BY DR. RAM SHARMA, MEERUT
In Arundhati Roy Roy's novel, The God of small Things, the laws of India's caste system are broken by the characters of Ammu and Velutha, an Untouchable or Paravan. Velutha works at the Paradise Pickles and Preserves Factory owned by Ammu's family. Yet, because he is an Untouchable, the other workers resent him and he is paid less money for his work. Velutha's presence is unsettling to many who believe he acts above his station. His own father notes this problem: "Perhaps it was just a lack of hesitation. An unwarranted assurance. In the way he walked. The way he held his head. The quiet way he offered suggestions without being asked. Or the quiet way in which he diesregarded suggestions without appearing to rebel" (73).
When Velutha has an affair with Ammu, he breaks an ancient taboo and incurs the wrath of Ammu's family and the Kerala police. He breaks the rigid social rules of the caste system and therefore, the authorities must punish him. Roy describes the policemen's violent actions as being done out of fear, "...civilization's fear of nature, men's fear of women, power's fear of powerlessness"(292). The division between the Touchables and Untouchables is so ingrained in Kerala society that Velutha is seen as a nonhuman: If they hurt Velutha more than they intended to, it was only because any kinship, and connection between themselves and him, any implication that if nothing else, at least biologically he was a fellow creature--had been severed long ago. (293)
Traditionally, a woman who has had sex with a man from a lower caste would be expelled from her caste. The reason such scandal is caused by the affair of an Untouchable and a Touchable woman might be difficult for some American readers to grasp. Reviewer Patrick Sullivan claims that "an excellent parallel would be a wealthy Southern white woman falling in love with a black man"(Sullivan).
When Arundhati Roy won the Booker in 1997, many in the British literary establishment were outraged. Here was a writer who obviously did not fit into any of their categories for black writers. She did not have an upper-class British education and she could not be portrayed as imitating any British or European novel. And they had a sneaking suspicion that she hadn't even read the 'clever boys' of Eng. Lit., which was why her sophistication and literary skill were an affront. Not only that, but her preoccupation with social oppression and abuse - and the anger with which this was expressed, lacked the distance and cynicism which was so reassuring in their favourite contemporary writers. The same people who had embraced Salman Rushdie as one of their own saw Arundhati Roy as an offensive manifestation of the 'other'. If this was white upper-class patriarchy expressing its displeasure - even though often in the voices of women critics - in India, Arundhati Roy faced a storm of criticism of a different kind. Here too it was essentially patriarchal but it came from established intellectuals of the CPI(M), the party which has been in power in Kerala and West Bengal. The article below was written in response to the Indian critics. It first appeared in 'Liberation' in January 1998.
'On the next bed, his niece and nephew slept with their arms around each other. A hot twin and a cold one. He and She. We and Us. Somehow, not wholly unaware of the hint of doom and all that waited in the wings for them. They dreamed of their river. Of the coconut trees that bent into it and watched, with coconut eyes, the boats slide by. Upstream in the mornings. Downstream in the evenings. And the dull, sullen sound of the boatmen's bamboo poles as they thudded against the dark, oiled boat wood. It was warm, the water. Greygreen. Like rippled silk. With fish in it. With the sky and trees in it. And at night, the broken yellow moon in it.'
Perhaps only the writer's own words are appropriate to introduce an article on Roy's 'The God of Small Things'. Certainly it has sometimes seemed recently as if the words of the novel itself are being drowned out as the global media loudly celebrates Roy's 'fairy tale literary debut'(which culminated in the recent announcement of the Booker Prize), often appearing more interested in marketing her image than in the contents of the book. For the mainstream media, Indian and international, Arundhati Roy is simply the latest and brightest star in the new firmament of Indian writers in English, a group for whom a global market has been developed in the 1990s in much the same way as it was for African American women writers in the 1980s.
William Wordsworth was born on 7 April 1770 in Cockermouth, Cumberland, in the Lake District. His father was John Wordsworth, Sir James Lowther's attorney. The magnificent landscape deeply affected Wordsworth's imagination and gave him a love of nature. He lost his mother when he was eight and five years later his father. The domestic problems separated Wordsworth from his beloved and neurotic sister Dorothy, who was a very important person in his life.
With the help of his two uncles, Wordsworth entered a local school and continued his studies at Cambridge University. Wordsworth made his debut as a writer in 1787, when he published a sonnet in The European Magazine . In that same year he entered St. John's College, Cambridge, from where he took his B.A. in 1791.
During a summer vacation in 1790 Wordsworth went on a walking tour through revolutionary France and also traveled in Switzerland. On his second journey in France, Wordsworth had an affair with a French girl, Annette Vallon, a daughter of a barber-surgeon, by whom he had a illegitimate daughter Anne Caroline. The affair was basis of the poem "Vaudracour and Julia", but otherwise Wordsworth did his best to hide the affair from posterity.
n 1795 he met Coleridge. Wordsworth's financial situation became better in 1795 when he received a legacy and was able to settle at Racedown, Dorset, with his sister Dorothy.
Encouraged by Coleridge and stimulated by the close contact with nature, Wordsworth composed his first masterwork, Lyrical Ballads, which opened with Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner." About 1798 he started to write a large and philosophical autobiographical poem, completed in 1805, and published posthumously in 1850 under the title The Prelude.
Wordsworth spent the winter of 1798-99 with his sister and Coleridge in Germany, where he wrote several poems, including the enigmatic 'Lucy' poems. After return he moved Dove Cottage, Grasmere, and in 1802 married Mary Hutchinson. They cared for Wordsworth's sister Dorothy for the last 20 years of her life.
Wordsworth's second verse collection, Poems, In Two Volumes, appeared in 1807. Wordsworth's central works were produced between 1797 and 1808. His poems written during middle and late years have not gained similar critical approval. Wordsworth's Grasmere period ended in 1813. He was appointed official distributor of stamps for Westmoreland. He moved to Rydal Mount, Ambleside, where he spent the rest of his life. In later life Wordsworth abandoned his radical ideas and became a patriotic, conservative public man.
In 1843 he succeeded Robert Southey (1774-1843) as England's poet laureate. Wordsworth died on April
23, 1850.
How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by Storms to the cold
Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course
to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange
things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to
his own Country.
I.It is an ancyent Marinere,
And he stoppeth one of three:
"By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye
"Now wherefore stoppest me?"The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide
"And I am next of kin;
"The Guests are met, the Feast is set,--
"May'st hear the merry din.--But still he holds the wedding-guest--
There was a Ship, quoth he--
"Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale,
"Marinere! come with me."He holds him with his skinny hand,
Quoth he, there was a Ship--
"Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon!
"Or my Staff shall make thee skip."He holds him with his glittering eye--
The wedding guest stood still
And listens like a three year's child;
The Marinere hath his will.The wedding-guest sate on a stone,
He cannot chuse but hear:
And thus spake on that ancyent man,
The bright-eyed Marinere.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: -
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -and gazed -but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils
I Travelled Among Unknown Men
I travelled among unknown men
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.Rob Roy's Grave
The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave
is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small
Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate
appearance, which the Traveller meets with in the
Highlands of Scotland.
A famous Man is Robin Hood,
The English Ballad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a Thief as good,
An Outlaw of as daring mood,
She has her brave ROB ROY!
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chaunt a passing Stave
In honour of that Hero brave!Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart,
And wondrous length and strength of arm: 10
Nor craved he more to quell his Foes,
Or keep his Friends from harm.Yet was Rob Roy as _wise_ as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong;--
Poet worthy of Rob Roy
Must scorn a timid song.Say, then, that he was wise as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
_He_ sought his moral creed. 20Said generous Rob, "What need of Books?
Burn all the Statutes and their shelves:
They stir us up against our Kind;
And worse, against Ourselves.""We have a passion, make a law,
Too false to guide us or controul!
And for the law itself we fight
In bitterness of soul.""And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few: 30
These find I graven on my heart:
_That_ tells me what to do.""The Creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
In peace, and peace of mind.""For why?--because the good old Rule
Sufficeth them, the simple Plan,
That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can." 40"A lesson which is quickly learn'd,
A signal this which all can see!
Thus nothing here provokes the Strong
To wanton cruelty.""All freakishness of mind is check'd;
He tam'd, who foolishly aspires;
While to the measure of his might
Each fashions his desires.""All Kinds, and Creatures, stand and fall
By strength of prowess or of wit: 50
Tis God's appointment who must sway,
And who is to submit.""Since then," said Robin, "right is plain,
And longest life is but a day;
To have my ends, maintain my rights,
I'll take the shortest way."And thus among these rocks he liv'd,
Through summer's heat and winter's snow:
The Eagle, he was Lord above,
And Rob was Lord below. 60So was it--_would_, at least, have been
But through untowardness of fate:
For Polity was then too strong;
He came an age too late,Or shall we say an age too soon?
For, were the bold Man living _now_,
How might he flourish in his pride,
With buds on every bough!Then rents and Factors, rights of chace,
Sheriffs, and Lairds and their domains 70
Would all have seem'd but paltry things,
Not worth a moment's pains.Rob Roy had never linger'd here,
To these few meagre Vales confin'd;
But thought how wide the world, the times
How fairly to his mind!And to his Sword he would have said,
"Do Thou my sovereign will enact
From land to land through half the earth!
Judge thou of law and fact!" 80"Tis fit that we should do our part;
Becoming, that mankind should learn
That we are not to be surpass'd
In fatherly concern.""Of old things all are over old,
Of good things none are good enough:--
We'll shew that we can help to frame
A world of other stuff.""I, too, will have my Kings that take
From me the sign of life and death: 90
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
Obedient to my breath."And, if the word had been fulfill'd,
As _might_ have been, then, thought of joy!
France would have had her present Boast;
And we our brave Rob Roy!Oh! say not so; compare them not;
I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
Would wrong thee no where; least of all
Here standing by thy Grave. 100For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,
Wild Chieftain of a Savage Clan!
Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
The _liberty_ of Man.And, had it been thy lot to live
With us who now behold the light,
Thou would'st have nobly stirr'd thyself,
And battled for the Right.For Robin was the poor Man's stay
The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand; 110
And all the oppress'd, who wanted strength,
Had Robin's to command.Bear witness many a pensive sigh
Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays
Alone upon Loch Veol's Heights,
And by Loch Lomond's Braes!And, far and near, through vale and hill,
Are faces that attest the same;
And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,
At sound of ROB ROY's name.
The Solitary Reaper
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.No Nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands 10
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands:
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago: 20
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listen'd till I had my fill;
And, as I mounted up the hill, 30
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
Stepping Westward
While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of
Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our
road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had
been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met,
in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region,
two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by
way of greeting, "What you are stepping westward?"
_"What you are stepping westward?"--"Yea_."
--'Twould be a wildish destiny,
If we, who thus together roam
In a strange Land, and far from home,
Were in this place the guests of Chance:
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a Sky to lead him on?The dewy ground was dark and cold;
Behind, all gloomy to behold; 10
And stepping westward seem'd to be
A kind of _heavenly_ destiny;
I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
Of something without place or bound;
And seem'd to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native Lake:
The salutation had to me
The very sound of courtesy: 20
It's power was felt; and while my eye
Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
The echo of the voice enwrought
A human sweetness with the thought
Of travelling through the world that lay
Before me in my endless way.
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