearing the way.

Most of the cases filed in my inner court

Are against minor and unmotivated offences.

Whatever its verdict, I have no guts to defy it.

It’s how I take meticulous care to ensure

That my path is free of thorns and prickly bushes.

It’s the inner beauty that makes us aglow

And to acquire and preserve that inner beauty

There is only one means – Purity of word

Which keeps our conscience clean.

The inner court expects us to be guiltless and transparent.

If we are soiled in our senses or in our conduct

The inner court doesn’t brook it even a little whit.

***

In the broken mirror

When the specs break, the syllables are hurt.

If the mirror of our heart breaks

Our life turns into a torn book.

If we throw a stone into a pond of calm waters

Will it be wrong for the disturbed pond

To hurry up in waves to the shore

And cry out its agony?

Can the pond show your reflection

In its agitated waves?

If a syllable is hurt, we may bear it.

But if the shape of the syllable changes,

And thereby the sentence is deformed

How can we speak of that danger

In the form of words?

Like how reading something

Through broken glasses is difficult,

So does a walk with torn shoes become an uphill task.

Our heart is as sacred as a flower;

A syllable is as tender as our heart;

Whichever is hurt, the nation is hurt;

And the life tumbles topsy-turvy.

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1. The two poems are from ‘Prakriti Santakam’ (The Sign of Nature), a collection of poems by Md Khan. Publisher: Sahiti Mitrulu, Vijayawada, 2020. Pp 130. ₹ 70.

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Mohammad Khan

Mohammad Khan

Mohammad Khan, BA, BL, originally from Kaikalur (earlier Krishna Dist./ now Eluru Dist.) and settled down in Vijayawada, is a prolific and accomplished Telugu poet, with 20 collections of poetry to his credit, and with 10 more in the pipeline. With Khan’s literary oeuvre as the topic of his doctoral thesis, a scholar Ch Zachariah has earned a PhD from the Acharya Nagarjuna University in March 2020. Recipient of over 60 awards so far from different literary associations, Md. Khan retired as a Grade I Executive Officer from Panchayat Raj.

Mobile: +91 9440137475

Setu, October 2022

‘Oneness all over’ and ‘Wage war!’

Telugu originals¹ by: Giridhar Ravula

Translated by: Atreya Sarma U

Cover of source book: Shodhana

Oneness all over

Somewhere afar a tree has collapsed,

And somehow here the rain turns truant.

Somewhere afar the forest has shrunk,

And somehow here the famine spreads.

If the leg is wounded, won’t the eyes get teary?!

If the heart is desolate, won’t the eyes get dry?!

Discerning people are dwindling;

Yet people are not introspecting.

Somewhere afar somebody has been beheaded,

And somehow here the sleep gets disturbed.

Somewhere afar blood has been shed,

And somehow here the body shivers.

If the wind rages, doesn’t the storm surge?!

If the water overflows, doesn’t the earth cave in?

Discerning people are dwindling;

Yet people are not introspecting.

Somewhere afar a bird has vanished,

And somehow here the seed is shattered.

Somewhere afar the thunder has stopped,

And somehow here a friction blows up.

If the smoke spreads, doesn’t it stink up the surrounds?

Doesn’t the stink dart into the nostrils and upset the mind?

Discerning people are dwindling;

Yet people are not introspecting.

Somewhere afar the rain has poured down,

And somehow here the soil dries up.

Somewhere afar a volcano has erupted,

And somehow here a deluge runs riot.

Don’t the sounds of the drum twang the utensils?!

Don’t these twanging notes touch our hearts?!

Discerning people are dwindling;

Yet people are not introspecting.

Somewhere afar the vapours have risen up the sky,

And somehow here a cloudburst tears around.

Somewhere afar the earth has quaked,

And somehow here the foundations shake like a leaf.

Aren’t man’s thoughts the base of his deeds?!

Doesn’t the rising sun warm up the earth?!

Discerning people are dwindling;

Yet people are not introspecting.

***

Wage war!

Like to wage war?

Like to win the day?

Like to daydream?

Like to realise the dream?

Like to be a loafer?

Like to be a loser?

Like to be downcast?

Like to die unsung?

Like to take the path unknown to defeat?

Like to swear with a mind of unwavering endurance?

Like to fulfil your parents’ noble dream for you?

Like to fight the way Krishna has taught, and win the war?

Like to be a loafer?

Like to be a loser?

Like to be downcast?

Like to die unsung?

Like to march ahead for the helpless and the sick?

Like to run for the country and mother nature?

Like to usher in humanity above castes and creeds?

Like to make the path of Rama happy to one and all?

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1. The two poems are from the poetry collection Shodhana (Inquiry) by Giridhar Ravula. Publisher: RBVRR Telangana State Police Academy, Hyderabad ( tspa.hyd@gmail.com ), 2022. ISBN: 978-81-952267-4-0. Pp 87. ₹ 100.

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Giridhar Ravula

Giridhar Ravula

Giridhar Ravula, IPS, from Hyderabad and originally hailing from Karimnagar, is presently serving the RBVRR Telangana State Police Academy as a Superintendent of Police. He is a well-published Telugu poet and writer driven by an incessant philosophical quest, especially on the path of Advaita. His poetry collection Sodhana (Inquiry), published by the RBVRR Telangana State Police Academy, Hyderabad (tspa.hyd@gmail.com) in 2022 has been well-received. Before entering the government service, Giridhar served the society through various voluntary service associations in the fields of – eradication of poverty, development of slums, elimination of HIV/AIDS/TB, etc.

Email: giridharvelugu@yahoo.com

Setu, October 2022

A competent soul’s life journey

Telugu original¹ by: Rajani Katragadda

Translated by: Atreya Sarma U

Indian postal stamp
commemorating
Tripuraneni Gopichand

Cover of source book:
Maa Naanna Gaaru
(My great father)

More than enthusiasm it’s tenseness that envelopes me if I have to write about my father since there are a number of readers, friends, fans and publishers who feel much more possessive about him. That’s why his memory continues to be cherished even now. The litterateurs and their creative oeuvre of his generation were all-time greats.

However, I attempt a brief introduction of the life and work of Gopichand. He was born on 08 September 1910 on the day of the sacred Ganesh festival day. A law graduate, he was a great writer, narrator, script writer for movies, and film director. His iconic novels like Asamarthuni Jeeva Yatra (An Incompetent’s Life Journey), Cheekati Gadulu (Dark Rooms), Pandita Paramesvara Sastry Veelunama (Pandit Parameshvara Shastry’s Testament), and Merupulu Marakalu (Sparks and Stains) elevated him as a beacon of light for the short story.

His work Tattvavettalu (Philosophers) beats the reader’s brain out. Have a clean conscience and follow it, was his motto of life and he lived it. His life and literature weren’t separate, they were integral. What I like the most in him is his transparency rather than his philosophy. In retrospect, I realise that he had lived a smooth and transparent life even in the modern materialistic world, and it could be only due to those fundamental values of life. Quoting sage Vemana’s poetic lines that only a Bhogi can become a Yogi (that only a reveller can become an ascetic), a fan remarked that Gopichand was also like a Bhogi turned into a Yogi. But Gopichand was a Karma Yogi (one believing in relentless activity without an eye on the result). The words and sentences he writes while in agony are very solacing. Dad’s life was an open book for anyone to look into and learn a lot from. Whatever work he was doing as a film director, writer, Director of Public relations in the government of Andhra Pradesh, or as a producer of the rural programme in the All India Radio, it was only his writing that was the undercurrent in the running stream of all his multifaceted creativity.

Tripuraneni Ramaswamy (1887-1943), father of Gopichand, was a scholar in Sanskrit and Telugu who also did the Barrister-at-law course during those days in England. Never after money, the father-son duo were short-lived, but their accomplishments were incredible. While Ramaswamy’s writings were rationalistic, revolutionary and patriotic, Gopichand focused on the psychoanalytical and progressive aspects of life. I knew grandfather only through his writings, having never seen him physically for I was born a couple of years after his demise. I was with father for only sixteen years for he breathed his last as early as 1962. Never have I seen a personage like him ever since. The society revolved around him, and he lived like a lion. The house was like the abode of Sarasvati, the goddess of learning visited by lots of eminent people from various fields including profound Vedic savants, writers and artists. Among them was Mullapudi Timmaraju who requested father to pen the history of the Kamma society. Another frequent visitor was dear relation Nutakki Ramaseshaiah, Diwan of Jeypore in Odisha and also a lawyer. During those days when I was very young, me and my siblings weren’t aware of the greatness of such distinguished people.

Six decades have rolled by since father’s demise in 1962, yet till date he is being written about or referred to. His continued popularity testifies to the unique power of his pen which stopped to move but whose ink hasn’t dried a whit. Despite father being extremely preoccupied in his hectic literary activity, he had throughout taken care of all of us his six children, with minute concern for our studies and health. This salubrious familial spirit has flowed into our genes and it’s no exaggeration to say that all of us have similarly brought up our children.

When it comes to my mother, though there was difference between her and father looks-wise, she was intellectually no less in any way. Even during those days when women’s education was minimal, she was a disciple of the legendary Unnava Lakshminarayana Pantulu (1877-1958). Though well-versed in Hindi and Telugu, she was content being a housewife. Her self-confinement to the home-front, though voluntary, was perhaps a cause of disappointment to father, I guess. When we read his novel Yamapasam (The Noose of Death), we get that feeling. But they were an ideal couple reminding us of the primordial couple Lord Shiva and Parvati. It was an irrecoverable bolt from the blue to her when father met with his sudden premature death.

I needn’t too much elaborate on the books by Gopichand for they are well-known. Jnanpith recipient Viswanatha Satyanarayana who was fatherly to him praised his works.

The portrayal of stepmom Damayanti in the novel Cheekati Gadulu (Dark Rooms) is a befitting tribute to such characters. There are other powerful characters with distinct personalities like – the British principal of the college and his wife; Kalyana Kinkini; Susila; revolutionary Siva Kumar; and Gandhi Damaiah. And the character Krishna Swamy represents Ramaswamy, father of Gopichand; so, I needn’t interpret it further. In fact, Gopichand had originally conceived a tetralogy of this novel, but he could complete only the first part. Had it been completed, all these characters would have stood out as full-fledged live individuals before us so that we could have learnt from them. The wistfulness of missing it gnaws at our hearts.

Anyone who reads through the novel Asamarthuni Jeeva Yatra (An Incompetent’s Life Journey) does feel that they are reading about themselves. It’s a work created after deeply probing and analysing the minds and hearts of the characters. And you find intense philosophical reflections in the novels – Merupulu Marakalu (Sparks and Stains), and Pandita Paramesvara Sastry Veelunama (Pandit Parameshvara Shastry’s Testament). There is a stage transcending even spiritualism, and anyone who attains it will segue into a universal human. Why should we be afraid of solitude? Those who tap solitude with a pristine mental focus will imbibe the rhythm underlying the universe, and experience an enduring ecstasy. This higher realm of thinking harmonises the spiritualistic and the materialistic aspect of life, enlightening that they are not mutually exclusive, and thereby brings about a sweet and salubrious serenity of mind. These reflections not only help an understanding of the feelings and viewpoints of Ramaswamy and Gopichand but also make us benefit from them. Incessant and dispassionate quest for wisdom makes us equanimous to any type of ups and down in the life.

When I was in my BA, at RBVRR Women’s College, Hyderabad, father used to correct my essays on philosophical/spiritual topics. By the time I joined MA (Sociology) he was no more around, for me to look up to him. If me and my siblings have any spiritual and rationalist bent of mind, skills in English language, and discipline, we owe it totally to our father. It’s because of that inherited foundation only that all the six of us have been able to stand strong in life. We still feel the presence of mom and dad around us.

By the time father passed away, he was at the intellectual peak. He used to write the three novels – Cheekati Gadulu (Dark Rooms), Yamapasam (The Noose of Death), and Premopahatulu (The Love-wrecked Ones) – simultaneously. He used to dictate them extempore to Gopala Rao, a staffer from the Yuva monthly, who would write it down.

“Why don’t you write too something?” dad would ask me. To slip out of that snare, I would say, “Dad, I don’t have the mood now.” He would share this conversation with a chuckle with his friends. With a view to amusing my younger brother Sai and younger sister Nalini, he would take them out, having them on either side and holding their hands. He was a man of small pleasures. He was a like a banyan tree, yet he let us grow up under his vast canopy. He gave us full freedom. He built our home not with bricks but with hearts. That’s why, our home ever brimmed with fun and frolic.

It was 02 November 1962. I took part in the students’ march in protest against the Chinese invasion of the Indian territory, and returned home in the evening. Father had already contributed to the national defence fund as a patriotic citizen. Seated in his bedroom, he was gently stroking his chest. The previous night he said he would get to writing the novel Bharya Vilapam (The Wife’s Grief). Apparently, he had a sense of promotion like a Yogi. Why, he was a Karma Yogi himself, as I mentioned earlier. A few minutes later walked in Dr Pinnamaneni Satyanarayana Rao, a leading cardiologist to-be. He had father recline on the bed, and administered an injection. Even as he was orally responding, dad’s head sank aside for ever. Ramesh, my elder brother, who had just then stepped in with the medicines he bought, froze with anguish. Even now I recall his agonized face vividly. A little while thereafter, the entire state of Andhra Pradesh came to know of father’s death through the regional news of the All India Radio. Death is a leveller, it’s said. But we couldn’t digest its justification in the case of father. The persona that shone in the new set of silk dhoti and lalchi that mom bought him for every Ganesh festival, coinciding with his birthday, passed out of sight. All the kith and kin who couldn’t believe this shocking news, hurtled all the way from Angaluru, his native village in Krishna district, to Hyderabad. There was none whose eyes and hearts didn’t overflow with tears.

Yet, I would like to conclude this writeup not on a sad but a happy note. We can’t forget some of the light-hearted moments in our lives.

One day dad walked over to the kitchen-sink and asked me to fill the pen with ‘water.’

“What! Fill with water?” cheekily I retorted.

“That’s enough smartie! Fill it with ink.”

Daddy was seen many a time humming the tune ‘Urvasi lalama eeme, adhika Lavanya seema’ (Urvasi the great she is, and a graceful land it is), one of his favourites.

Filling the pens with ink, playfully hearing dad’s words, I had finished reading the Telugu works of all the greats, by the time I was hardly sixteen thanks to the interest sowed by father in me. He used to reel out names of authors like Chekov, Gorky, Maupassant, Sommerset Maugham, Pearl S Buck and Anne Frank; and it spurred me into reading works like Good Earth and The Diary of a Young Girl at that time. The habit of buying and reading books continues to be a source of joy even now. But let me admit however that we – the grandchildren of Ramaswamy and children of Gopichand – haven’t inherited their writing acumen. However, we sense the signs of our next generation going to fill that vacuum.

And this is the humble homage to dad from us his six children.

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1. This article is a mutatis mutandis adaptation of the Telugu original ‘Tripuraneni Gopichand’ included in Maa Naanna Gaaru (My great father), a posthumous anthology of tributes to the literary stalwarts by their surviving children, compiled & edited by Dr Dwa Naa Sastry (Kinnera Publications, Hyderabad, 2009. ISBN: 978-81-907279-2-1. Pp 379. ₹ 400. $ 25.) And the translation has been finalized in consultation with the original writer.

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Rajani Katragadda

Rajani Katragadda

Rajani Katragadda nee Tripuraneni, MA (Sociology), is a well-known Telugu writer and translator. Born of Sakuntala Devi and illustrious writer Tripuraneni Gopichand – son of the legendary rationalist, poet & writer Tripuraneni Ramaswamy, Rajani was brought up in Madras, Kurnool and Hyderabad the places where her father had been working.

After marrying defence scientist Subrahmanyam Katragadda, she moved over to Bengaluru where she has since settled down. Their sons Dr Gopichand and twins Siddharth & Shilpesh are software engineers, writers and artists.

A voracious reader of fiction and lover of arts, Rajani has penned in Telugu – Asamarthurali Antarangam [An incompetent woman’s inner mind] (JV Publications, Hyderabad, 2018) – a collection of short stories, articles and translations. She has translated from English to Telugu for the Maa Bozell ad company. She went into the business of Spartek Ceramics company for five years.

Rajani acted in three short films, and one of them ‘Varanasi’ (directed by her son Siddharth Katragadda) won the best foreign film award at the Atlantic City CineFest, New Jersey, 2013. She was the co-writer of dialogues for the Telugu movie ‘Tokachukka’ (2014) directed by her son Gopichand Katragadda.

Email: katrajini@gmail.com

Setu, October 2022

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Setu

Volume 7; Issue 6; November 2022

Editorial

Poetry

Young Debut: Poetry

Collaborations I: Ekphrastic

Collaborations II: Poetic Forms

Collaborations III: Responses to This Day’s Images

Author of the Month

Translation (Prose: Hindi to English)

Exclusive: Vintage Art

Short Fiction

Flash Fiction

Book Review

Presenter: Agron Shele

Setu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual Readings

Guest Editor: Paramita Mukherjee Mullick

Setu

Volume 7; Issue 5; October 2022

Editorial

Poetry

Young Signature

Special

Bridges of Understanding

Mahatma Gandhi: Celebrating A Global Legacy

Haiku

Author of the Month

Translation (Swedish to English)

In the news: Cultural Roundup

Short Fiction

Book Review

Presenter’s Preface: Atreya Sarma U

Articles

Poetry

Short Fiction

Conversation

Setu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual Readings

Guest Editor: Paul Brookes