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3, Joothan, Omprakash Valmiki, Omprakash Valmiki’s Joothan is an autobiographical account of his experience of, growing up in a village near Muzzafarnagar in UP as an untouchable or Dalit in the, newly independent India of the 1950s. An engineer by profession, Valmiki began writing, this memoir in 1974. Apart from Joothan, he has to his credit two anthologies of short, stories, Salam and Guspathiye and three anthologies of poetry, Sadiyon Ka, Santaap (1989), Bas Ab Bahut Ho Chuka (1997) and Ab Aur Nahin (2003). Now a, middle class intellectual, he deliberately uses the name Valmiki as a mark of, identification with his roots and also with the larger community of the sweeper caste, (variously called Bhangi, Chura, Chuhra in different regions of the north), many of, whom call themselves Valmiki, tracing their lineage to the author of the Ramayana., Joothan is among the first texts in Hindi that identifies itself as a part of Dalit literature., Until the advent of Dalit literature in Marathi in the 1950s and its subsequent spread to, other languages such as Telugu, Tamil, Malayalam, Gujarati and Punjabi in the modern, period, literature had been the domain of the high castes. Dalit literary expression has, shown a dramatic increase throughout the Hindi belt since the late, 1980s. Joothan elucidates the powerful narrative agenda of Dalit autobiography which, contests the claim that discrimination on the basis of caste no longer operates as a social, force in modern India., The passage is an extract from Joothan: A Dalit’s Life (1997)., Our house was adjacent to Chandrabhan Taga’s gher or cowshed. Next to it lived the, families of Muslim weavers. Right in front of Chandrabhan Taga’s gher was a little johri,, a pond, which had created a sort of partition between the Chuhras’ dwellings and the, village. The name of the johri was Dabbowali. It is hard to say how it got the name of, Dabbowali. Perhaps because its shape was that of a big pit. On one side of the pit were, the high walls of the brick homes of the Tagas. At a right angle to these were the clay, walls of the two or three homes of the Jhinwars. After these there were more homes of, the Tagas., On the edges of the pond were the homes of the Chuhras. All the women of the village,, young girls, older women, even newly-married brides, would sit in the open space, behind these homes at the edges of the pond to take a shit. Not just under the cover of

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darkness but even in daylight. The purdah-observing Tyagi women, their faces covered, with their saris, shawls around their shoulders, found relief in this open-air latrine. They, sat on Dabbowali’s shores without worrying about decency, exposing their private parts., All the quarrels of the village would be discussed in the shape of a Round Table, conference at this same spot. There was muck strewn everywhere. The stench was so, overpowering that one would choke within a minute. The pigs wandering in narrow, lanes, naked children, dogs, daily fights, this was the environment of my childhood. If, the people who call the caste system an ideal social arrangement had to live in this, environment for a day or two, they would change their mind., Our family lived in this Chuhra basti. Five brothers, one sister, two chachas,, one tau and his family. Chachas and tau lived separately. Everyone in the family did, some or other work. Even then we didn’t manage to get two decent meals a day. We did, all sorts of work for the Tagas, including cleaning, agricultural work and general labour., We would often have to work without pay. Nobody dared to refuse this unpaid work for, which we got neither money nor grain. Instead, we got sworn at and abused. They did, not call us by our names. If the person were older, then he would be called ‘Oe Chuhre’., If the person were younger or of the same age, then ‘Abey Chuhre’ was used., Untouchability was so rampant that while it was considered all right to touch dogs and, cats or cows and buffaloes, if one happened to touch a Chuhra, one got contaminated or, polluted. The Chuhras were not seen as human. They were simply things for use. Their, utility lasted until the work was done. Use them and then throw them away., A Christian used to visit our neighbourhood. His name was Sewak Ram Masihi. He, would sit with the children of the Chuhras around him. He used to teach them reading, and writing. The government schools did not allow these children to enrol. My family, sent only myself to Sewak Ram Masihi. My brothers were all working. There was no, question of sending our sister to school. I learnt my alphabet in master Sewak Ram, Masihi’s open-air school, a school without mats or rooms. One day, Sewak Ram Masihi, and my father had an argument. My father took me to the Basic Primary School. There, my father begged master Har Phool Singh; ‘Masterji, I will be forever in your debt if you, teach this child of mine a letter or two.’, Master Har Phool Singh asked us to come the next day. My father went. He kept going, for several days. Finally, one day I was admitted to the school. The country had become, independent eight years ago. Gandhiji’s uplifting of the Untouchables was resounding, everywhere. Although the doors of the government schools had begun to open for, Untouchables, the mentality of the ordinary people had not changed much. I had to sit, away from the others in the class, that too on the floor. The mat ran out before reaching, the spot I sat on. Sometimes I would have to sit way behind everybody, right near the, door. And the letters on the board from there seemed faded., The children of the Tyagis would tease me by calling me ‘Chuhre ka’. Sometimes they, would beat me without any reason. This was an absurd tormented life that made me, introverted and irritable. If I got thirsty in school, then I had to stand near the handpump. The boys would beat me in any case, but the teachers also punished me. All sorts

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of stratagems were tried so that I would run away from the school and take up the kind, of work for which I was born. According to these perpetrators, my attempts to get, schooling were unwarranted., Ram Singh and Sukkhan Singh were also in my class. Ram Singh was a Chamar and, Sukkhan Singh was a Jhinwar. Ram Singh’s father and mother worked as agricultural, labourers. Sukkhan Singh’s father was a peon in the Inter College. The three of us, studied together, grew up together, experienced the sweat and sour moments of, childhood together. All three of us were very good in our studies but our lower-caste, background dogged us at every step., Barla Village also had some Muslim Tyagis who were called Tagas as well. The, behaviour of these Muslim Tagas was just like that of the Hindu Tagas. If we ever went, out wearing neat and clean clothes, we had to hear their taunts that pierced deep inside, like poisoned arrows. If we went to the school in neat and clean clothes, then our class, fellows said, ‘Abey, Chuhre ka, he has come dressed in new clothes.’ If one went wearing, old and shabby clothes, then they said, ‘Abey, Chuhre ke, get away from me, you stink.’, This was our no-win situation. We were humiliated whichever way we dressed., I reached fourth class. Headmaster Bishambar Singh had been replaced by Kaliram., Along with him had come another new teacher. After the arrival of these two, the three, of us fell on terrible times. We would be thrashed at the slightest excuse. Ram Singh, would escape once in while, but Sukkhan Singh and I got beaten almost daily. I was very, weak and skinny those days., Sukkhan Singh had developed a boil on his belly, just below his ribs. While in class, he, used to keep his shirt folded up so as to keep the boil uncovered. This way the shirt, could be kept clear of the puss on the one hand, and on the other, the boil protected, from the blows of the teacher. One day while thrashing Sukkhan Singh, the teacher’s fist, hit the boil. Sukkhan screamed with pain. The boil had burst. Seeing him flailing with, pain, I too began to cry. While we cried, the teacher was showering abuse on us nonstop., If I repeated his abusive words here, they would smear the nobility of Hindi. I say that, because many big-named Hindi writers had wrinkled their nose and eyebrows when I, had a character in my short story ‘Bail Ki Khal’ (The Ox Hide) swear. Coincidentally, the, character who swore was a Brahman, that is, the knower of Brahma, of God. Was it, possible? Would a Brahman swear….?, The ideal image of the teachers that I saw in my childhood has remained indelibly, imprinted on my memory. Whenever someone starts taking about a great guru, I, remember all those teachers who used to swear about mothers and sisters. They used to, fondle good-looking boys and invited them to their homes and sexually abused them., One day the headmaster Kaliram called me to his room and asked: ‘Abey, what is your, name?’

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‘Omprakash,’ I answered slowly and fearfully. Children used to feel scared just, encountering the headmaster. The entire school was terrified of him., ‘Chuhre ka?’ Headmaster threw his second question at me.‘, ‘Ji.’, ‘All right… See that teak tree there? Go. Climb that tree. Break some twigs and make a, broom. And sweep the whole school clean as mirror. It is after all, your family, occupation., Go… get to it.’, Obeying Headmaster’s orders, I cleaned all the rooms and the verandahs. Just as I was, about to finish, he came to me and said, ‘After you have swept the rooms, go and sweep, the playground.’, The playground was way larger than my small physique could handle and in cleaning it, my back began to ache. My face was covered with dust. Dust had gone inside my mouth., The other children in my class were studying and I was sweeping. Headmaster was, sitting in his room and watching me. I was not even allowed to get a drink of water. I, swept the whole day. I had never done so much work, being the pampered one among, my brothers., The second day, as soon as I reached school, Headmaster again put me to sweeping the, school. I swept the whole day. I was consoling myself that I will go back to the class from, tomorrow., The third day I went to the class and sat down quietly. After a few minutes the, headmaster’s loud thundering was heard: ‘Abey Chuhre ke, motherfucker, where are you, hiding… your mother…’, I had begun to shake uncontrollably. A Tyagi boy shouted, ‘Master Saheb, there he is,, sitting in the corner.’, The headmaster had pounced on my neck. The pressure of his fingers was increasing. As, a wolf grabs a lamb by the neck, he dragged me out of the class and threw me on the, ground. He screamed: ‘Go sweep the whole playground… Otherwise I will shove chillies, up your arse and throw you out of the school.’, Frightened, I picked up the three-day-old-broom. Just like me, it was shedding its dried, up leaves. All that remained were the thin sticks. Tears were falling from my eyes. I, started to sweep the compound while my tears fell. From the doors and windows of the, schoolrooms, the eyes of the teachers and the boys saw this spectacle. Each pore of my, body was submerged in an abyss of anguish.

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Just then my father passed by the school. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, sweeping the school compound. He called me, ‘Munshiji, what are you doing?’ Munshiji, was the pet name my father had given me. When I saw him, I burst out sobbing. He, entered the school compound and came towards me. Seeing me crying, he asked,, ‘Munshiji, why are you crying? Tell me, what has happened?’, I was hiccuping by now. In between my hiccups, I told the whole story to my father: that, the teacher had been making me sweep for last three days; that they did not let me enter, the classroom at all., Pitaji snatched the broom from my hand and threw it away. His eyes were blazing. Pitaji, who was always taut as a bowstring in front of others was so angry that his dense, moustache was fluttering. He began to scream, ‘Who is that teacher, that progeny of, Dronacharya, who forces my son to sweep?’, Pitaji’s voice had echoed through the whole school. All the teachers, also with the, headmaster came out. Kaliram, the headmaster threatened my father and called him, names. But his threats had no effect on Pitaji. I have never forgotten the courage and, fortitude with which my father confronted the headmaster that day. Pitaji had all sorts, of weaknesses, but the decisive turn that he gave my future that day has had a great, impact on my personality., The headmaster had roared, ‘Take him away from here… The Chuhra wants him, educated… Go, go… Otherwise I will have your bones broken.’, Pitaji took my hand and started walking towards our home. As he walked away, he said,, loudly enough for the headmaster to hear, ‘You are a teacher… So I am leaving now. But, remember this much, Master… This Chuhre ka will study right here… In this school., And not just him, but there will be more coming after him.’, Pitaji had faith that the Tyagis of the village would chastize master Kaliram for his, behaviour. But what happened was the exact opposite. Whosesoever’s door we knocked,, the answer was,, ‘What is the point of sending him to school?’, ‘When has a crow become a swan?’, ‘You illiterate boorish people, what do you know? Knowledge is not gained like this.’, ‘Hey, if he asked a Chuhra’s progeny to sweep, what is the big deal in that?’, ‘He only got him to sweep; did not ask for his thumb in the gurudakshina like, Dronacharya.’, And so forth.

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Pitaji came back, tired and dejected. He sat up all night without food or drink. God, knows how deep an anguish Pitaji went through. As soon as the morning broke, he took, me along and went to the house of the pradhan, Sagwa Singh Tyagi., As soon as the pradhan saw Pitaji, he said, ‘Abey, Chotan? … what is the matter? You, have come so early in the morning.’, ‘Chowdhri Saheb, you say that the government has opened the doors of the schools for, the children of Chuhras and Chamars. And that headmaster makes this child of mine, come out of the class and sweep all day instead of teaching him. If he has to sweep the, school all day, then you tell me when is he going to study?’, Pitaji was supplicating the pradhan. He had tears in his eyes. I was standing near him, and looking at him., The pradhan called me near him and asked, ‘Which class are you in?’, ‘Ji, the fourth.’, ‘You are in my Mahendra’s class?’, ‘Ji.’, Pradhanji said to Pitaji, ‘Don’t worry. Send him to school tomorrow.’, The next day I went to school with fear stalking my heart. I sat in the class in, trepidation. Every second I worried that the headmaster was coming … Now he comes …, At the slightest sound my heart pounded. After a few days, things calmed down. But my, heart trembled the moment I saw Headmaster Kaliram. It seemed as though it wasn’t a, teacher who was coming towards me but a snorting wild boar with his snout up in the, air., , NOTES, Valmiki: The author of Valmiki Ramayana; supposedly a criminal before his, transformation into a sage. His name is derived from the Sanskrit word for ant-hill, (valmika) which covered him during his long penance., Joothan: Scraps of food left over after a meal. The title underlines the poverty, pain, and humiliation of Valmiki’s community which had to rely on joothan. The author later, gives a detailed description of collecting and eating preserved joothan., Tyagi or Taga: This is the name of an upper caste in the western region of Uttar, Pradesh where Omprakash Valmiki grew up. One of the peculiar features of caste is that, it is found among non-Hindus as well. The reference to the Muslim Tagas or Tyagis is to, be understood in this context. The isolation of the Dalits is foregrounded in terms of, their experience of caste as a factor that unites the Tyagis, both Muslims and Hindus, to, perpetuate the most debilitating discrimination against them.

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Chuhra, Chamar, Jhinwar: Lower-caste communities., Munshiji: A munshi is a secretary or language teacher., Progeny of Dronacharya: Dronacharya was the guru of the Pandavas and instructed, Arjun in the art of warfare. When a tribal boy Eklavya came to Dronacharya and asked, to be taught archery, Dronacharya refused, saying he would instruct only Brahmins and, Kshatriyas. However Eklavya made an effigy of Dronacharya and, treating it as his, teacher, practised archery in front of it till he became proficient. When the Pandavas, found out his skill and asked him who his guru was, Eklavya answered ‘Dronacharya.’, Dronacharya heard of this, called Eklavya and asked for his right thumb, as gurudakshina, the gift from pupil to teacher. Eklavya gave it without hesitation and, thereafter trained himself to manage the bow using his left thumb, as certain tribals in, India do to this day., , QUESTIONS, 1., , The writer gives extensive details describing the village pond and its environment. How do, these affect the way the reader responds to the story of the later incidents in the school?, , 2. In what ways does this account show that ‘the mentality of ordinary people had not changed, much’?, 3. How do the schoolteachers fall short of the ideal image of the guru?, 4. A child often views the adults around him as role models for his own behaviour. Did the young, Valmiki have any role models he could respect, or not?, 5., , What ‘decisive turn’ did Valmiki’s father give to the boy’s future?, , 6. Joothan ‘transforms an experience of pain into a narrative of resistance.’ Discuss., 7., , Why does Omprakash Valmiki use ‘abusive words’ in his writing? How does this challenge, established norms of writing and middle class norms of linguistic decency?, , 8. Some writers attempt to win sympathy for the oppressed castes by highlighting their meekness, and innocence. Others write in a more angry style or show their characters’ rebellious rage., Which approach do you find more effective? Answer with reference to writers in this section.

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Kallu, Ismat Chughtai, Ismat Chughtai (1915–91) was a born rebel. She led an unconventional life, went in for, higher education, took up a job, lived alone, married a man of her choice and was, cremated, as she had desired, instead of being buried., After Rasheed Jahan, she was the first Muslim woman to write novels and short stories, in Urdu. Rasheed Jahan was Chughtai’s mentor. In 1932, Rasheed Jahan, along with, Sajjad Zaheer, Ahmad Ali and Mahmuduzzafar published a collection of short, stories, Angaray (Embers) that set off a storm of protest in the local press. The maulvis, issued fatwahs and the book was banned by the United Provinces government. In the, wake of the agitation against Angaray, Sajjad Zaheer took up residence in London in, March 1933. The ‘Defence of Angaray’ was published soon afterwards (in April 1933) by, the Angaray group in which they announced the formation of the League of Progressive, Authors. The first manifesto of the progressive writers’movement was drafted by Mulk, Raj Anand and Sajjad Zaheer in London and the movement formally launched as the All, India Progressive Writers’ Association (AIPWA) at a conference held in 1936 in, Lucknow, under the presidentship of the Hindi-Urdu writer Premchand. The League of, Progressive Authors now came under the banner of the AIPWA. Soon the movement, spread and literary figures from other Indian languages (Uma Shankar Joshi,, Tarashankar Bannerjee, K.Shivrama Karanth, Sumitranandan Pant, Suryakant Tripathi, ‘Nirala’) began to be associated with it. The Progressive Writers’; Movement encouraged, a lot of new talents; Chughtai was one of them., Chughtai wrote many stories before she was actually published in 1939. With a keen eye, and an incisive intelligence she looked into the lives of a whole range of Muslim women, from the middle class in the suburban towns of Uttar Pradesh. Her stories were often, controversial. ‘Lihaaf’ (1942) which deals with the issue of women’s sexual desire was, charged with obscenity. It led to a trial that lasted four years at the end of which she was, finally acquitted. Ismat Chughtai was an important figure of the 1940s literary scene., She also wrote for films and much later, even acted in one-- she played the role of the, grandmother in Junoon (1978). Having married Shaheed Latif, the film-producer, remembered for Ziddi (1948), Dev Anand’s first film to win immense popularity,, Chughtai was involved with this and many of his other films, like Arzoo (1950), Darwaza (1954), Society (1955) and Sone Ki Chidiya (1958). Several, of her stories have been made into films. Of these, Garam Hawa (1973) won a great deal, of acclaim. She is, therefore, also a part of the complex relationship that existed between, Indian cinema and the progressive writers in Urdu: many of the younger writers of the, time—Manto, Sardar Ali Jafri, Kaifi Azmi, Sahir Ludhianvi, Majrooh Sultanpuri—wrote, for films., In 1975, she received the Padma Shri for her contribution to Urdu Literature.

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Although not quite seven, Kallu did the work of grown man. He was shaken out of his, sleep early in the morning and, dressed only in an old, tattered shirt in winter with, Abba’s old woollen cap pulled down over his ears, looking like a midget, dripping at the, nose, he promptly set to work. Scared off by the cold water, he was always reluctant to, wash his face, and just once in a while he would carelessly rub the tips of his fingers over, his teeth which remained permanently coated with a thin film of mildew., The first thing he did in the morning was to get the stove going. Then he put water on, for tea, set the table for breakfast and made a hundred rounds to the door and back, carrying butter, bread, then milk and, finally, the eggs—flapping his slippers noisily, he, travelled to the kitchen innumerable times. And after the cook had prepared breakfast,, Kallu made more trips to the table lugging hot toast and parathas. To ensure their good, health, the children (nearly all of whom were Kallu’s age), were forcibly fed porridge,, milk, eggs, toast and jam while Kallu quietly looked on. When breakfast was over he sat, alone in the kitchen and ate left-over burnt ends of toast and paratha, hurriedly downing, them with some tea., His next task involved taking care of small errands around the house: he polished, Maliha bi’s pumps, scouted for Hamida bi’s ribbons, located Akhtar Bhai’s socks,, recovered Salima bi’s book-bag, fetched Mumani Jan’s katha from the almirah, and, retrieved Abu’s cigarette case from beside his pillow. In short, he spun around like a top, until everyone had left for either the office or school. Later, he washed Nanhi’s dirty, diapers, and then settled down to play with Safia bi; in between he made trips to the, front door to receive mail from the mailman or to inquire the name of a visitor at the, door. Around midday the cook handed him peas to shell or spinach to rinse. At lunch, time he repeatedly dashed to the dining table with hot rotis, giving the baby’s cradle a, little push every now and then on the way. What more can I say? He came to this, household at a very young age, did the work of a bearer and sweeper, and all this for two, rupees a month along with some old, ragged cast-offs. His mother lived in the village, and had entrusted him to our care; he would at least have enough to eat, she thought., She herself worked as a cook for the village zamindar., She visited him sometimes usually at the Teej festival, and brought him molasses and, parched wheat or fried corn. She too put him to work., ‘Dear boy, come here and scratch my back.’, ‘Son, bring me some water.’, ‘Get some roti from the kitchen, son. And ask the cook for a little dal as well.’, ‘Rub down my back boy.’, ‘Rub my shoulders.’, ‘Massage my head.’

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The truth was, his little hands executed a great foot massage, and once he started you, didn’t want him to stop; often he would have to continue massaging the entire, afternoon. Sometimes he dozed off and fell on your legs. A kick was generally enough to, awaken him., Kallu had no time to play. If, for some reason, he had a little respite between errands, he, would be found slumped with exhaustion, silently staring into space like an idiot. Seeing, him sitting like this, looking so foolish, someone or the other would stick a straw in his, ear surreptiously, and startled, he would bashfully turn to a task that required his, attention., Preparations for Maliha bi’s wedding were under way. There was talk of weddings all, day long—who’s going to marry whom, how did so-and-so marry so-and-so, and who, should marry whom. ‘Who’re you going to marry, Nanhi?’ Mumani would jokingly ask., ‘Apa,’ lisped Nanhi, sending everyone into fits of laughter., ‘Who’re you going to marry, Kallu?’ Amma asked in jest one day., Kallu revealed his yellow teeth in a shy grin. When he was pressed for an answer he, lowered his eyes and whispered, ‘Salima bi.’, ‘May you rot in hell! You stupid fool! A curse on your face!’ Peeved by the laughter, around her, Mumani proceded to box Kallu’s ears., Then one day, while he and Salima were playing, Kallu asked her, ‘Salima bi, will you, marry me?’, ‘Yes … es,’ Salima nodded vigorously, her little head bobbing up and down., Mumani, sitting in the sunny part of the courtyard, combing her hair, was privy to this, exchange between Kallu and her daughter. Livid with anger, she removed her sandal, from her foot and smacked him one with it. A blow landed in the wrong place, Kallu’s, nose began to bleed and soon blood was streaming down the side of his face. Kallu’s, mother, who was visiting at the time, saw the blood and screamed that her son had been, murdered., ‘Get out of my house, you hypocrite!’ Mumani yelled and ordered both mother and son, out. Kallu’s mother wept and begged forgiveness, but her pleas went unheeded., The years went by swiftly. As with the servant who came after him, Kallu too was, forgotten. Maliha was now a mother. Hamida bi never married. Half the family had, migrated to Pakistan, the other half remained here in India. Nanhi, Safia and Salima,, having completed their education, were now waiting to get married. But husbands were, difficult to come by.

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Our uncle, Chacha Mian, was constantly on the lookout for eligible young men. He, moved in official circles and had arranged a match for Maliha, but he too was helpless, now. These were bad times; nice young men were nearly impossible to find, and those, who were around demanded that a car and fare to England be included in the dowry., Such demands could be taken into consideration only if there was one girl in the family, to be wed. But here there were many. Also, the loss of land had resulted in a lowering of, status and income, and there were no parties any more, no fancy get-togethers; how, were young girls to meet, eligible young bachelors? Nonetheless, if a rare party did come, around, Chacha Mian saw to it that the girls attended. And so when a dinner was held in, honour or Mr. Din, the new Deputy Collector, preparations in our house began several, days in advance., Mr. Din was a bachelor, and the eyes of all the mothers of unwed girls in the city were, focused on him. We were stunned when we saw him. He was over six feet tall, had a, wheatish complexion, very attractive features, and teeth which shone like real pearls., During introductions, he suddenly quietened at the mention of Salima’s name and then, quickly moved away from our group to chat with the other guests., Chacha Mian approached us with an expression of bafflement on his face just as we were, getting ready to leave., ‘Do you know who this Mr. Din is?’ he asked., ‘The Deputy Collector, who else’ Mumani answered gruffly.,, ‘No, no. I mean, did you recognize him? My dear, he’s our own Kallu.’, ‘Kallu?’ Mumani crinkled her nose., ‘Yes, yes Kallu. Kalimuddin. This is too much!’, ‘You mean that little midget who was our houseboy?’, ‘Yes, the very same, the one who suffered a beating at your hands.’ Chacha Mian, guffawed., ‘My God! What’s wrong with the government? It seems just about anyone can land a job, with it these days! But how did this happen?’, ‘Why not? He’s a Qureshi, that’s a good caste, and he even submitted to your beating, when the need arose,’ my mother said in a mocking tone., ‘Well, in that case why don’t you give him your daughter in marriage?’ Mumani spoke, archly., ‘I wish my daughters were so fortunate,’ Amma said. ‘I’d be only too happy to have him, for a son-in law. But why would he want to have anything to do with a family at whose

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hands he suffered such humiliation? Ayesha, his mother, left him with us so he could, become somebody. But you turned him into a servant.’, Chacha Mian said, ‘And the poor woman worked hard, sewed clothes, washed people’s, dirty dishes and finally succeeded in raising him to such heights. People are willing to, present him their daughters on a silver platter.’, ‘May they perish who do—I don’t need him,’ said Mumani sullenly., One day Chacha Mian arrived at our house in his usual state of nervous agitation., ‘We were at the club, talking, and before I knew it, Kalimauddin walked out of there with, me as I was leaving. Make some tea, anything!’, Amma ran towards the kitchen, but Mumani, a grimace firmly set on her face, didn’t, budge. The girls became pale; Salima was especially perturbed. We wondered whether, ‘Kalim Saheb’ should be asked to come in or the ladies be sent to the lawn, or Chacha, Mian be allowed to handle everything by himself., ‘He’s here for revenge,’ Maliha said with mock seriousness, and Mumani shivered., Salima’s face was drained of colour., ‘I don’t care what happens,’ Amma said, He’s here, which means he’s a decent person,, and we should respond with the same sort of generosity.’, ‘No, I don’t want to be humiliated,’ Mumani growled. ‘you are welcome to take your own, girls—none of mine is going to stir from here. He’s just here to show of his superiority.’, ‘I won’t go either. I’m already married,’ Maliha said with a laugh., Finally it was decided that we would all go and, of Mumani’s daughters, only Maliha, would accompany us., What’s he going to think, such uncivilized people!’ Upset and bewildered, Chacha Mian, started grumbling., We arrived in the lawn to find ‘Kalim Saheb’ engaged in a lively conversation about the, past with the old gardener, who smiled sheepishly, somewhat embarrassed, a little, uncomfortable., ‘Midu chacha, remember how you used to holler, ‘Wate…er!’ at the front door and, immediately I used to pull a sheet in front of Dulhan bi 3 (that’s what he called Mumani), for purdah? Tell me truthfully, did you ever sneak a look through the sheet?’ he burst, into laughter, and then seeing us approach, quickly turned to greet us., While we were having tea he said, ‘Maliha bi, do you remember how you boxed my ears, for not brushing my teeth regularly?’

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Maliha blushed., ‘No matter how unpleasant one’s childhood has been, one always remembers it like a, wonderful dream,’ he said. ‘All of you probably forgot about me, but I didn’t forget you.’, We talked for a long time afterwards, shared jokes and laughed. His carefree manner, put us at ease in no time., ‘Give my regards to Dulhan bi,’ he said before he left., ‘She’s not felling well,’ Maliha lied., He laughed, ‘Forgive me, but I have a very sharp memory. I remember that when, Dulhan bi was angry with someone she took ill. Well, I have to go, I have a dinner, engagement tonight. I’ll come again another time.’, We talked about ‘Kalim Saheb’ late into the night., ‘What if he proposes…’ Chacha Mian spoke with some hesitation., ‘He’d better stay away from my girls,’ Mumani retorted curtly., ‘Why?’ Amma was irritated., ‘Because I say so!’, This was all artifice on her part; only God knew what was really going on in Mumani’s, heart., Salima became tearful. Everyone had been teasing her., A month passed. We had almost forgotten about ‘Kalim Saheb’ when suddenly he, arrived at our house one day with Chacha Mian. This time Chacha Mian informed only, Maliha and myself of his presence in the lawn., ‘He wants to see his crochety Dulhan bi,’ Chacha Mian said., ‘And she won’t let him come near her.’, We decided that since Mumani would never agree to a meeting voluntarily, the best, course of action would be to just bring him in and surprise her., ‘My dears, she’s a witch! There’ll be no place to hide my face if she insults him.’ Chacha, Mian spoke fearfully., ‘Don’t worry,’ Maliha said, ‘she’s not a child. I’ll go and get her and you bring him in.’

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Our hearts beat uncontrollably. What if Mumani exploded like a bomb? Except for, Maliha and me, all the other girls disappeared into the house. ‘Kalim Saheb’ walked into, the room to find Mumani engrossed in cleaning her paan dan; her back was turned to, him., ‘Maliha, listen girl, get me the bowl of katha from the cupboard in the kitchen, will you,’, she called out., He took the bowl of katha from Maliha and handed it to Mumani. She extended her a, hand towards it and said, And some water, too.’, Just then she lifted her eyes and found him standing by her side. ‘Adab’. He whispered, the salutation nervously and kept his eyes glued to the floor., ‘God bless you,’ she responded in a deadened tone and started spooning out katha from, the bowl., ‘Are you well?’, ‘I am fine, with your blessing.’, ‘Why are you standing? Sit down,’ she ordered dryly., He sat on the far side of the charpoy, on the adwan., ‘Oh-ho! Not there, you will break the adwan!’ she yelled. He jumped up hastily., When ‘Kalim Saheb’ sent a message requesting Salima’s hand in marriage, she was, unrelenting. ‘Come hell or high water, I won’t give him Salima,’ she said., ‘But why?’ Chacha Mian and the others pressed for a reason., ‘Who’re you to ask? I’ve decided I won’t and that’s that!’ she said obstinately., ‘Kalim Saheb’ said he hadn’t take no from life and he wasn’t going to take no from the, old lady either. Determined to get his way, he boldly stationed himself on a chair next to, Mumani’s bed one day. All of us gathered around them with great interest, as if a fight, between two wrestlers in a ring was about to commence. ‘I’m going to make myself very, clear’, he spoke firmly., Mumani frowned., ‘You’re turning the tables on him, Dulhan bi—that’s not fair,’ Chacha Mian interjected., ‘Don’t say anything, Chacha Mian, I’ll take care of this myself.’

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‘Kalim Saheb’ brushed Chacha Mian aside and turned to Mumani. ‘At least tell me what, my crime is, Dulhan bi?’ he complained., ‘Dulhan bi! Hunh! As long as you call me Dulhan bi…’ Mumani muttered indignantly., ‘Amma bi …’ he began in a tearful voice. Mumani’s eyes also filled with tears. She began, scolding us., ‘Is this a circus? Why are you standing around watching like idiots? I know these girls, won’t be any help with the wedding arrangements. I’ll have to take care of everything, myself, as usual. Useless, these girls are, good-for-nothing!’, Mumani’s cantankerous chastisement fell upon our ears like the sound of wedding, trumpets., , NOTES, Pumps: light flat shoes without fastenings., Katha: catechu, a brown paste made from the tree acacia catechu, spread on betel, leaves as an ingredient of paan., Paan dan: ornamental box containing the ingredients for making paan., Adwan: the strings at the foot of a charpoy or cot, by which the cross-strings are, tightened., Dulhan: Bride., , QUESTIONS, 1., , Does the author give us clues enabling us to understand Mumani’s actions? Contrast the, characters of the speaker’s mother ‘Amma’ and Mumani Jan, illustrating from the story., , 2. Are we given any evidence of qualities in Kallu himself or in his background that might explain, his rise to the position of Deputy Collector?, 3. ‘This was all artifice on her part. Only God knew what was going on in Mumani’s heart.’ Does, any author give us clues enabling us to understand Mumani’s actions?, 4. What is the significance of Kallu’s calling Mumani Jan ‘Amma’ rather than ‘Dulhan bi’ at the, end of the story?, 5., , How far do the following factors affect the family’s decision to accept Kallu as a bridegroom?, , a., b., c., d., , their declining social and economic position, a sense of guilt at their earlier treatment of Kallu, Kallu’s present high status, the special feeling between Kallu and Salima, , 6. The story proves that people’s attitudes are dictated by money. Discuss.

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Shakespeare’s Sister, Virginia Woolf, Virginia Woolf (1882–1941) was born in London and was the daughter of Leslie, Stephen, a distinguished literary man. She grew up in a large and talented family,, educating herself in her father’s magnificent library, and meeting many eminent men of, letters. Later she settled with her sister and two brothers in Bloomsbury, which became, a meeting ground for several brilliant, artistic and literary people, together referred to as, the ‘Bloomsbury Group’. One of these was Leonard Woolf, whom Virginia married, and, with whom she founded a printing venture called Hogarth Press., Virginia Woolf occupies an important position in modern writing in English. She is, associated with the stream of consciousness technique in novel writing, subtly exploring, the significance of identity, time, change and memory for human personality. Some of, her novels are Mrs. Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927) and The Waves (1931)., Woolf was strongly concerned about the position of women, especially professional, women, and the constraints they suffered. She wrote several essays on the subject,, notably in A Room of One’s Own (1929) and Three Guineas (1938)., ‘Shakespeare’s Sister’ is a selection taken from Chapter Three and the conclusion of the, final chapter of A Room of One’s Own, a text considered an early landmark in modern, feminist writing. A Room of One’s Own was based upon papers presented by Woolf at, Newnham and Girton, both women’s colleges at Cambridge., It was disappointing not to have brought back in the evening some important statement,, some authentic fact. Women are poorer than men because—this or that. Perhaps now it, would be better to give up seeking for the truth, and receiving on one’s head an, avalanche of opinion hot as lava, discoloured as dishwater. It would be better to draw, the curtains; to shut out distractions; to light the lamp; to narrow the inquiry and to ask, the historian, who records not opinions but facts, to describe under what conditions, women lived, not throughout the ages, but in England, say in the time of Elizabeth., For it is a perennial puzzle why no women wrote a word of that extraordinary literature, when every other man, it seemed, was capable of song or sonnet. What were the, conditions in which women lived, I asked myself; for fiction, imaginative work that is, is, not dropped like a pebble upon the ground, as science may be; fiction is like a spider’s, web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often, the attachment is scarcely perceptible; Shakespeare’s plays, for instance, seem to hang, there complete by themselves. But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge,, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in midair by, incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to, grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in.

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I went, therefore, to the shelf where the histories stand and took down one of the latest,, Professor Trevelyan’s History of England. Once more I looked up Women, found, ‘position of,’ and turned to the pages indicated. ‘Wife-beating,’ I read, “was a recognized, right of man, and was practiced without shame by high as well as low…. Similarly,’ the, historian goes on, ‘the daughter who refused to marry the gentleman of her parents’, choice was liable to be locked up, beaten, and flung about the room, without any shock, being inflicted on public opinion. Marriage was not an affair of personal affection, but of, family avarice, particularly in the “chivalrous” upper classes…. Betrothal often took, place while one or both of the parties was in the cradle, and marriage when they were, scarcely out of the nurses’ charge.’ That was about 1470, soon after Chaucer’s time. The, next reference to the position of women is some two hundred years later, in the time of, Stuarts. ‘It was still the exception for women of the upper and middle class to choose, their own husbands, and when the husband had been assigned, he was lord and master,, so far at least as law and custom could make him. Yet even so.’ Professor Trevelyan, concludes, ‘neither Shakespeare’s women nor those of authentic seventeenth-century, memoirs, like the Verneys and the Hutchinsons, seem wanting in personality and, character.’ Certainly, if we consider it, Cleopatra must have had a way with her; Lady, Macbeth, one would suppose, had a will of her own; Rosalind, one might conclude,, was an attractive girl. Professor Trevelyan is speaking no more than the truth when he, remarks that Shakespeare’s women do not seem wanting in personality and character., Not being a historian, one might go even further and say that women have burned like, beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time—Clytemnestra,, Antigone, Cleopatra, Lady Macbeth, Phedre, Cressida, Rosalind,, Desdemona, the Duchess of Malfi, among the dramatists; then among the, prose writers: Millamant, Clarissa, Becky Sharp, Anna Karenina, Emma, Bovary Madame de Guermantes—the names flock to mind, nor do they recall, women ‘lacking in personality and character.’ Indeed, if women had no existence save in, the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of the utmost importance;, very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in, the extreme; as great as a man, some think even greater. But this is woman in fiction. In, fact, as Professor Trevelyan points out, she was locked up, beaten, and flung about the, room., A very queer, composite being thus emerges. Imaginatively she is of the highest, importance; practically she is completely insignificant. She pervades poetry from cover, to cover; she is all but absent from history. She dominates the lives of kings and, conquerors in fiction; in fact she was the slave of any boy whose parents forced a ring, upon her finger. Some of the most inspired words, some of the most profound thoughts, in literature fall from her lips; in real life she could hardly read, could scarcely spell, and, was the property of her husband., It was certainly an odd monster that one made up by reading the historians first and the, poets afterwards—a worm winged like an eagle; the spirit of life and beauty in a kitchen, chopping up suet. But these monsters, however amusing to the imagination, have no, existence in fact. What one must do to bring her to life was to think poetically and, prosaically at one and the same moment, thus keeping in touch with fact—that she is, Mrs. Martin, aged thirty-six, dressed in blue, wearing a black hat and brown shoes; but

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not losing sight of fiction either—that she is a vessel in which all sorts of spirits and, forces are coursing and flashing perpetually. The moment, however, that one tries this, method with the Elizabethan women, one branch of illumination fails; one is held up by, the scarcity of facts. One knows nothing detailed, nothing perfectly true and substantial, about her. History scarcely mentions her. And I turned to Professor Trevelyan again to, see what history meant to him. I found by looking at his chapter heading that it meant—, ‘The Manor Court and Methods of Open-Field Agriculture… The Cistercians and SheepFarming …The Crusades… The University… The House of Commons… The Hundred, Years’s War… The Wars of the Roses… The Renaissance Scholars… The Dissolution of, the Monasteries. … Agrariar and Religious strife… The Origin of English Sea Power…, The Armada….’ and so on. Occasionally an individual women is mentioned, an, Elizabeth, or a Mary; a queen or a great lady. But by no possible means could middleclass women with nothing but brains and character at their command have taken part in, any one of the great movements which, brought together, constitute the historian’s view, of the past. Nor shall we find her in any collection of anecdotes. Aubrey hardly, mentions her. She never writes her own life and scarcely keeps a diary; there are only a, handful of her letters in existence. She left no plays or poems by which we can judge her., What one wants, I thought—and why does not some brilliant student at Newnham or, Girton supply it?— is a mass of information; at what age did she marry; how many, children had she as a rule; what was her house like; had she a room to herself; did she, do the cooking; would she be likely to have a servant? All these facts lie somewhere,, presumably, in parish registers and account books; the life of the average Elizabethan, woman must be scattered about somewhere, could one collect it and make a book of it., It would be ambitious beyond my daring. I thought, looking about the shelves for books, that were not there, to suggest to the students of those famous colleges that they should, rewrite history, though, I own that it often seems a little queer as it is, unreal, lopsided;, but why should they not add a supplement to history? calling it, of course, by some, inconspicuous name so that women might figure there without impropriety? For one, often catches a glimpse of them in the lives of the great, whisking away into the, background, concealing, I sometimes think, a wink, a laugh, perhaps a tear. And after, all, we have lives enough of Jane Austen; it scarcely seems necessary to consider again, the influence of the tragedies of Joanna Baillie upon the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe;, as for myself, I should not mind if the homes and haunts of Mary Russell, Mitford were closed to the public for a century at least. But what I find deplorable, I, continued, looking about the bookshelves again, is that nothing is known about women, before the eighteenth century. I have no model in my mind to turn about this way and, that. Here am I asking why women did not write poetry in the Elizabethan age, and I am, not sure how they were educated; whether they were taught to write; whether they had, sitting rooms to themselves; how many women had children before they were twentyone; what, in short, they did from eight in the morning till eight at night. They had no, money evidently; according to Professor Trevelyan they were married whether they, liked it or not before they were out of the nursery, at fifteen or sixteen very likely. It, would have been extremely odd: even upon this showing, had one of them suddenly, written the plays of Shakespeare. I concluded, and I thought of that old gentleman who, is dead now, but was bishop, I think, who declared that it was impossible for any, woman, past, present, or to come, to have the genius of Shakespeare. He wrote to the

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papers about it. He also told a lady who applied to him for information that cats do not, as a matter of fact go to heaven, though they have, he added, souls of a sort. How much, thinking those old gentlemen used to save one! How the borders of ignorance shrank, back at their approach! Cats do not go to heaven. Women cannot write the plays of, Shakespeare., Be that as it may, I could not help thinking, as I looked at the works of Shakespeare on, the shelf, that the bishop was right at least in this; it would have been impossible,, completely and entirely, for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the, age of Shakespeare. Let me imagine, since facts are so hard to come by, what would have, happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister, called Judith, let us say., Shakespeare himself went, very probably—his mother was an heiress—to grammar, school, where he may have learnt Latin—Ovid, Virgil, and Horace—and the elements, of grammar and logic. He was, it is well known, a wild boy who poached rabbits, perhaps, shot a deer, and had, rather sooner than he should have done, to marry a woman in the, neighbourhood, who bore him a child rather quicker than was right. That escapade sent, him to seek his fortune in London. He had, it seemed, a taste for the theater; he began, by holding horses at the stage door. Very soon he got work in the theater, became a, successful actor, and lived at the hub of the universe, meeting everybody, knowing, everybody, practicing his art on the boards, exercising his wits in the streets, and even, getting access to the place of the queen. Meanwhile his extraordinarily gifted sister, let, us suppose, remained at home. She was as adventurous, as imaginative, as agog to see, the world as he was. But she was not sent to school. She had no chance of learning, grammar and logic, let alone of reading Horace and Virgil. She picked up a book now, and then, one of her brother’s perhaps, and read a few pages. But then her parents came, in and told her to mend the stockings or mind the stew and not moon about with books, and papers. They would have spoken sharply but kindly, for they were substantial, people who knew the conditions of life for a woman and loved their daughter— indeed,, more likely than not she was the apple of her father’s eye. Perhaps she scribbled some, pages up in an apple loft on the sly, but was careful to hide them or set fire to them., Soon, however, before she was out of her teens, she was to be betrothed to the son of a, neighbouring wool-stapler. She cried out that marriage was hateful to her, and for that, she was severely beaten by her father. Then he ceased to scold her. He begged her, instead not to hurt him, not to shame him in this matter of her marriage. He would give, her a chain of beads or a fine petticoat, he said; and there were tears in his eyes. How, could she disobey him? How could she break his heart? The force of her own gift alone, drove her to it. She made up a small parcel of her belongings, let herself down by a rope, one summer’s night, and took the road to London. She was not seventeen. The birds that, sang in the hedge were not more musical than she was. She had the quickest fancy, a gift, like her brother’s, for the tune of words. Like him, she had a taste for the theater. She, stood at the stage door; she wanted to act, she said. Men laughed in her face. The, manager—a fat, loose-lipped man—guffawed. He bellowed something about poodles, dancing and women acting—no woman, he said, could possible be an actress. He, hinted—you can imagine what. She could get no training in her craft. Could she even, seek her dinner in a tavern or roam the streets at midnight? Yet her genius was for, fiction and lusted to feed abundantly upon the lives of men and women and the study of, their ways. At last—for she was very young, oddly like Shakespeare the poet in her face,

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with the same gray eyes and rounded brows—at last Nick Greene the actor-manager, took pity on her; she found herself with child by that gentleman and so—who shall, measure the heat and violence of the poet’s heart when caught and tangled in a woman’s, body?—killed herself one winter’s night and lies buried at some crossroads where the, omnibuses now stop outside the Elephant and Castle!, That, more or less, is how the story would run, I think, if a woman in Shakespeare’s day, had had Shakespeare’s genius. But for my part, I agree with the deceased bishop, if such, he was—it is unthinkable that any woman in Shakespeare’s day should have had, Shakespeare’s genius. For genius like Shakespeare’s is not born among labouring,, uneducated, servile people. It was not born in England among the Saxons and the, Britons. It is not born today among the working classes. How, then, could it have been, born among women whose work began, according to Professor Trevelyan, almost before, they were out of the nursery, who were forced to it by their parents and held to it by all, the power of laws and custom? Yet genius of a sort must have existed among women as, it must have existed among the working classes. Now and again an Emily Bronte or, a Robert Burns blazes out and proves its presence. But certainly it never got itself on, to paper. When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by, devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a, mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some, mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the, moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift, had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems, without signing them, was often a woman. It was a woman Edward Fizgerald, I think,, suggested who made the ballads and the folk songs, crooning them to her children,, beguiling her spinning with them, or the length of the winter’s night., This may be true or it may be false—who can say?—but what is true in it, so it seemed to, me, reviewing the story of Shakespeare’s sister as I had made it, is that any woman born, with a great gift in the sixteenth century would certainly have gone crazed, shot herself,, or ended her days in some lonely cottage outside the village, half witch, half wizard,, feared and mocked at. For it needs little skill in psychology to be sure that a highly gifted, girl who had tried to use her gift for poetry would have been so thwarted and hindered, by other people, so tortured and pulled asunder by her own contrary instincts, that she, must have lost her health and sanity to a certainty. No girl could have walked to London, and stood at a stage door and forced her way into the presence of actor-manager without, doing herself a violence and suffering an anguish which may have been irrational—for, chastity may be a fetish invented by certain societies for unknown reasons—but were, none the less inevitable. Chastity had then, it has even now, a religious importance in a, woman’s life, and has so wrapped itself round with nerves and instincts that to cut it free, and bring it to the light of day demands courage of the rarest. To have lived a free life in, London in the sixteenth century would have meant for a woman who was poet and, playwright a nervous stress and dilemma which might well have killed her. Had she, survived, whatever she had written would have been twisted and deformed, issuing from, a strained and morbid imagination. And undoubtedly, I thought, looking at the shelf, where there are no plays by women, her work would have gone unsigned. That refuge, she would have sought certainly. It was the relic of the sense of chastity that dictated

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anonymity to women even so late as the nineteenth century. Currer Bell, George, Eliot, George Sand, all the victims of inner strife as their writings prove, sought, ineffectively to veil themselves by using the name of a man. Thus they did homage to the, convention, which if not implanted by the other sex was liberally encouraged by them, (the chief glory of a woman is not to be talked of, said Pericles, himself a much-talkedof man), that publicity in women is detestable. Anonymity runs in their blood. The, desire to be veiled still possesses them., I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for, her in Sir Sidney Lee’s life of the poet. She died young—alas, she never wrote a word., She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now, my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the crossroads still, lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here tonight, for, they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great, poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk, among us in the flesh. This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power, to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so—I am talking of the, common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as, individuals—and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have, the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little, from the common sitting room and see human beings not always in their relation to, each other but in relation to reality; and the sky, too, and the trees or whatever it may be, in themselves; if we look past Milton’s bogey, for no human being should shut out the, view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go, alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men, and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s, sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the, lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will, be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part,, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live, and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would be impossible. But I, maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty, and obscurity, is worth while., , NOTES, Professor Trevelyan’s History of England: G.M. Trevelyan’s History of, England then held the place of the standard one-volume history of the country., Verneys and the Hutchinsons: The first is a reference to the Memoirs of the Verney, Family, and the latter to Lucy Hutchinson’s biography of her husband, Col. John, Hutchinson., Cleopatra, Lady Macbeth, Rosalind: Shakespearean heroines in Antony and, Cleopatra, Macbeth and As You Like It, respectively., Clytemnestra … Madame de Guermantes: Women protagonists in, respectively,, Aeschylus’s Agamemnon; Sophocles’ Antigone; Shakespeare’s Antony and, Cleopatra and Macbeth; Racine’s Phedre; Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida, A You, Like It and Othello; Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi; Congreve’s The Way of the

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World; Richardson’s Clarissa; Thackeray’s Vanity Fair; Tolstoy’s Anna, Karenina; Flaubert’s Madame Bovary; and Proust’s A la Recherche du Temps Perdu., Aubrey: John Aubrey, a seventeenth century English diarist., Mitford, Austen, Baillie, Poe: Mitford (1787–1855), poet and novelist well-known, for her portraits of country life. Austen (1775–1817), well-known English novelist. Baillie, (1762–1851), poet and dramatist. Poe (1809–1849), American poet and short story, writer., Ovid, Virgil, Horace: Classical Latin poets whose works were part of the standard, curriculum in boys’ schools., Wool-stapler: A dealer in wool, so called since wool was a ‘staple’ product of sixteenth, century England., The Elephant and Castle: A tavern located at a busy crossroads in south London., Suicides were generally buried at crossroads., Emily Bronte, Robert Burns: Bronte, significant nineteenth century novelist and, poet. Burns, a working class Scottish poet (1759–1796) who wrote in his native dialect., Edward Fitzgerald: Nineteenth century English poet and translator., Currer Bell, George Eliot, George Sand: Male pseudonyms, respectively of, Charlotte Bronte, Marian Evans, and Aurore Dupin., Pericles: Athenian statesman and orator (495–429 BC)., Milton’s bogey: A reference to Paradise Lost, an epic poem by John Milton (1608–, 1674), which portrays Eve as morally and intellectually secondary to Adam., , QUESTIONS, 1., , Why does Woolf turn to history books in her attempt to find out about women writers?, , 2. ‘But by no means could middle class women with nothing but brains and character at their, command have taken part in any one of the great movements which, brought together,, constitute the historian’s view of the past.’ Explain why most women would get excluded from, the ‘the historian’s view of the past’., 3. Analyse the complex attitude of her family, particularly her father, towards Judith in Woolf’s, imaginative reconstruction., 4. ‘At last Nick Greene the actor-manager took pity on her; she found herself with child by that, gentleman…’ Comment on Woolf’s irony here., 5., , What kind of value does the hypothetical Shakespeare’s sister assume in the final paragraph?, Describe the tone of this section.

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14, Reincarnation Of Captain Cook, Margaret Atwood, Margaret Atwood (1939–) is a prominent Canadian writer. She was born and raised in, Ottawa, Ontario, but her formal schooling was frequently interrupted by extensive trips, to the northern Ontario and Quebec, where her father did entomological research. In, 1962 she graduated from the University of Toronto and also published her first book of, poems. Atwood has held positions at English Departments at various Canadian, universities. Apart from several volumes of poetry, her works include novels such as The, Edible Woman (1969), Surfacing (1972), and The Robber’s Bride (1993), as well as, volumes of short stories such as True Stories (1982) and Wilderness Tips (1991)., Atwood’s work seems to show a double engagement, with the cultural colonisation of, Canada by English and American influences, and the sexual subordination of women to, men. The ‘Reincarnation of Captain Cook’ is from the volume Selected Poems (1976)., Earlier than I could learn, the maps had been coloured in., When I pleaded, the kings told me, nothing was left to explore., , I set out anyway, but, everywhere I went, there were historians, wearing, wreaths and fake teeth, belts; or in the deserts, cairns, , and tourists. Even the caves had, candle stubs, inscriptions quickly, scribbled in darkness. I could, , never arrive. Always, the names got there before.

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Now I am old I know my, mistake was my acknowledging, of maps. The eyes raise, tired monuments., , Burn down, the atlases, I shout, to the park benches; and go, , past the cenotaph, waving a blank banner, across the street, beyond, the corner, , into a land cleaned of geographies,, its beach gleaming with arrows., , NOTES, Captain Cook: Captain James Cook (1728–79) was a British navigator and, cartographer. He joined the Royal Navy and served in the Seven Years’ War (1756–63)., During this time, he surveyed the St. Lawrence River in North America. He had the, command of an expedition to Tahiti to observe the transit of the planet Venus across the, sun and to discover Terra Australis, a presumed southern continent. The expedition set, sail in the Endeavour in 1768 and, after completing the observation of Venus, Cook went, on to discover and chart New Zealand and the east coast of Australia., , QUESTIONS, 1., , What do cartographers and historians signify for the speaker?, , 2. What is the significance of ‘names’ in the poem?, 3. Comment on the implication of ‘cenotaph’., 4. Does ‘Reincarnation of Captain Cook’ indicate a reference only to a model removed in time, or, to one belonging to a particular gender role too?

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16, Blackout, Roger Mais, Roger Mais (1905–1955) was born into a ‘brown’ middle class family in Kingston,, Jamaica. He became a short story writer, journalist, poet, playwright, painter and, novelist at a time when a writing career was unusual for any West Indian. His sympathy, for the black underprivileged majority led him to join the freedom fighters during the, workers’ protests and uprisings of 1938. He was imprisoned for six months for writing, an anti-British satire Now We Know (1944). He published two collections of short, stories in about 1940, And Most of all Man and Face and other Stories. His novels, include The Hills were Joyful Together (1953), Brother Man (1954) and Black, Lightning (1955). He died of cancer at the age of 49., ‘Blackout’ is set in a city on a West Indian island during the Second World War, and, describes an encounter between a black West Indian man and an American girl. At that, time American society was segregated with separate schools, buses and restaurants for, blacks and whites. In the twenties and thirties the lynching of Negroes had been fairly, common in the southern states of the USA., The city was in partial blackout; the street lights had not been turned on, because of the, wartime policy of conserving electricity; and the houses behind their, discreet aurelia hedges were wrapped in an atmosphere of exclusive respectability., The young woman waiting at the bus stop was not in the least nervous, in spite of the, wave of panic that had been sweeping the city about bands of hooligans roaming the, streets after dark and assaulting unprotected women. She was a sensible young woman, to begin with, who realized that one good scream would be sufficient to bring a score of, respectable suburban householders running to her assistance. On the other hand she, was an American, and fully conscious of the tradition of American young women that, they don’t scare easily., Even that slinking black shadow that seemed to be materializing out of the darkness at, the other side of the street did not disconcert her. She was only slightly curious now that, she observed that the shadow was approaching her, slowly., It was a young man dressed in conventional shirt and pants, and wearing a pair of, canvas shoes. That was what lent the suggestion of slinking to his movements, because, he went along noiselessly—that, and the mere suggestion of a stoop. He was very tall., There was a curious look of hunger and unrest about his eyes. But the thing that struck, her immediately was the fact that he was black; the other particulars scarcely made any, impression at all in comparison. In her country not every night a white woman could be

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nonchalantly approached by a black man. There was enough novelty in all this to, intrigue her. She seemed to remember that any sort of adventure might be experienced, in one of these tropical islands of the West Indies., ‘Could you give me a light, lady?’ the man said., It is true she was smoking, but she had only just lit this one from the stub of the, cigarette she had thrown away. The fact was she had no matches. Would he believe her,, she wondered? ‘I am sorry. I haven’t got a match.’, The young man looked into her face, seemed to hesitate an instant and said, his brow, slightly wrinkled in perplexity: ‘But you are smoking.’, There was no argument against that. Still, she was not particular about giving him a, light from the cigarette she was smoking. It may be stupid, but there was a suggestion of, intimacy about such an act, simple as it was, that, call it what you may, she could not, accept just like that., There was a moment’s hesitation on her part now, during which time the man’s steady, gaze never left her face. There was pride and challenge in his look, curiously mingled, with quiet amusement., She held out her cigarette toward him between two fingers., ‘Here,’ she said, ‘you can light from that.’, In the act of bending his head to accept the proffered light, he came quite close to her., He did not seem to understand that she meant him to take the lighted cigarette from her, hand. He just bent over her hand to light his., Presently he straightened up, inhaled a deep lungful of soothing smoke and exhaled, again with satisfaction. She saw then that he was smoking the half of a cigarette, which, had been clinched and saved for future consumption., ‘Thank you,’ said the man, politely; and was in the act of moving off when he noticed, that instead of returning her cigarette to her lips she had casually, unthinkingly flicked it, away. He observed this in the split part of a second that it took him to say those two, words. It was almost a whole cigarette she had thrown away. She had been smoking it, with evident enjoyment a moment before., He stood there looking at her, with cold speculation., In a way it unnerved her. Not that she was frightened. He seemed quite decent in his, own way, and harmless; but he made her feel uncomfortable. If he had said something, rude she would have preferred it. It would have been no more than she would have, expected of him. But instead, this quiet contemptuous look. Yes, that was it. The thing, began to take on definition in her mind. How dare he; the insolence!

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‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ she said, because she felt she had to break the tension, somehow., ‘I am sorry I made you waste a whole cigarette,’ he said., She laughed a little nervously. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, feeling a fool., ‘There’s plenty more where that came from, eh?’ he asked., ‘I suppose so.’, This won’t do, she thought, quickly. She had no intention of standing at a street corner, jawing with—well, with a black man. There was something indecent about it. Why, doesn’t he move on? As though he had read her thoughts he said:, ‘This is the street, lady. It’s public.’, Well, anyway, she didn’t have to answer him. She could snub him quietly, the way she, should have properly done from the start., ‘It’s a good thing you’re a woman,’ he said., ‘And if I were a man?’, ‘As man to man maybe I’d give you something to think about,’ he said, still in that quiet,, even voice., In America they lynch them for less than this, she thought., ‘This isn’t America,’ he said. ‘I can see you are an American. In this country there are, only men and women. You’ll learn about it.’ She could only humour him. Find out what, his ideas were about this question, anyway. It would be something to talk about back, home. Suddenly she was intrigued., ‘So in this country there are only men and women, eh?’, ‘That’s right. So to speak there is only you an’ me, only there are hundreds and, thousands of us. We seem to get along somehow without lynchings and burnings and, all that.’, ‘Do you really think that all men are created equal?’, ‘It don’t seem to me there is any sense in that. The facts show it ain’t so. Look at you an’, me, for instance. But that isn’t to say you’re not a woman, the same way as I am a man., You see what I mean?’, ‘I can’t say I do.’

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‘You will though, if you stop here long enough.’, She threw a quick glance in his direction.’, The man laughed., ‘I don’t mean what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘You’re not my type of woman. You don’t, have anything to fear under that heading.’, ‘Oh!’, ‘You’re waiting for the bus, I take it. Well, that’s it coming now. Thanks for the light.’, ‘Don’t mention it,’ she said, with a nervous sort of giggle., He made no attempt to move along as the bus came up. He stood there quietly aloof, as, though in the consciousness of a male strength and pride that was justly his. There was, something about him that was at once challenging and disturbing. He had shaken her, supreme confidence in some important sense., As the bus moved off she was conscious of his eyes’ quiet scrutiny, without the, interruption of artificial barriers, in the sense of dispassionate appraisement, as between, man and woman, any man, any woman., She fought resolutely against the very natural desire to turn her head and take a last look, at him. Perhaps she was thinking about what the people on the bus might think. And, perhaps it was just as well that she did not see him bend forward with that swift hungry, movement, retrieving from the gutter the half-smoked cigarette she had thrown away., , NOTES, Lynchings: The practice of killing, usually by hanging, members of racial minorities, especially Negroes, without going through any judicial process to ascertain their crimes,, if any. Historians have documented some 4,750 lynchings in the US between 1880 and, 1960., , QUESTIONS, 1., , The approach of the young man ‘intrigues’ the American girl. Why? What does this show of her, character?, , 2. Why does his request for a light cause some tension? Is the young man testing her?, 3. What changes his polite gratitude to ‘cold speculation’?, 4. Why does his quietness disturb her more than rudeness would have done?

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5., , ‘In this country there are only men and women?’ Does the young man mean that differences of, class and race do not matter? Do the two characters in fact react to each other as ‘any man any, woman,’ as suggested at the end of the story?, , 6. The American girl has a typical racist attitude to the young man. Do you agree?, 7., , ‘There was something about him that was both challenging and disturbing. He had shaken her, supreme confidence in some important sense.’ What had been the basis of her ‘supreme, confidence’ and what in the young man gives him the power to shake it?, , 8. How do the references to cigarettes function to structure the story?, 9. Analyse the ways in which race, class and gender affect the balance of power between the two, people in the story.

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19, Still I Rise, Maya Angelou, Maya Angelou (1928–) was born Marguerite Johnson in St Louis, Missouri. Her parents, separated and she was brought up in Arkansas by her grandmother. At the age of eight, she was raped by her mother’s boyfriend and she went and reported it. Subsequently the, rapist was killed, possibly by Maya’s uncles. Traumatized by this and by the sense that, her words had had such a powerful impact, Maya refused to speak for five years. She, read books instead and with a neighbour’s encouragement, developed a great love of, language, and by reciting literature regained her will to speak., Another formative incident was the refusal of a dentist to treat her for a tooth abscess,, because he would not touch a black person’s mouth. The American South was then a, racially segregated society with separate schools and other facilities like medical care., She remembers, ‘It was awful to be a Negro and have no control over my life.’ Maya once, lived for a month with homeless people in a junkyard after a fight with her father’s, girlfriend. She became a mother at sixteen, as the result of a casual sexual experience,, just after leaving school., Her grandmother’s strength of character in the face of racism, sexism and the poverty of, the Depression impressed Maya, who refused to let her early experiences defeat her. She, became a playwright, actress, dancer, memoirist, singer, civil rights activist, and, America’s most visible public poet. She is the first Reynolds Professor of American, Studies at Wake Forest University. Her attitude to life is summed up in her words: ‘All, my work is meant to say “You may encounter defeats but you must not be defeated.” In, fact the encountering may be the very experience which creates the vitality and the, power to endure.’, Maya Angelou has written five autobiographical works, including I Know why the, Caged Bird Sings (1969) and The Heart of a Woman (1981), two volumes of essays and, five volumes of poetry. Among these are And Still I Rise (1978) and The Complete, Collected Poems of Maya Angelou which was published in 1994. She says of her work: ‘I, write for the Black voice and any ear which can hear it.’, You may write me down in history, With your bitter, twisted lies,, You may trod me in the very dirt, But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

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Does my sassiness upset you?, Why are you beset with gloom?, ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells, Pumping in my living room., , Just like moons and like suns,, With the certainty of tides,, Just like hopes springing high,, Still I’ll rise., , 5, , 10, , Did you want to see me broken?, Bowed head and lowered eyes?, Shoulders falling down like teardrops,, Weakened by my soulful cries., , Does my haughtiness offend you?, Don’t you take it awful hard, ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines, Diggin’ in my own back yard., , 15, , 20, , You may shoot me with your words,, You may cut me with your eyes,, You may kill me with your hatefulness,, But still, like air, I’ll rise., , Does my sexiness upset you?, Does it come as a surprise, That I dance like I’ve got diamonds, At the meeting of my thighs?, , Out of the huts of history’s shame, I rise, , 25, , 30

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Up from a past that’s rooted in pain, I rise, I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide., Leaving behind nights of terror and fear, I rise, Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear, I rise, Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,, I am the dream and the hope of the slave., I rise, I rise, I rise., , 35, , QUESTIONS, 1., , The writer addresses ‘You’ several times in the poem. Who is meant by ‘You’, and how can we, tell?’, , 2. ‘I’ve got oil wells,’ ‘I’ve got gold mines,’ ‘I’ve got diamonds.’ What is the effect of the repetition, here and the particular images used?, 3. In some of the other similes the speaker compares herself to moons, suns and other natural, phenomena. What do you think she means to convey by such images?, 4. What do you understand by ‘the huts of history’s shame’?, 5., , What are the inherited ‘gifts’ that the writer brings with her?, , 6. This poem has an emphatic rhythm, to which alliteration and repetition give extra force. Find, some examples. At what point(s) in the poem does the rhythm seem to change? Where do short, lines come in? Can you suggest a reason for these variations?, 7., , It is hard to miss the energy of this poem. What devices of language contribute to this, impression of energy?, , 8. Compare this poem with some of the other texts on the theme of oppression. In what ways is it, different?, 9. As a black and as a woman, Maya Angelou has a personal experience of oppression. Does she, write in a different way from writers who are not members of oppressed groups but, sympathetic to them? Discuss with reference to writers of this section and/or the sections on, Caste and Gender.