Excerpt from the Novel in making--AMMA.

This is the mind set of a woman who is about to leave the house and also the town where she came as virgin and became a woman and then a mother.

The day was full of reflections and recollections. We were about to leave next morning. This was my last day in Baitwara. Change creates dreams and constancy ruptures them. My marriage was like a change like the Independence of India that brought about many dreams and now the constancy. We loose, yet it reminds us of the same train again and again. It mills our dreams into tiny particles of reality. It dries out the petals of dreams and makes them thorns that drill invisible holes in our dreaming self but nothing oozes out. I was getting ready for a new change but a change without dreams. How difficult it is to change our name after having written it many times before.
'Change the name,' Lohiya made a vociferous appeal. 'No Lady Victoria. No Lady Elgin.' He shouted like a mad hound. We forget our name but enjoy the ecstasy of a forgotten name. Now nobody calls me Mohan. I became Mohini Devi when I got married: Bhabhiji when I came to the City of Rocks and now everybody calls me Amma. I have forgotten my first name. After my brother's death no one ever called me that but I can't spell it a new. Can I? 'You will be a princess of Baitwara,' my father declared after my engagement.
'Baitwara Ki Bahu,' my Bhabhi teased me. But where was my kingdom? Your grandfather, like Buddha was eager to renounce the state and I like Sita was making my mind for exile, an irrevocable exile. Baitwara made me a wife, a woman and mother. Could I erase this name like incorrect reading in a lab. I think I can’t. A name penned down in washable ink leaves the clear print of pains on the heart of the paper. Then, how could I erase the first inscription on the blank sheet of my soul? That was the first thing that made me shy in lonely hours. That was the first name that made me stranger to my own image in the mirror or in the penancing water of the sage like pond. I knew Baitwara much before I learnt your grandfather's name. It was a Dai who first acquainted me with his name
'You are much elder to the boy,' she confided with uncharacteristic serenity.
'What?' I exclaimed.

'Yes,' she giggled, ‘you are Mohan and he is also Mohan. But he is a calf Mohan, a just born, and you ... you are a grown up Mohan.' She played about with our names, much before I came to know your grandfather’s name. And I had to erase the name that gave me a name. Could I apply the sharp edge of the shaving blade on the sheet of my soul? Could I throw acid on it and wash it to emaculate blank? It was not easy to do it without leaving the marks of woe. I could never do it. A woman could never do it.

Rocket-Eelegy on the Death of a Stray Dog

He was a true child of the west wind who flew across the sandy storm and came to me out of thin impatient air, penetrating the thick uncertain clouds of dust. He was too small to leave the marks of claws on the sand of times and spaces, he walked across to come to me.
A handsome with unknown parentage.
A loyal without a master.
Undoubtedly an unusual chemistry.
The ears were erect like those of a well pedigreed German shepherd, but he was too short to invite a comparison with the most glamorous breed of the west now more popular in the sub-continent. However to some few, familiar with the rich variety dog breeds, he reminded of Barkless Besenji, a small hound with its origin located first in the Middle East, and then after some calculation(or miscalculation), in the Central Africa. Further the height measuring 17 inches at the withers and the face expression with care and concern about the whole world (not just mankind) ignited the confusion that he belonged to some superior blood though not within the range of the knowledge. He was neither barkless nor Basenji but a local stuff born of the most commonplace desire of the most commonly available four footed animal.
He came and soon forgot the origin; the origin-of blood as well as space. There was no record of the date and time when he set feet on the planet and rocked that narrow lane of the City of Rocks. He soon became a wonderful amusement for almost everyone in the market and consequently a common interest in the discussions that took place during lunch hours and times of leisure. Every gathering had something for him; every individual had some words for him; some comparisons, some nomenclature.
“See,” Dr. Liao once remarked, ‘he looks very much like the dog of that famous comic character. I took time to recollect. Comics now exist only in the memory of by gone days that seldom invade the frontiers of the present day preoccupations that have little comic. ‘Chacha Choudhary,’ the young dentist revealed further.
‘Rocket,’ I picked up some impatient thrust violating the frontiers of the oblivion and tried to boast. The dentist agreed to my revelation and the name was born to comfort many of us. It was just by a stroke of some chance discussion that took place without any plan or preface that the name was finalized.
‘Rocket,’ Dr. Liao called him. The wandering pet raised his eyebrow to express thanks and wonder. He wagged the tail and furnished a pleasant consent to the nomenclature. The dentist contrived ease for many of us specially Rajeev who was apprehensive about the names that I had put forth with certainty of being objected to. Rajeev had a sigh of relief.
‘I was afraid of some other name,’ he commented.
‘I know,’ I shared his frolic, ‘I think,’ I teased him further, ‘now you are much relieved.’ Rajeev furnished a pleasant consent.
Rocket became an object of common interest for the persons around. The departing century had something for the stray dogs, thus the new arrival might earn some care, some interest and some food. The dog was too small to induce fright. Children played with him and the grown ups had an opportunity to present themselves as dog lovers; as the creature with care and concern for the fellow creature and see the image of the Almighty, the maker of the universe, in themselves. The mirrors performed different functions. They didn’t simply displayed the complexion and the status of the makeup- done or required, but now they also depicted the divinity pervading within and aggravated the sense of being god; the maker and the preserver. Rocket deified none but many residents of that locality discovered a deity pulsating within. Just offer a loaf of bread to the son of soil roaming about unknown destination on four feet and assure a divine pervasion within. Just call him by name once in week or so and let your careful hand go round the coat stinking nothing, and declare yourself the most humble and compassionate person inhaling the sick air of the planet. Rocket obliged many with the rapid proliferation of this illusion and made every second person feel that there is a god within. Rocket was loved. Yes. In a way he was loved as he made people feel a savior within the ill-defined confinements of their spirits. The days went by and Rocket continued to transform simple human beings into part time deities. There were so many gods all worshipped by none but themselves. They worshipped themselves and Rocket ignited the flames of godliness and sponsored redemption.
Innocence is not a long term asset. It is admired and adored until it comes out with some demand in form of time, money or some physical contribution. Animals in India fall prey to this irony and suffer undeserved neglect.
‘I think,’ I was told by the neighboring tailor master, ‘he is going to die soon.’
‘Who?’ I reacted with surprise.
‘Rocket,’ he replied to me in the same tone.
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you know,’ the tailor master looked at me with surprise, ‘he has been run upon by a speeding van?
I regretted the ignorance and looked around for the canine masterpiece with bedewed curiosity. I recollected that the sound of my bike was not responded with a mad rush for simple drive of my affectionate palms. Rocket never expected anything more from me, nor did I ever care to do anything more than this.
‘Where did you see him?’ I went to tailor master and asked.
‘He is somewhere nearby,’ he replied, ‘actually he can’t go far.’
I controlled my fancies and my eyes ran about the lane with pain and fear. That was the moment when I realized the power of innocence and the inevitability of the consequent unification with experience. Dry leaves whispered some future in an alarming cacophonous tone. ‘Must be Rocket,’ the tailor guessed and was proved right. I located the origin of the cacophony and found him right. Rocket tried to come past all limitations and looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me. His face above the muzzle was furrowed with pain and eyes suddenly acquired the serenity of a sage and the depth of death. It was indeed unconvincing. Rocket was deep in pain and I was deep in pathos. We looked at each other. I was sad beyond words and put forth some speechless promises. He wagged the tail and assured resistance to the crawling death. I went to him and drove my palms of the same coat. I looked at him and lost all hopes.
‘Soon,’ I thought, ‘I am going to lose my new friend.’
The first look on the wandering pet was nothing but a gush of invisible tears that had no origin or end. Rocket had both the front legs working but the back was out of hope and action. He centered all his powers on the front legs and pushed the whole weight of the ruptured body like human carrier of the goods to be supplied to some local merchant by the agent. It was pathetic and I repented the escape of the innocence enshrined in many young and grown ups alike. I also pitied the new-born gods who suddenly started worshipping themselves and elevated their souls to a billion notches above their actual spiritual status. Rocket created vacuums in many minds including mine that had so completely identified themselves with the ideals embodied in that small creature. The change was sudden and predictable and the world around the tiny handsome changed just within one rotation of the sun. People looked at him only to avoid the interaction and pretended to be busier than ever before. Women quietly waited for some blessing in disguise; children often gathered around him; showered pathos and offered the previous night remains, while their parents feared the psychological imbalance that the crawling racer might cause. I went to him after every class and he too made it a point to wait for me but I felt helpless as I might do nothing. I was waiting and watching and he was crawling to death.
‘Can’t we do anything Sir?’ I was alarmed by an innocent voice. He was Aniruddha, a student of Christ Church Senior Secondary School who always nurtured latent pride for me as his class teacher had been my student during her post graduation in English and was a regular visitor of the lane for more than a couple of years. Aniruddha stirred my senses. The City of Rocks has Veterinary Hospital of national reputation with students spread across the globe. I recollected with shame and pleasure alike that many famous names have some personal acquaintance with me.
I felt ashamed. I really felt ashamed.
Why don’t we think in terms of medical care for the wandering animals?
Don’t they feel pain after being hit or crushed by a speeding motor car?
Don’t they expect some humanity from human race?
Don’t they yearn for some care and concern for the love and honesty they shower on us?
I think they do and even if they don’t let’s think they do.
We never remember a veterinary doctor when we see an animal suffering beyond tolerance on the road and spit of our claim of being a rocker, a citizen of the City of Rocks, a city with the spirit defined in terms of conscience and heritage.
We never feel the need of some medical care for those mute sensibilities who contribute something so significant that human race despite all invasions on the nature, could never contrive for itself. They allow their bodies to be evacuated everyday and bless us with health, refreshments and delicacy; they bear a child and with great immediacy and sacrifice their motherhood for the services of mankind. We take it as our natural right to make use of the products that the animals produce with as much pain as mankind and sometimes even more and with much less safety and security but seldom the pain they bear is taken to be comparable with that of man. And the idea of safety and security has never been an issue to think about with serious motifs. A pet- however docile and affectionate is feared by most of the mothers for the transmission of the infection through saliva but none in the surroundings ever cares to inject anti-rabies for the dogs of fairly old acquaintance. Sometimes when Rocket barked I, like protagonist of Saul Bellow’s Dean’s December, heard him say why you can’t think little beyond….the world is not just a family of two of or three.
Thanks a lot Rocket. You considered me worthy of such grievances that you ought to have had against the superior race. You demanded what you most ardently required and never bothered anyone for more than the most essential.
Aniruddha set the thought and the idea was translated into action with the help of my students- transportation was taken care of without being scared of the saliva; the dictates of the doctors were quickly put into action and the result was more than surprising. Rocket survived and the innocence paved way for the survival of innocence.
Thanks to Aniruddha.
Thanks to Dr. Chandrpuria.
Thanks to Dr. Shrivastava.
Thanks to Rahul Prashant and Shreesh-my students who did all that was instructed and required.
Rocket survived and against all odds he now became more muscular and aggressive. Now he had someone with him; someone who would come forward and fight for him. However by no means he could be said to be dangerous of ferocious. Although people-for reasons unknown, alleged so against him with proud threat of poisoning him or leaving him somewhere in the far off place.
Gang wars were recorded too frequently on body of the tiny handsome, new wounds, with old familiar shrieks, (when my palm ran across the body) were discovered with unpredictable frequency. He could never compromise with his dominance on that small lane which made his home as well as his diadem and any invasion was bravely fought against without a second thought to the consequences. The result was predictable. Rocket came to me with slow and wavering steps next morning and shrieked aloud on my initiation. Again thanks to veterinary doctors talked about above. They didn’t simply spare their fee for Rocket but also managed medicine and comforted me. Soon it became a routine for Rocket to organize a war and earn wounds. I was glad to feel his confidence on my love and care. He came with some contrived hesitation; put forth some gestures of pain and shame alike and got the treatment. Things became easier for me when Sameer- the son of Dr. O.P. Shrivastava, came to my institute for learning English and subsequently became a permanent aid for me. Sameer continued to be with me for his medical care ever half a decade after he had finished up with his studies in the institute. The list of his foes goes pretty long. It includes not just the stray dogs of the locality trying to invade his empire but also some well identified human beings; the milkman who hit him with a stone when he was too small and demanding some milk; a Sikkh gentleman who after a couple of pegs never cared to respect his presence by slowing down the scooter; and King the friend of Maneesh and a regular visitor of Zapson Computer Center. Rocket always feared that King is going to eat him up without roasting or frying and barked late after his departure (a Besenji is bound to be afraid of a Saint Bernard); his arrival could never be sudden or surprising for anyone.
Rocket’s sincerity for the shop where I ran my institute was much a matter of discussion in the market. It was not just for me but also for the owner of that shop Mr. Ajeet Nayak whose visits made extra feast for him. It is however astounding that Rocket never cared to step in from the day he heard my talk with Ajeet Bhaiya about vacating the shop. His association with the shop was a genuine anxiety for anyone who thought about taking the shop on rent after I vacated it but none had any problem with him. I was requested by the new tenant to be there for some days (until Rocket gets familiar with him) in the morning though Rocket never cared to look at the new system and surprised all.
Rocket, it was clear from the body language, suffered great isolation and even negligence after I left the place, though it rarely happened that I missed a visit to him. But after all the togetherness of about ten hours a day was reduced to just one simple visit of about fifteen minutes. We both were helpless. I continued to sink deeper and deeper into ocean of uncertainty. Finance and other problems mounted higher beyond all expectations and the isolation in such a matrix of circumstances was, in a way, more tormenting than his. He stayed at the same place obliging continuity of relation with the place that I had left in the beginning of 2004. The departure of Rajeev and Manessh was another major blow on the small epitome of grand human ideals that man rarely possesses. Sunday was indeed more isolated than any other day of the week, though the privilege of non- veg delicacies after Datta Uncle’s call in the Sunday afternoon was the most sought after event that made him forget me and my chapattis and oblige a ferocious look.
Probably he had known that I am a vegetarian and couldn’t serve him anything more than boiled eggs of omelet.
Still the emotional distress was more than obvious. He might have had some satisfaction that I didn’t forget him though might be having some grudges of being too busy to spare more time with him. I am happy if he didn’t know much about my own isolation. He came wagging the tail and crammed his muzzle into my lap and spent some time before starting with his dinner. He was wise enough to delay the feast when he wanted more time with me as he knew it well that I won’t leave before he finishes off with the stuff. And if ever I am late his anxiety was evidenced that he first waited for me out side the narrow lane and then sat in front of the cyber café that I used to visit after spending the most beautiful moments of the day.
My love and care for Rocket was always appreciated with excess of applause for me and for my love for him and pets in general but none ever succeeded in locating the truth that unravels some very ignoble facts of life and world in general. However the detailed description of all that went by during that time span is far beyond possibility but Rocket for me has been instrumental not just in making me feel that I am alive but also in reinventing and rediscovering myself when I had nothing but a kind of primordial dark around me. The days of crisis have tremendous pedagogical value that doesn’t simply tell us about the world but more importantly it tells us about ourselves and the extent to which we are human in real sense of terms. Financial predicaments oblige isolation that results into hyper sensitive reaction towards the events that have been a part of the routine in the softer days of life. Thus self exile becomes inevitable. I, when deceived by an age old friend who was about to start with a new school and make use of my name for the same, was dragged in the matrix of such situations that seemed insurmountable as the sources of livelihood had sudden recession and the pockets began to struggle for weight. . I never meant that the world is full of wickedness or selfishness but the eyes curtained with insuperable darkness fail to see anything positive and relies more on the darker side of life and world. If action represents life and inaction is metaphorical to death, then it is unambiguous that Rocket kept me alive for months when I had no other work but to go and feed him. If the object of life is to please others, to make them happy then I could live my life with an aim only because of Rocket. There were times when vacuums around me grew tormenting to the extent that only the emptiness of the day reverberated around and no rhythm, no tune ever seemed composed. Crises, especially regarding work and money, have unique tendency to isolate a person from the surroundings; your pains are very strictly yours and they seldom go past the well demarcated frontiers of your actual being and touch the alien senses and make the isolation inevitable. It seldom happens that the one thinks of being with you when we need or demand a company. We think more about our preoccupations and predilections when we come to know that we are needed somewhere else. We suddenly become a caring husband, a curious father, a sincere professional hurrying towards the goal or a woman too bothered about the reactions of the family or surroundings when it comes to our knowledge that we constitute the need someone who has been with us in similar circumstances. And when exposed to such circumstances we start questioning the worth and function of our existence in relation to the immediate surroundings that turn its back towards us. However the need of the sufferer is not the money but a genuine and caring company. The question marks raised at the identity of the man drags him in the prison of identity crisis and an escape from the confinement thus becomes a challenge. The emancipation from this confining matrix, in my case, is attributed to none but Rocket as he was the only center of action, the only source of gravitation. And when the cacophony of my ill-maintained bike reverberated in the narrow lane making many new tenants frown and making old acquaintances laugh, Rocket came like a west wind wagging and panting and made it a day for me. I realized that I am needed. I realized that I am doing something. I realized that, despite 23 hours of inaction, I am alive.

The death of Rocket has no less pedagogical significance than his life. It was March25, 2009. I was in the college. My mind was full of apprehensions about the tiny monster as the previous night had been unusual in many respects. I reached the narrow lane of Kuber Market but there was no moment for me.
‘Where is Rocket?’ I asked tailor master.
‘He was here only few minutes’ back,’ he replied. I became apprehensive about him. I knew he might not go anywhere too far and if he ventured to go he would not come back. I heard a cry of pain. I followed the direction. Rocket was trying to come to me but was hit by a motor bike. Rocket failed to cope up with the movements of the bike and suffered an injury. He came tottering to me and returned. I was surprised. He went to a distant corner and I went close to him, patted him on the head. He looked at me; the look that reflected no desire, no hunger, no grievances but a serene thankfulness.
Rocket,’ I called him, ‘Mummy sent these chapattis for you.’
Rocket looked at me again. Probably to thank my mother for all the cooking she had been doing for him for only little less than a decade. He didn’t look at me again. I forced him to eat but he didn’t feel like looking at me. I remembered Raja near Wardhamaan Tower whose egg preparations he used to enjoy with great fun. I bought an omelet and added some painkiller and antibiotic. But now he was in no mood to look at me. I rememebered Sameer
‘Actually Sir,’ Sameer stumbled on every syllable, ‘nothing can be done now.’ His father’s juniors had told him all about the incurability of his decease.
‘I can’t see him in pain.’ I told Sameer.
‘Then there is only one way out,’ Sameer told me, ‘but you won’t agree.’
‘What?’ I asked him with vibrant fear.
‘The injection of silent death.’ Sameer told him with great hesitation.
‘Yes,’ I told Sameer, ‘I can’t agree.’
I looked at Rocket but he didn’t respond my look. I made more than a score of attempts but he neither ate nor cared to welcome. I left chapattis and took medicated omelet back for the next day.
‘What happened? Mummy asked me when she saw my face.
‘Nothing,’ I remembered his indifference and replied, ‘I think I won’t meet Rocket again.’
My mother was also quiet that day. She was short of words of consolation. I went to bed but could not sleep. It was only after 4 in the morning that I had a siesta that made me late for the college. I remembered Rocket many times on the way and planned a verbal application for Prof Arora- the Director. I finished up with the exam and there was some knock on the thighs through the mobile handset. I was the number of tailor master. I summoned courage for the talk.
‘Sir,’ I heard the old familiar voice of the tailor master, ‘Rocket expired.’
‘O.K.’ I had nothing to say. The phone call ratified the intuitive perceptions pervading within the mind for last fifteen hour or so. I informed the principal and rushed to the spot.
The death of Rocket also left behind a lesson for me. Whenever I thought about his death I always thought that some day I would reach the opening of the lane with chapattis or omelet and I would be informed that he had died and had been taken away. But what happened was indeed much better than what I always thought to be likely. Before I left the college, I received another call from with the cell number of colleague, Prof. Manoj Tiwari, my colleague and friend.
‘Yes Manoj,’ I thought he would be the owner of the number.
‘Sir,’ I heard a female voice, ‘I am Sameeksha, Pooja’s sister.’
‘Yes Sameeksha,’ I replied, ‘I have got the information.’
I kept the cell back in the pocket and sped fast to the spot. On the way there were many calls; some from my students who knew about my daily visits to Rocket and got the information about the event. Some who knew me and my routine rang up my students of either of the colleges to inform me about the event. Last to ring me up was Mr. Gyan Prakash.
‘Rajesh,’ he straightway told me, ‘don’t worry I am waiting for you.’ G.P. Bhaiya’s voice and words released much of my tension as someone would be with me in those difficult moments. I reached the spot at about 2; 30 in the afternoon G.P. Bhaiya availed a half day leave from T.T.C and rushed to bid farewell to the departed soul. Now we were two for a respectable farewell to that dwarfish monster that was now sleeping not to get up. The cacophony of my bike was heard by all but one; the one who has been most familiar with that sound; even more than me. It was the first time in a decade long association with the dormant king of the small diadem that my presence was totally ignored; there was no panting after a long rush from some unknown place; there was no wagging of the thick equi-angular curvature that amused all who saw him. I parked the bike; Rocket was sleeping.
‘Rocket!’ I called him but there had to be no response. He had prepared me for the situation a day before. It was a working day for the shop keepers; everyone was busy in his own work. Pooja came out to share my grief; Sehgal aunty also invested some time for me and my foster child. I went in and called GP Bhaiya. It was after an hour long search for the proper persons who might dig the grave, that the burial might be planned. I kept Rocket in a cartoon and covered it with some cloth that I had taken from Pooja’s boutique. It was a colorful shroud for the warrior. We started off for the last journey of the son of the soil who was now going to be one with the soil. We were only two and the journey began. I was pained to see that even when we were leaving with corpse of the pet who had been there in the lane for only little less than a decade, none had heart and soul to stand with us.

Is it not surprising and shameful for the whole mankind that the creature, who has lived with us for a decade, can’t be given a minute when it is leaving the planet?
We located a place nearby the railway line, the laborers dig the grave. GP Bhaiya bought salt as Sehgal aunty instructed to splash salt on the body as he was domesticated by me. The instructions were followed Rocket was put in the grave by both of us and now I was having the last appearance of the small body that I cared for with unusual fondness and passion. I was filled with deep pathos; sincere apology, painful regrets and the memories of the irrevocable past with the creature on the grave that made me feel alive, needed and humane.
‘I really love you Rocket,’ I murmured into his lifeless ears. Probably I had fears that his last days of pain and isolation have made him suspect my love. GP Bhaiya stood by my side and belittled my guilt. I stamped the last kiss on his muzzle. The grave was ready with the new guest and Rocket was ready for the perpetual sleep. My palm ran across his stiffened body. Tears rolled down and fell on him. But he didn’t react. The laborers looked at me seeking permission for the fall of the curtain. I said nothing neither in words not through eyes but they got the message. I was the first to throw dust on him and then the G P Bhaiya and then the laborers did the rest I kept on gazing him until I could see the last hair of the coat. And the curtain fell. Rocket was invisible now. I put my palm on the pregnant womb of the ground that had a dead child, and returned.
‘Come whenever you have time.’ GP Bhiya told me. He knew that it was the last day of my regular visits to that lane. I went in thanked the tailor master and Pooja for informing me. Everyone was busy with his work. One death seldom matters. I sensed some echoing silence penetrating the deafening disorder.
‘The lane has been deserted,’ Sehgal aunty told me and put her palms affectionately on my shoulder. I knew it was a gesture of speechless valediction. I stood there with nostalgia. ‘Now why will you come here? Aunty finally verbalized the emotion pervading both the minds and hearts.
I could not put forth even a formal abnegation and geared my bike into motion.

Excerpt from Death Be Not Proud- My Long Short Story

Memories mingled into one common existence (or inexistence) and began to blur. I tried to pick up the memories without selecting or editing them. That was the only thing I could do. Soon the memories merged into a vacuum and died. I tried to grab the memories without selecting or editing them but the memories merged into one common existence (or inexistence) and flew away from me. The congestion of the memories was replaced by a vacuum; the vacuum that might not be filled again. Memories flew away and made way for the vacuum and worked out the replacement. I remembered the memories but I got nothing I was there with my palms open to nothing. I was gaping to chew the escaping memories but I had nothing between the teeth; nothing on the tongue and nothing sliding down the throat. I was gaping and gazing without an aim or object. I don’t now whether it was the roof or the window; the departing stars above the sky or the young, invading sunrays. I don’t know whether it was the grey landscape. I don’t know if it was the drowse of the brown sodium light or the reawakening of the grey rocks towards my left spared for a local museum for history and entertainment. I don’t know if it was the awakening of the slumbering mass with stink stored within much cared frame of the body or the death of hope and memories and all that makes one man. I don’t know what it was; the congestion subsided and the vacuum survived. I know nothing further; nothing. I was afloat in the vacuum swimming across some nothing from nowhere to nowhere. I was afloat. I was in vapors. I was nowhere. There were no memories; no vacuum; no evaporation. I was afloat on some nothing in some nowhere.

Arundhati Roy

Some people are born foolish some achieve foolishness while some are such that have greatness thrust upon their foolishness. The great Big Mouth of India- unfortunately a winner of the Booker and the author of the most ridiculous best seller of the recent years- The God of Small Things, who somehow managed to complete a piece of fiction which could have been classed as something poorly written by the pseudo novelists like Khushwant Singh and Shobha Dey. Well. Destiny rules supreme and the novel, despite limited readability was a great success and a mediocre woman of letters suddenly became a super star in the horizon of Indo- Anglican literature. It seemed that the fool with the veneer of greatness, imported by the so called First and Third World, has the realization of the her own foolishness and the success coming to her as a master stroke of chance. She denied the possibility of any second novel that might expose her literary hypocrisy.

But something she had to do.

Yes. She knows that media forgets everything very soon. She took Maneka Gandhi as the ideal and embarked on the path of pseudo social services. The Fourth Estate embraced her half halfheartedly and she succeeded in what she thought to the most achievable of all. In due course of time she made a visit to the USA and later she fought against the Government for N number of causes; some acceptable while some as ridiculous as her novel. but she continued to poke her nose everywhere and earned the marks of vow. Literature was reduced to an act of seeking name in the head lights and amassing crowd. The foolishness inherent in all her endeavors remained blocked. Our media continued to take her as an intellectual and she was remained blessed with the ultimate.

Well as a story goes a fox disguised as a tiger, is instructed not to speak but he fails to contain himself and starts with the bark and then in turn recognized as what he is. Arundhati is the same fox wth illusion of being an intellectual but when she opened her mouth on Kashmir issue, it became clear that she is actually a fox with the thick skin of a tiger.

What Arundhati said is too meaningless to mention.Hope the country(specially the Fourth Estate will some come to understand that she is just a fox not a tiger.

Archetypes; A General Introduction

Archetypes are the original objects, patterns, images or even characters, events or situations from which the same is copied in various forms of art and literature. The Platonic idea of the world beyond the world of substance provides an ideal example of the archetype that led to the various prototypes of heaven. Similarly Plato’s concept of the table with one horizontal top and vertical supports constitutes the archetype of all tables regardless of its size, shape form and function.
There are numerous forms of the archetype in literature. They are manifest in form of an idea, character, event and situation or even setting with some essential characteristics derived from some primitive or folk art form that render and general and universal value to that work rather than particular sophisticated or unique. The archetypes owe their origin to the myths, legends, folk tales, rituals and even dreams and customs. After the advent of Sigmund Freud and Jung, there had been a great stress on the role of psychological archetypes, referring to the unconscious originals, in art and literature. The use of archetypes by D.H. Lawrence and Salvador Dali makes and fine instance of the importance of archetypes in contemporary art and literature. The sudden rise in the treatment of myths and legends by the great names like James Joyce and T. S. Eliot is another prominent testimony of the importance of archetypes in the twentieth century art and literature. The structural manifestation of the archetype in expressed with unambiguous authority the structural patterns of a tragedy which grows like a life and eventually ends with the death the hero. It can however not be denied that the use of psychological archetypes can be traced back to the dawn of literature. Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex is structured on the archetypal pattern which was later developed by Shakespeare in the Hamlet with the archetype of revenge borrowed by the revenge plays. John Milton’s two great works The Paradise Lost and Samson Agonists make use of the same archetypal figure in two different ways.
The use of archetypes in the novel can be easily traced back to the birth and culmination of the form of the novel. The plot structure of Tom Jones is actually derived from the conventional fairly-tale set up. Charles Dickens also used the same archetypes for The Great Expectation as the structure of the novel owes its form to the fairy tale elements of a poor boy and a rich girl and a demonic figure keeping the heroin captive and acting a wall between two lovers.
The growing complexity of the themes of the novel and the researches done in the field of psychology and anthropology together resulted into the abundant use of archetypes in the criticism and art and literature. The critics like Mod Bodkins established archetype as the pivotal aspect of modern critical theories. It is well known that Eliot’s famous poem – The Waste Land has Frazer’s The Golden Bough a major source.
The use of archetypes in the Indian English Fiction is also an prominent, though oft neglected aspect of the craft. The novels of R. K. Narayan often make sudden and swift use of the archetypes that owe their genesis to the Indian folk tales and legends and chiefly to the mythology. Almost all the women characters of Narayan owe their origin to the classical Indian figures like Sita or Shakuntala. Savitri- the heroin of The Dark Room provided a fine instance of his passion for the use of archetypal figures in the novels. The novels of Anita Desai derive the patterns from various archetypal sources. The character of Maya in Cry the Peacock is one example of it and on the other hand the delineation of the city of Calcutta in the Bye Bye Black Bird is the prototype of hell. Salman Rushdie is another great reputation who is known for the subtle use of archetypes in his narratives. The birth images in Midnight’s Children and Shame are very conspicuous examples of the treatment of the archetypes. The theme of The God of Small Things is another very prominent example of the archetypal treatment of human relationship by Arundhati Roy. Thus, after a critical scrutiny of the history of Indian English Novels, it can easily be inferred that the archetypes contribute quite significantly to the making of the themes and techniques.

Lord of Flies

William Gerald Golding was born in Cornwall, England on September 19, 1911. His father, Alec Golding, was a school master and his mother, Mildred Golding, was an active worker on behalf of women's suffrage and other causes. Golding's parents encouraged him towards science as an educational pursuit but, in his second year at Brasenoze College, Oxford, young Golding shifted his educational emphasis to literature. Today, he also admits to a fondness of archaeology, but it is rather a highly sophisticated knowledge of anthropology that crops us in his first two novels.
Golding's first published work was a slim volume of poetry, which appeared shortly after his Graduation from Oxford in 1934. He claims to have "wasted the next four years". When World war II began, he joined the Royal Navy in which he served with distinction for over five years. During this service, Golding had a variety of experiences, highlighted by his participation in the D–Day invasion of France. When Golding was discharged from the Navy at the war's end, he held the rank of lieutenant. There is no question that Golding's experiences in the Royal Navy were the most decisive of his life, particularly in his development as writer.
Lord of Flies is undoubtedly one of the most pronounced illustration of the split of human cycle and the consequent transformation of man into a beast. The theme of the novel advances upon the pillars of Allegorical parallels and contrasts that structure the world lived in and realized by the author. It is also said to be a forceful allegorical representation of evil in human heart.
The novel begins with the recreation of architypal pattern of a lonely individual in the disserted island. The beginning of the novel reminds us of Danial Defoe's Robinson Cruso (1719) swifts Guliver Travels Jules Vernice – The Mysterious Island. The architectural opening of the novel serves to intensity the effect, i.e. developed all along the length and breadth of the novel. At the same time, this opening renders a universal significance and value to the piece of fiction. The introduction of the location the island peopled by frightening vamparish image is imparted the pronounced metaphorical value and in turn is made a microcause of the world enduring onslaughts of the War on socio–cultural fabric of the world in general and Europe in particular. The views Ian Watt capture our attention. He in his appreciation of the first paragraph of The Ambassador says :
The primary location of the narrative in a mental rather than a physical continuum gives the narrative a great freedom from the restrictions of particular time and place.1
Evidently the locale of the novel serves to emancipate the theme and action of the novel from the Tyranny of time and space, and imparts it a sound metaphorical value that serves to universalize the latent meaning and experience.
Irony is unquestionably the most powerful weapon used by the author. The structure of the novel is built on the bricks of Irony and is veneered with the thick coat of allegory. The new habitation in a deserted island as an aftermyth of the ship–wreck is a new beginning where the dawn is fogged with dark clouds of various shades of evil. The antithesis is inevitable but the victory of evil over innocence and the defeat of intellect elucidated by the murder of Piggy by Rozer is a sound rectification of the meaning inherent in the narrative. It is obvious here that children are no longer children with conventional innocence but they are metaphors shaped by the whittling edges of irony. It is clear that the children in the novel issue forth an impression of graver reality that is shaping its own existence in an essential vicious and hostile world that is manifest along more than one direction. The views of Narcus Crouch invite our attention. He elevates the treatment of child characters and says :
Some of the children's novels are about identity, about children exploring – in William Penn's phrase – 'The house of their mind'. These too are books in which the distinction between the adult and child is at its most indistinct2.
Some of the best treatment in literature of entry into 'children's experience' and 'vision of living' are to be found in books that were written not for children but for adults. Our modern concept of childhood is built largely on the intelligent anti–determinant concern for children that has been enshrined in folklore, which was highly developed by Blake, Dickens, Charlotte Bronte and others. But, the most fashionable novels of our time often represent a complete rejection of those English tradition, as readers today admire the brutally selfish and anti–social man.
Philosophical biology finds men to be an animal with an extral cultural dimension closely related to his need for freedom. William Golding's novels fall within this scope of post–war fantasy–fiction which is a psychological exploration;
Lord of the Flies (1954) turns the long established boys' romance desert island tale into an intense, compelling allegory of the growth and corruption of political power3.
This simple story starts with a few boys wrecked on an uninhabited island with no grown ups around. It slowly builds up the tension of a thriller. The characterization in the novel is quite detailed as the story hangs on three principal figures who serve as human landscape, besides the picturesque island. Each one stands for a different cause reflecting his background, nature and values inherited. They depict the three essential qualities in man, i.e. intelligence, rational thinking and passion.
In effect it is a present day reconstruction of R.M. Ballantyne's famous 19th century adventure story Coral Island. But whereas the ship wrecked boys in his book soon organize themselves into a reasonable imitation of victorian God–fearing British Society, most of those in Golding's novel just as quickly relapse into savagry ...4
Golding is a man haunted by his own sense of human inadequacy, as, this novel does not belong to the eddifying and counter eddifying stream of anger – instead, it is a bold search which reflects his own vision of man. Through its portrayals of human beings and human problems, it brings forth important general principles of human behaviour and human relations. It demonstrates that humans are capable of intense evil, as a result of their own nature and not because of any outside factor. Ignorance and evil seems to drive the boys with the Fruedian ID which is an unconcious, a moral force within the human mind; whose function is to ensure the survival instinct.
The first Chapter opens with Ralph the hero. The story is about his psychological development from childhood to maturation. He encoutners a fat boy named Piggy; while wandering near the water the boys discover a large 'Conch'. It is a beautiful creamy pink shell which later on becomes the symbol of authority and sacredness as all the children are expected to show regards for it. The others who join in are some little ones, who later on are addressed by the generic title of 'littluns'. The rests are the members of a choir with a leader called Jack Merridew. Initially, everything goes on fine as Ralph becomes the chief with a wise counsellor Piggy; Jack and his choir members become the hunters besides, they are to take care of the fire on the mountain which is lighted to signal out for any passerby ship. Soon they form a society where shelter are built, water for drinking is stored and the rock serves as lavatory. Whole picture is of an ancient tribe with a chief and his kingdom. Ralph cheerfully says –
This is our island. It is a good island. Untill the grown ups come will have fun5.
Golding subtly explores the human psychology and gives a forewarning about Jack by hinting at the amount of pleasure he gets from the power he weilds. He is ruthless power–hungry, physically strong villain who is portrayed with ignoble instincts, leading to the formation of necessary evil in the society. Symbolically, the difference in the nature of the two boys is hinted through their hair; fair–headed Ralph signifies his faith in being fair at everything as compared to the red–headed Jack. Red colour signifies passion, fire, blood and lust. The seed of rivalry is sown right in the beginning though Jack is only sub–consciously aware of it. Diana Neill rightly points out –
Moral evil is the subject of Lord of Flies ...... The subject darkness in the human heart is made even more horrible by the fact that characters in the novel are children, young ones at that6.
As the novel proceeds we get a view at the evil streak in the heart of human, though mildly put, yet Golding has raised a very important point, when a big one "Maurice" tries to be mean with a littlun percival.
In his other life Maurice had received chastisement an excuse7.for filling a younger eye with sand. Now, though there was no parent to let fall a heavy hand. Maurice still felt the unease of wrong doing. At the back of his mind formed the uncertain outlines.

It is believed that much evil and most human vices are due to repressive and overly demanding ways of life, caused by adherence to the false conventions and values of civilization. In most cases, it destroys the essentially good and human qualities of people like Maurice and big bullies like Roger; who throws stones at young Henry though to miss; .....
as invisible yet strong was the taboo of the old life round the squatting child was protection of parents, school, punishment and law8
but he later on becomes a ruthless hunter and 'terror' as he beats us samneric and mercilessly and forces them to join in their tribe and work against Ralph.
The only child set apart from the rest is, Simon, who is bashful in public, wanders off alone; He appears as a shining hope; an epitome of wisdom; a Christ–like figure. This character is portrayed like a ray of hope that exist in the novel. Culture is seen as taking a foremost place in human make up and especially in the development of the child and when this restrain is lifted they gradually develop from ordinary to extra ordinary–evil or good. The choir group degenerates into a primitive tribe with painted faces and long hair. They are successful in killing a pig, but they neglect fire with the result a passing ship goes off without noticing them. This event symbolizes their rejection of life and siding with death. A lurking note of irony is discernable here; the choir which used to sing the Angels prayers on soft rhythms of music, now dances and sing.
In ancient literature, we have instances, in which first advance was the rejection of idols in favour of a single God. This diety reflected a society where there is a tribal chief whom his people obeyed and he held supreme powers. The value of conch has been suggested and emphasized time and again by Golding. The Leader must possess it, equating him with the Sea–God 'Proteus' who blows a horn.
There is a symbolic association between Piggy and the conch. For Piggy it is something sacred, precious, God given and it is supreme. His worth as an intelligent friend and counsellor Ralph has slowly realized. With it has come the painful realization that the understandable and lawful world was being
disintegrated, as the rules set initially were followed less and less.
A sensation is created where a dead parachutist drops on the mountain top and is called 'beast from air'. It is not surprising because the atmosphere prevailing is anything but congenial. It is born out of evil of ignorance.
The God of flies is none other than the Devil, lurking in the hearts of those fledglings, and waiting to reveal himself only until such time as he is no longer held in check by the taboos of civilization11.
The hero too, is only human as he gets immense pleasure when he is successful in piercing the flesh of a pig with appearance. While, Jack and hunters drop down from the level of humanity and are called 'savages'. They involve themselves in the gruesome act of sheer violence when they spot a sow and injure her, chase her excitedly as though 'wedded to her lust'. This phrase has added a sexual connotation symbolically signifying the adult intimacy with evil. They perch the head of the sow on a sharpened stick as a gift for the Beast. The blackening blood has lot of flies gathered around and the pig head looks like Lord of Flies. Golding has omniously placed the children in the primitive situation where God was military and jealous, and not the merciful Lord Jesus. Quite unawarely the choir group cease to be Christian and become the followers of Beelzebub who was known as the Lord of Flies. The description of the devil compels us to agree with Diana Niell,
particularly striking is his power to communicate the terror in Human heart before the unknown in nature and the all too clearly discernable cruelty in man12.
Simon watches the whole scene from his small paradise where butterflies are dancing around. The Lord of Flies tries to communicate to Simon.
The half shut eyes were dim with the infinite cynicism of adult life. They assured Simon that every thing was a bad business ...13
He urge him to go back to others as entirely good has no chance on the earth. He resembles Mephistophilis who warn Dr. Faustus about the consequences and tries to pursue him to go away. It is as though the devil is trying to communicate to Christ realizing fully well that Christ even today will be crucified. Simon is sure that the only evil is 'in us', so, he goes to the mountain top and solves the mystery of beast and discover it to be a dead human being. He untangles the dead body and runs down to tell others that they need not be scared of it any more. But the satanic looking figures with painted faces were so soaked in their lustful dance, that they refuse to acknowledge him 'as one of them' and mercilessly stab him to death. The storm breaks in all its fury, and boys run for shelter and the body of Simon and dead Parachutist is washed out by sea.
Ralph and Piggy were out of it all yet, they feel guilty and responsible for the act against Nature. Jack on the other hand refuses to acknowledge that they have committed a murder. He turns out to be an absolute dictator. He beats us a boy called Wilfred after tying him up for several hours, raids the shelters and runs away with Piggy's broken glasses and refuses to listen to any reasoning for returning them. The abuse of his power over the 'outsiders' leads him to a feeling of wild abandonment during which the symbol of sensible orderly procedure that is the coach is not merely destroyed but broken into a thousand fragments. The Conch and Piggy, the last of the civilized society, are smashed down together. Roger hurls a big stone, only this time not to miss, but to kill Piggy. Roger has now freed himself from the civilized world of parents and laws, policemen, which is remote and distant.
It is the story told with meticulous realism and at the same time with a visionary clarity that shows up everything as symbolic; of a group of small children wrecked on a desert island degenerating into a society based on fear, violence and tyranny14.
Golding has visualized his memory of World War II and the brutal slaughter of human life, transferred it to the world of children, the tragedies of the adult world are re–enacted, where under extreme stress, they show capacity for self harm. Ralph is chased and sought like an animal in utter barbarism with pass words, arrows, clay daubings and ceric battle cries. They put the entire island on fire creating the picture of war.
The final nightmare scene is ended abruptly by the arrival of a rescue ship. Yet, there is no sense of relief since the darkness revealed in the human heart leaves little hope for future15.
Ralph wept for the end of innocence and for Piggy. In the last encounter scene, with the officer, Ralph immediately replies to him that he is the Chief while Jack shrinks. He finds himself unprepared to own his crime and hesitates.
Moral evil then, is the subject of the novel, where original sin destroys the garden of innocence. The human race has time and again shown that Golding's vision is an accurate one. But he offers no direct solution to the problem he presents. Yet he hints at certain saving graces like Piggy and Simon. Knowledge of a problem is a great step in arriving at a solution. The movement is from specific to universal.
Golding has made a major contribution in the field of self awareness as every reader feels actively involved in it. The outcome of the struggle in the last scene can be conceived optimistically or pessimistically, depending upon how he interprets the miraculous rescue in the last scene. However, deficient our modern society might seem but civilization is the only thing that restrains mankind from a life of barbarianism and dehumanization. Goldings view has a lesson of morality to teach humanity that the civilized behaviour is the only hope for mankind to achieve a higher and more desirable ethical state.


References
1Ian Watt, The First Paragraph of The Ambassador 20th Century Literary Criticism : A Reader, ed. David Lodge (London : Longman, 1989) 533.
2Marcus Crouch, The Nesbit Tradition The Children's Novels in England 1945–70 (London : Earnest Benn Limited, First Pub. 1972, This Ed. 1972) 196.
3John Holloway, The LIterary Scene, The New Pelican Guide to English Literature – The Presented Bories Ford (London : Penguin Book, First Pub. 1983, This Ed., 1987) 101.
4Gilbert Philips, The Post–War English Novel (Pelican Guide) 435.
15Neil 389.
6Diana Neil, A History of the English Novel (New Delhi : Kalyani Publications, First Pub. 1962, This Ed. 1979) 389.
7Golding 65.
8Golding 67.
9Golding 75.
10Golding 76.
11Emile Legoise, Louis Cazamian, The History of English Literature (New Delhi : Macmillan India Limited, 1979) 149.
12Neil 389.
13Golding 152.
14David Daiches, A Critical History of English Literature (New Delhi : Allied Publishers Limited, First Ed. 1979, This Ed. 1992) 1175.
5William Golding, Lord of the Flies (London : Faber and Faber Limited, First Pub. 1958, This Ed. 1982) 38.

Githa Harirharan

Githa Hariharan is one of the most prolific woman writers of India. She was born in Coimbatore in 1954. He was brought up in Bombay and Manila and got education in these two places besides the USA. She has worked as a staff writer for WNET- Channel 13. In Mumbai Chennai and Delhi she has been working as an editor first in a publishing house and then in as a freelancer. Githa Hariharan is also a social activist known for her care and concern for women. In 1995, she challenged the Hindu Minority and Guardianship Act as discriminatory in the Supreme Court of India and recorded victory.
The works of Githa Hariharan include novels, short stories articles and columns and also the essays of different topics that interest her. She published her first novel-The Thousand Faces of Night in 1992 and was awarded Commonwealth Writer’s Prize in 1993. This novel was followed by The Ghost of Vasu Master (1994). Her third novel When Dreams Travel appeared in 1999 and it was quickly followed by In Times of Siege (2003). Her latest publication is Fugitive Histories which appeared in 2009. Besides novels, Githa Hariharan has also authored a collection of short stories- The Art of Dying (1993), and a books of short stories for children- The Winning Team which came out in 2004.A Southern Harvest (1993) is a collection of short stories from South India translated by her into English and Sorry Best Friend! (2004) is a collection of short storied for children co-edited by her.
The crisis of identity has always enjoyed a defining significance in the thematic framework of the Indio Anglican novels. The novels of R. K. Narayan, Mulkraj Anand, and Raja Rao redesigned the techno-thematic fabric of Indian English fiction and laid the foundation of the new Indian English fiction. The post colonial age represented by these three novelist was chiefly a quest for identity along different dimension of socio-political and economic order of India. The novels of Mulkraj Anand explored the thick congested fabric of Indian life and structured his fiction with unquestionable authority. The crisis of identity plays vital role in the cast of the narrative of Anand. His novels like The Untouchables and The Coolie explore the hidden dimensions of human psyche along socio-economic and cultural dimensions. Barkha’s dramatic reaction to the situation when the modesty of his sister is attempted by a Brahmin aptly illustrates the agony of identity crisis at a socio-cultural level;

The man must have made indecent suggestions to her. I wonder what he did. Father of fathers, I could kill that man. I could kill that man. (Anand, The Untouchables, 69)
R. K. Narayan explores the idea of the crisis of identity along various dimensions. Almost all his novels are based on the idea of the crisis of identity and the consequent efforts to locate them. His first novel- Swami and Friends, (1935), has the seeds of the same theme manifest in form of children’ pains and pangs. The other novels are also structured on the same idea explored along different dimensions. A reference to The Dark Room( is obligatory as the crisis of identity plays.All the three major characters suffer the crisis of identity in their own ways. Ramani is torn apart between marriage and infatuation. Savitri endures all the pains and alienation of a conventional, male dominated family set-up. Shanti Bai is the new representation of identity crisis. She is ‘married to an unscrupulous husband’ but ‘rejects identity with him and escapes to Madras.’ (p16). It is, however, interesting to note that the identity crisis of Savitri continues to grow more and more piercing. The last scene of the narrative elucidates the perpetuity of the crisis of identity when she feels like calling her one time aid but realizes her helplessness and withdraws. It can easily be inferred that Savitri in the beginning is same as Savitri in the end. The Guide (1958) is another major novel of Narayan. The east-west confrontation play decisive role in the cast of the narrative and thus the crisis of identity owes its genesis to the this ideological conflict. Both the major characters-Raju and Rosie- spend their life locating their identity, and, the search remains an effort in vain. The Vendor of Sweets is the most poignant representation of the identity crisis that owes its genesis to the conflicting values of the east and west.
The novels of Anita Desai mark a parallel stream in the history of Indian English fiction. It is however undeniable that her novels have been knit around the complex idea of identity crisis with a female character on the focus. Her first novel- Cry the Peacock published in 1964 is an important landmark in history of Indian English literature. Anita Desai added impetus to the feminist wave that came into critical notice since the advent of Nayantara Sehgal in the horizon of Indian English writings. She explored a world subsisting within the world and located the fragmentation of the protagonists’ identity. The protagonist of her first novel- Maya is a wrecked soul who longs for her identity realized in terms of marital harmony but never succeeds. In her second novel- Bye Bye Black Bird( ) the crisis of identity is born of the conflict between the spirit of place and the protagonist’s soul. The incompatibility between these two dominant forces constitutes the dynamics of the action and the nature of the narrative. The crisis of identity and efforts to locate it along the finite dimensions of the narrative is the kernel of the techno-thematic frame work of her novels. In Custody (1980) and Clear Light of the Day (1984) - her most celebrated novels, is another revelation of the perennial quest for identity which is put to stake under the chafing pressures of the cultural forces and the efforts to relocate it becomes a painful enterprise.
The spirit of eighties was spearheaded by Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children published in 1980 and Shame published in 1983. Both these novels are knit around the idea of identity crisis which owes its birth and life to the direct collision between individual and history. The Satanic Verses published in 1988 explores the religious identity of an Asian expatriate in England. In Haroun and the Sea of Stories (1991) he takes the identity of a writer on the focus of the thematic structure and knits the narrative. The success of these novels firmly established the prominence of identity crisis in the thematic set up of the Indian English fiction. The novels that hit the literary horizon capture our attention for the prominence of the theme of identity crisis. Amitav Ghosh’s The Shadow Lines ( ) is another masterpiece published in the same decade. It also explores the identity of the protagonist against the backdrop of the Indian culture and heritage. The nineties were the natural extension of the thematic boldness and technical innovativeness. It is also the decade which marks the flowering of Githa Hariharan as novelist. She, along with Anita Desai, shares the diadem with another prominent figure of Indian English fiction- Arundhati Roy who surprised the world with a unique first- The God of Small Things published in 1995 and was awarded Booker in 1996. The God of Small Things is also knit around the complex idea of the crisis of identity realized at the level of human relationship.
Githa Hariharan thus enjoys a crucial place in the history of Indian English fiction. On one hand she is an integral part of the larger part of the tradition, on the other hand, she is an important cord in the tradition of Indian women writers. It is clear from a close survey of these two traditions that the crisis of identity and the pivotal aspect of the techno-thematic network of the Indian English fiction.
The age of Githa Hariharan is undisputedly the most complex phase of the cultural history of India. There were quick transitions and subtle and unpredictable changes that redefined the identity of individual in general and of a woman in particular. The advent of the television and the consequent expansion of the news channels and entertainment channels is one most outstanding phenomenon that sped up the transitions. No transitional phase in the cultural history of India has been as forcefully accelerated as this. The spread of education is also a factor of great significance which took place during the last two decade. The education was not confined to make people literate but it had new functions to perform. The spread of technical education and management studies shaped the reshaped the mind of common Indians with handsome participation of women in reshaping the cultural history of India. The spread of communication with easy access to information through cellular phones and internet are some other prominent feature contributing to the new cultural identity of India. The simultaneous advent of so many decisive factors stirred the social set up of country with a number of new possibilities and probabilities rising up to meet the new challenges. It is however interesting to know that the changes that took place confronted the traditional values system that that ruled over the Indian society with despotic authority. The concept of generation gap acquired new impetus and became more decisive in comparison to previous years. The birth of a new order and new system became obligatory. The advent of the multi- national companies is another very prominent feature responsible for the new shape of the society. Education too had a new form and a new function by acquiring international order. Employment was also redefined. The limitations of times and spaces were reduced to inexistence and movements of the young aspirants became more free. The induction of new technology in the fields of computers paved way for the escape of Indian minds and women too became integral parts of this new wave. Thus it becomes clear that the society was changed and the women were no exception to it. The birth of a new woman in the old society practicing quaint orders and methods was the common phenomenon witnessed in all corners of the vast social set up.
All the five novels that hit the literary horizon are written during this tumultuous era of Indian socio- cultural history. Devi the protagonist of the first novel-The Thousand Faces of Night, returns to Madras after obtaining a degree from the USA and she returns only to fall prey to the chafing pressures imposed upon her by the old existing order. The crisis of identity becomes evident in the contrast between Devi and her mother Sita. It is interesting observation that Sita nurtures the dream of a happy conventional marriage for her daughter but it turns out to be a disaster for Devi. Her lover offers a temporary escape from the hollow married life but the order rules over like a tyrant. The use of myths and legends is the most outstanding part of the technique of narration. It is through these subtle allusions, myths and legends that the narrative acquires the desired intensity to mirror the agony of the crisis of identity. The Ghosts of Vasu Master is another masterly structured tale of a school master who has retired from a school in a small town. The relation between Vasu and Mani together intensity the impact of crisis of identity of the school master who live too much in the past and has virtually no present. Teaching Mani who can’t speak is a great challenge before Vasu and that seems the only weapon to surmount the barrier of identity crisis and relocating the lost identity. When Dreams Travel is another masterstroke of fantasy well in cadence of the tales of Arabian Night.
The quest for identity is identified with the journey of mind along times and spaces. In Times of Siege is another important novel of Githa Hariharan. The novel is structured around the ethnic identity of the individual in relation to the larger aspect of his identity. The novel unfolds many layers of human psyche as an individual along ethnic and nationalist dimensions. Fugitive Histories, the last publication credited to Githa Hariharan, is a novel steeped in pathos. The narrative owes it basis to the gallant efforts of a Hindu girl Mala who marries Asad a Muslim boy of her choice. As the narrative advances, Mala tries hard to relive the happiness of the past which is metaphorical to the reordering the fragmented identity.
It is clear from the above discussion that the crisis of identity plays pivotal role in the thematic design of the novels of Gita Hariharan. Thus a study of the identity crisis in her novels is to explore the depth of the narrative and discover the latent meaning and experience of her narratives. In the light of prevailing disparities and rapid transitional changes, it is more then evident that the study of the crisis of identity in the novels of Githa Hariharan is to the study the most tumultuous transition in the study of India. The new definitions and dimension of human mind and human relations seek apt representation in the backdrop of what had been happening for generations. The strain between any two characters is the strain between any two individual making an institution and being a part of it. The crisis to which her characters are subjected is the crisis hovering over the society. A detailed study of the novels of Githa Hariharan acquaint us with the base realities of emerging social set up of India without any emotional or ideological veneer. The age comes out and presents itself in all forms of realities hitherto mirrored or concealed.

R.K.Narayan's The Dark Room

R. K. Narayan is the novelist of an individual set in the milieu which is characteristic of an Indian middle class families. There is wide range of individuals with distinct mindset, interacting with one another in the fictional world of Narayan and these interaction widespread along a well defined range of time and space (generally Malgudi), provide essential fictional values to the narrative. M.K. Naik rightly points out that Narayan is 'the novelist of the individual man, just as Mulk Raj Anand is the novelist of social man and Raja Rao that of metaphysical man'. He further analyses the essentials of Narayan's fictional domain and says :

The total fictional campus of R.K. Narayan, therefore, presents a panorama of men and women in different life roles, ranging from school boy indulging in his characteristic pranks in Swami and Friends to the old man about to renounce the world in The Vendor of Sweets. The protagonist of Narayan's novel is made to play his life role during the course which he or she either natures in the process, or rebels, or simply drifts or again is chastised or even destroyed by a characteristic inner weakness1.
The observation of Naik holds perfect relevance in connection with the theme and characters of almost all the novels of Narayan. It is another important observation that the characters and events which constitute the fabric of the novel, owe their origin to day to day experiences and occurrences of the middle class of the locale.
The Dark Room is a great example of the recreation of middle–class milieu with its agony and ecstasy fused into one structure. It has been discussed earlier that the Narayan is a novelist of individual and his novels are structured on the interactions between these individuals. The Dark Room is the novel about the family with Ramani, his wife Savitri and three children Babu, Kamala and Sumati. It has been stated earlier that the interaction among individual makes the prime preference of Narayan as a novelist. The Dark Room is also structured on the interactions between these characters. It is obvious that the human relation contributes quite significantly to the theme of the novel, which, in due course of the development of the narrative acquires new shades. The novel opens with a simple dispute between Ramani and Savitri caused by Babu's sudden dress :
At schooltime Baboo suddenly fell ill and Savitri fussed over him and put him to bed. And in the bed he stayed till Ramani come in and asked – "What is this?"2
The opening paragraph of the novels introduces us the nature of action of the novel and also the major participants of the whole drama. The introductory paragraph of the novel reminds us of the views of Ian Wall. He, commenting on the introductory paragraph of The Ambassador, says : that 'the function of an introductory paragraph in a novel is presumably to introduce'3. It is important that the opening paragraph of The Dark Room, performs the task with great success. The opening paragraph introduces the three major characters Ramani, Savitri and Babu. The nature of interaction between the two principal characters foretells the nature of action during the whole narrative span of the novel. The nature of action revealed in the first paragraph of the novel is ratified again in the succeeding paragraph :
I don't know when I shall have a little decent food to eat. I slave all day in the office for this mouthful. No lack of expenses money for this and no money for that. If the cook can't cook properly, do the work yourself. What have you to do better than that ?4
Ramani's outburst makes the dominance clear and Savitri's subordination to masculine authority sets the nodes and antinodes of the tension that shapes the fiction. Ramani is delineated with sudden unpredictable outburst but Savitri endures the rage with convention submission of an Indian woman.
As this was almost a daily routine, as regular as her husband's lecture. Savitri ceased to play attention to it and ate in silence. His thoughts reverted to Babu. The boy looked unwell and perhaps at that moment was very ill in his classHow impotent she was, she thought : she had not the slightest power to do anything at home, and that after fifteen years of married life5.
It is quite ironical that Savitri's submission seeks apt revelation in a comment passed by her autocratic husband :
After undressing and changing, Ramani came very quickly towards the dining hall and said to Savitri, "Hope you have finished your dinner".
"Not yet".
"What a dutiful wife! would rather starve than precede her husband. You are really like some of the women in our ancient books"6.
It is also remarkable that the harshness of Ramani is not confined to Savitri. Narayan delineates him with natural arrogance and short–temperedness. The event when Babu plays some mischief resulting into the power cut, is a fine instance of his attitude :
When Babu returned from the Electric office, he found his father standing in the hall and shouting. As soon as he sighted Babu he asked, You blackguards, who asked you to temper with the electric lights ? Babu stood stunned7.
The character of Babu demands attention at this point. He cuts special figure amidst the child characters of Narayan. Most of the children that are born of the pen of Narayan are limited to playful delineation with humorous irony. Generally, the contempt for school is a common phenomenon in almost all the child characters of Narayan in his novels and short stories. These characters share their creator's contempt for school. Ramesh Srivastava rightly observes that 'his own childhood may easily be reconstructed from them'8. It is an undeniable observation that Babu's character in the narrative is not restricted to the enactment of playful irony but he is delineated with will to act and imitate. His visit to Electric office symbolizes his will and at the same time, it also puts forth a convincing testimony to this act in the future.
The complication of the plot begins with a new appointment in Engladia Insurance company. The new employee, Shanti Bai contributes to the complication of the situation. There is ironical reversal of the situation. Ramani endures subordination to the new participant of the enactment of the whole action.

Ramani fell that he had been snubbed, but presently he appreciated the candour and smartness which had released the snub. He smiled and replied brickly that he was grateful for timely warning, otherwise he would have wasted some money and time in going to Mangalore8.
The complication in the pre–existing set up is attributed to Shanta Bai, who is delineated with sharp wit and all worldly guts of snatching sympathy. Shanta Bai had a split marriage and then she did graduation from Madras and joined the office of Engladia Insurance Company. Shanta Bai, replies with admirable candour when Ramani asks about the people around her. 'It is a difficult question', she replies, 'and it will take a lot of answering'9. Besides candour, her extrovert behaviour in fetching the sympathy of a man is another very conspicuous aspect of her character :
I passed my B.A. three years ago. Since then I have been drifting about. I have had odd teaching jobs and I have also been companion to a few rich children. On the whole it has been a very great struggle. It is all nonsense to say that women's salvation lies in education. It doesn't improve their lot a bit, it leaves them as badly unemployed as the men10.
Shanta Bai's guts and candour excites the passions of Ramani that works out the chaos and disorder in his family set up. She drives Ramani crazy and makes him oblivious of his duties towards his wife and children. She earns Ramani care that is due for Savitri. Narayan make use of Savitri's bench to illustrate the idea. It make the absence of the bench prominent through the words of Gangu. She asks
"What has happened to the bench which used to be here all these days ? You are lying on the floor", asked Gangu and unwittingly started the very thoughts that Savitri had been at points to smother since morning11.
Ramani's growing fondness for Shanta Bai draws a close parallel with his growing indifference to Savitri and his children. He develops a habit to visit the office on his way back home from the club. 'It would be improper', he tells himself and passes on 'but the car had hardly run a few yards when he told himself that ought to inspect his office periodically at nights'12, whereas Rani on his 'unconventional' visits proclaims that she 'loves conventional things' otherwise 'she shouldn't be here but nursing children and cooking for a husband'13. Ramani's growing endearment with Shanta Bai is paralleled with growing estrangement between Ramani and Savitri. He is never worried about his wife and children but his care for Shanta Bai grows up day by day. Ramani gets infatuated like a teenager and Shanta Bai's hypnotism works on him almost completely.
"I suggest that we go round Race Course Road and then, if you don't mind, to the river. Have you seen it at night ?"
"Is it a very lovely night ?"
"Come and see it yourself", he said.
"You don't mind the trouble ?"
"Don't ask ridiculous question"14
The conversation quoted above is a wonderful illustration of the infatuation of Ramani for Shanta Bai. On one hand he was incessantly growing indifferent for his wife and children, on the other hand, he was beginning to feel worried about Shanta Bai because even after one month, 'she exhibited no aptitude for canvassing work'15. This is the reason why K.V. Suryanarayana Murti likes 'Shanta Bai's Life to be a failure in identity'. He further elaborates :
Married to an unscrupulous husband she rejects identity with him and escapes to Madras, studies up to B.A. ..., seeks a job and joins the Insurance Office of Ramani as Probationary Assistant. She fails to fulfil the insurance business, and thrives on luring identity with crazy Ramani. But Ramani can hardly exempt her forever from doing her business, and failure forces her to leave Malgudi16.
Ramani's eccentricities and infatuation bring out the wreck of the family. Ramani's involvement with Shanta Bai reminds us of the view of Suryanarayana Murti that Narayan's 'characters are prisoners of their ego and ignorance and their actions are silly'17. Ramani is delineated with pathetic irony that he gets infatuated after fifteen years of marriage. His visit to the movie is conveyed to Savitri by Gangu. The narrator confides :
Gangu wept a little herself and said, clearing her throat : I won't hide anything from you. They didn't stay very long in the theatre. She said something and both of them went out at ten o' clock18.
The growing estrangement between Ramani and Savitri leads to revolt on the part of Savitri :
"Don't touch me !" she cried, moving away from him. "You are dirty, you are impure. Even if I burn my skin, I can't cleanse myself of the impurity of your touch". He clenched his teeth and raised his hands. She said, "All right, strike me. I am not afraid". He lowered his hands and said, "Woman, get away now"19.
Ramani's attitude reminds us of the views of M.K. Naik. He points out that Ramani is 'an utterly self centered and self indulgent man'20, and this attitude of Ramnai obliges revolt in Savitri that begins with escape from her monstrous husband.
She walked all the way to the north end of the town and reached the river an hour later. Sarayu was flowing in the dark with subdued ramble21
Savitri's exile remind us of many mythological characters who suffered exile. Sita and Shakuntala are two leading female characters of Indian mythology that invite a close comparison with Savitri. It is, however, remarkable that Savitri is closer to Sita than Shakuntala. The use of Sita myth is an important aspect of the narrative. The concept of myth invites our attention. Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics states :
Myth may be defined as story or a complex of story elements taken as expressing and therefore as implicitly symbolizing certain deep lying aspects of human and trans–human experience22.
Savitri, in this part of the narrative owes its meaning and experience to the leading female character of the Ramayana – Sita. Irony operates the use of myth. Savitri, like Sita is submissive and dedicated but unlike Sita, her exile is not an act of obedience to her husband but it is a revolt against male domination. It is chiefly the reason why Narayan himself take Savitri to be 'an early testament of Woman's Lib. Movement'23. Mari and Ponni reconstitute the identity of the sage, Valmiki which in the context acquires completeness in the temple. It is ironical that unlike Valmiki, Mari and Ponni are untouchables and cannot offer food to Savitri from their kitchen :
Only fruits and coconut. I knew that you wouldn't like anything else cooked by me, so I have brought only fruits and coconut24.
Savitri's exile in the temple is metaphorical to her quest for identity as a woman. She refuses the food offered by Ponni not because of her social status but because of consciousness for identity. Mari tells the vendor of fruit about her consciousness for identity :
There is a mad woman in there who won't touch food unless she is given work. Hard enough for men to get work these days25.
The temple under the old man, makes the last station of Savitri's exile. The character of Valmiki has been split into Mari and old man. Mari as a thief is Valmiki's past whereas the old man of the temple is the present. Mathur observes that Savitri has more points of similarity with Sita, the heroine of the Ramayana26. Savitri's stay at the temple accounts for the realization, which has been ratified through the recreation of the image of the dark room. The symbol of the river, Sarayu makes us identify Savitri with Sita, but the symbol of the temple and the dark room with stink of burning oil and smoke obliges realization on her part. There is cyclic recreation of the image of the dark room, which, in the first part of the novel is applied with much simpler meaning but now in the last phrase of the narrative it is used with deeper layers of irony. Savitri refuses mercy when Mari and his wife offers him food. She denies fear when she agrees to stay in the dark lonely shade:
Charity! Charity! Savitri was appalled by the amount of it which threatened one. 'All right I will live in this', she said choosing the lesser charity27.
Savitri's stay in the dark room, now excites nostalgia and home sickness. The rebel dies. The woman is reborn. Fear returned. 'A nostalgia for children, home and accustomed comforts seized her'. It is a master stroke of irony that all the emotions that she forcefully denies are fused into one:
When she shut the door and put out the lights, how comforting the bed felt and how well one could sleep! Not this terrible state. And then the children, what a void they cheated! "I must see them : I must see Babu. I must see Sumati and I must see Kamala. Oh ..." But what about the fiery views, and the coming out at midnight ?28

The realization of Savitri makes D.V.K. Raghavacharyulu infer that the novel 'has, after all been kept ajar to the influx of undeceived self vision'29. Savitri returns Narayan celebrates the festivity of her return by recreating the symbols of dialogues between Ramani who doesn't question anything about his wife's absence in the house.
The novel ends with a pathetic note on the Savitri's part which culminates the realization. It was 'one afternoon when she was lying on her carpet in the hall' and heard the loved call from a distance "Lock repaired sirs, umbrellas repaired"30. Savitri's excitement draws a sharp contrast with her realization. She felt excited that she 'could give him food, water and a magnificent gift and inquire about her great friend Poony'. She almost called him but she suddenly checked herself and let him pass. She felt 'unhappy' and felt that it was 'eman and unjust'30. K.V. Suryanarayana Murti opines that 'at once she realizes her helplessness and dependency in the house though she remains haunted by his cry'31. Savitri's realization confirms the cyclic reversal of the situation that Savitri in the beginning of the novel is same as Savitri in the last page.
The Dark Room, thus, is an important novel of R.K. Narayan from the point of view of the study of man–woman relation. Narayan explore the wide range of human relations through a love triangle, and a contrast offered by the rustic couple, Mori and Ponni. The novel begins with echoing reverberation of mate domination and ends with silent realization of it.
References
31Murti, "Monkey and Hanuman" Kohinoor in the Crown, 133.
2R.K. Narayan, The Dark Room (Chennai : Indian Thoughts Publications, 2005) 1.
3Ian Walt, "The First Paragraph of the Ambassador" 20th Century Criticism – A Reader, ed. David Lodge (London : Longman, 1989) 540.
4Narayan, The Dark Room, 2.
5Narayan, The Dark Room, 5.
6Narayan, The Dark Room, 11.
7Narayan, The Dark Room, 38.
8Narayan, The Dark Room, 50.
9Narayan, The Dark Room, 50.
10Narayan, The Dark Room, 51.
11Narayan, The Dark Room, 76.
12Narayan, The Dark Room, 60.
13Narayan, The Dark Room, 62.
14Narayan, The Dark Room, 64.
15Narayan, The Dark Room, 66.
16K.V. Suryanarayan Murti, "Monkey and Hanuman" Kohinoor in the Crown (New Delhi : Sterling, 1987) 133.
17Murti, "Monkey and Hanuman" Kohinoor in the Crown, 127.
18Narayan, The Dark Room, 79.
19Narayan, The Dark Room, 87.
20Naik 21.
21Narayan, The Dark Room, 90.
22Alex Preminger (ed.) Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetic (London : Macmillan, 1979) 538.
23R.K. Narayan, My Days (London : Chatto and Windus, 1975) 119.
24Narayan, The Dark Room, 122.
25Narayan, The Dark Room, 123.
26O.P. Mathur, "Two Modern Versions of the Sita Myth : Narayan and Anand" Modern Indian English Fiction (New Delhi : Abhinav, 1993) 70.
27Narayan, The Dark Room, 140.
28Narayan, The Dark Room, 146.
29D.V.K. Raghavacharyulu, "Small Scale Reflections on a Great House of Fiction" Pespectives on Indian Fiction in English" Ed. M.K. Naik (New Delhi : Abhinav, 1985) 38.
30Narayan, The Dark Room, 161.
1M.K. Naik The Ironic Vision : A Study of the Fiction of R.K. Narayan (New Delhi : Sterling Publishers Pvt. Ltd., 1983) 1.

Rhapsody on a Windy Night

"Rhapsody on a Windy Night" is another very important poem of this collection which unfolds many new and old shades of human relations. The title of the poem suggests an ironical reversal of romantic connotations of the poem, and the images used in the poem provide ratification to Eliot's debt to symbolise masters like Le Baudlaire and Laffergue. The woman in the poem strikes us with manifold intensity of symbolic manifestation. The togetherness of man and woman illustrate scepticism, and isolation characterizing the urban milieu. The cultural–disintegration is elucidated through the seduction of the woman before the arrival of the protagonist. The action ceases to be action and amounts to mean inaction and this inaction creates a milieu of Dante's Limbo. The words of Stephen Spender capture attention. He takes the 'modern life' to be 'a fragmentary Hell, a Hell devoid of consistency, too stupid to punish anyone, and without any moral severity' (10) characterized by 'a dead sameness about all their activities' (p. 112).
The poem opens with reference to time – Twelve o' clock (L. 1) and the midnight 'shakes the memory' (L. 11). The woman comes with the 'border of her dress' (L. 19) which is 'torn and stained with sand' (L. 20). The constant reference to time suggests the advancement of action which is not action at all but the advancement of action is subservient to the movement of time. At "Half past three”:
She winks a feeble eye.
She smiles into corners.
She smooths her hair grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
(Ll. (52–55)
An analytical survey of the action of the woman makes us realize the pervasion of inaction in the contemporary cultural set up. The poem records the memory of a young man as he makes his movement towards his rented room through the storm where prostitutes live and play their sordid business. There is profound irony in the portraiture of the woman. The image of the open door as a 'grin' illustrate the nature of emotion of the woman with all its metaphorical magnificence, in the socio–cultural set up of time and space. There are suggestions of mechanical attitude towards sex and of consequent ratification of the theme of life in death and death in life. The image of 'crooked pin" (L. 22) owes its genesis to the rapid commercialization of contemporary Europe and consequent degeneration of human values and action. The image of the moon draws a very close parallel with the woman in the poem. The beauty and mystic charm of the moon has been replaced by the artificial glow of electric bulbs and multi–coloured lamps.
The last stanza of the poem culminates the motif. The cyclic interdependence of life in death and death in life in action which ceases to be action. 'Life that falls close to death', there is love with indifference and detachment.
The bed is open : the toothbrush hands on the
wall,
Put you shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.
The last twists of the knife. (76-78)
It is clear from the above discussion that "Rhapsody of the Windy Night" is an important poem from the point of view of delineation of the woman character with metaphorical magnificence. The idea of cultural disintegration, the milieu of waste, indifference and detachment. The woman in the poem plays a very important role in delineating the cultural disintegration, social disorder and spiritual vacuum. "Rhapsody on a Windy Night" says I.C.C. Mays, 'charts a progress through the night towards a mounting stair, and then nothing' (p. 112). The nothing out of dross and chaos is represented aptly by the woman in the poem.

Critical Analysis of Eliot’s Preludes

"Preludes" further ratifies a distinct symbolic worth of woman in the poetry of Eliot. "Preludes" I & II were written in October 1910 and III was written in July 1911 in Paris and IV in November 1911 at Harvard. In "Preludes" there is no direct involvement of a woman character, but, the second person pronoun often reminds us of the presence of a woman around the speaker.

"Preludes" are conspicuous for harmony of mood and tone. "Preludes" put–forth a world of sufferings, a hysteria and neurosis defined around the woman who is also a listener . Urban images occur again with implications of waste and wild, and the woman serves to define an urban hell around herself. The opening lines of Preludes II ratify the idea of urban hell. The morning comes to consciousness,

Of faint stale smell of beer

From the saw–dust trampled street

Will all its muddy feet that press

To early coffee stands.

With the other masquerades

          (14–19)

The opening of Preludes III immediately alarms us about the presence of a woman dressed in dross and waste:

You tossed a blanket from the bed.

You lay upon your back and waited :

You dozed, and watched the night revealing.

The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted.

                                                                     (24–29)  

The images of suffering, loneliness and isolation become more transparent in Preludes IV.

        Wipe your hand across your mouth and laugh :

The  worlds  revolve  like ancient women gathering

                      fuel in the vacant lot (52-54)

F.R. Leavis rightly points out that Eliot "notes the nervous tension and suppressed hysteria of this world of frustrated  rudderless cultured well to do people" (Lewis Pursuit, 69). The views of F.R. Leavis sum up the real picture of Europe in the first two decades of this century. 

Works Cited

Lewis, F.R. The Common Pursuit. London : Chatto and Windus, 1959.