(SUNY Series in Hindu Studies) Handoo, Lalita - Bottigheimer, Ruth B. - Prasad, Leela - Gender and Story in South India-State University of New York Press (2006) PDF

Gender
and Story
in South
India
E D I T E D BY
LEELA PRASAD
RUTH B. BOTTIGHEIMER
LALITA HANDOO
Gender and Story in South India
SUNY series in Hindu Studies
Wendy Doniger, editor

Gender and Story in South India
Edited by
Leela Prasad
Ruth B. Bottigheimer
Lalita Handoo
State University of New York Press

Cover image: Folk Ramayana on Kalamkari (detail) personal collection of
Harriet Vidyasagar, editor, outofindia.net.
Published by
State University of New York Press, Albany
© 2006 State University of New York
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gender and story in South India / edited by Leela Prasad, Ruth B.

Bottigheimer, Lalita Handoo.
p. cm.— (SUNY series in Hindu Studies)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-7914-6871-2 (alk. paper)
1. Tales—India, South—History and criticism. 2. Folk literature—India,
South—History and criticism. 3. Women in literature. 4. Gender identity
in literature. I. Prasad, Leela II. Bottigheimer, Ruth B. III. Handoo,
Lalita.
GR305.5.S68G46 2006
398.20954'8—dc22
ISBN-13: 978-0-7914-6871-5 (alk. paper)

2005033337
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
Acknowledgments vii
1. Anklets on the Pyal: Women Present Women’s Stories from 1

South India
Leela Prasad
2. The Son-in-law Story: Gender and Genre 35

Lalita Handoo
3. The Role of Gender in Tale-Telling Events 55

Saraswathi Venugopal
4. Voiced Worlds: Heroines and Healers in Muslim Women’s 67

Narratives
K. V. S. Lakshmi Narasamamba
5. Transformation of Gender Roles: Converging Identities in 87

Personal and Poetic Narratives
P. S. Kanaka Durga
Afterword 141
Ruth B. Bottigheimer
Contributors 143
Index 147
v
Map of Modern India
SOURCE: Office of the Registrar General, India

Acknowledgments
Essays by P. S. Kanaka Durga, Lakshmi Narasamamba, Lalita Handoo, and

Saraswathi Venugopal were presented at the XIth Congress of the Interna-
tional Society for Folk Narrative Research (ISFNR), hosted by the Central
Institute of Indian Languages in Mysore. Very different versions appeared
in 1999 in Folklore and Gender, edited by Lalita Handoo and Ruth B. Bot-
tigheimer, as volume 6 in a series overseen and edited by Jawaharlal Handoo
and published by Zooni Publications in Mysore. As per the requirements of
an earlier contract for that volume, Lalita Handoo’s name is incorporated in
this volume as editor. The book is the culmination of a sustained interaction
between the authors of the essays and Leela Prasad over a decade and across
continents.
RBB
vii
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1
Anklets on the Pyal:
Women Present Women’s Stories
from South India
LEELA PRASAD
Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
Effortlessly
May you overcome troubles
Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
A girl is born, a swan is born

A boy is born, a pearl is born
Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
Do not weep, do not weep, my silly little girl

If you weep, your eyes will flow with tears
Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
Do not weep, do not weep, my silly little girl

I cannot bear to see tears flow from your eyes
Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
Let it be milk instead that flows from your golden eyes

Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
Bogeyman, come here, weaving your baskets

Give us the little girl in your basket and go
Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
I am grateful to Ruth Bottigheimer and Pika Ghosh for help in fine-tuning this intro-
ductory chapter. Any discordant notes that remain are mine.
1
2 Gender and Story in South India
Hayamma, Bayamma, sisters

–
Igamma, Do– mamma, co-sisters
Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
Cinnarõ–, Ponnarõ–, come little Srõ– Laksmõ–

Come Adi Laksmõ–, come and play with mother
Sri Rama, victorious Rama, beautiful Rama

Tell me, who is Rama? Sita of the Raghavas!
Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
Has the little girl out at play come back?

I hear anklets on the pyal
Ululuuluulu-a, hayi
his Telugu cradle song1 that I have heard and sung many times
T comes to mind as I write the introductory chapter of this volume.

Perhaps because it is a woman’s song, perhaps because it is sung
by women, or perhaps because it addresses a girl child. Or perhaps simply
because it links me to my mother, to my grandmother before her, to my
daughters after me—and calls up the remarkable crisscrossing ways in
which women in India assimilate “women’s experiences” and arrive at self-
understandings that are deeply shared despite their divergences and fluid-
ity. This volume, one might say, is about divergences and fluidity that, in
the main, take South Indian locales: in Andhra Pradesh, the Eastern Go-
davari district, Hyderabad city, and the village of Chavarambakam in Chit-
toor district; in Tamilnadu, Uttumalai in Tirunelveli district and Madurai
city; and various parts of Karnataka, Konkan, Pondicherry, and Kerala.2
These essays on women-centered narratives draw on stories and songs
heard and narrated, of literatures remembered, of practices observed and
absorbed, and of distances traveled and felt, to explore connections be-
tween the social and the imagined worlds of women in India. Thus gender
converses with other aspects of identity: men and women are also Shi’a
Muslims, or from the Golla [cowherd] community, or urban-dwelling, or
university educated.
The emotional power of the cradle song comes not only from its al-
literative melody, but also from its unselfconscious empathy with women’s
worlds and its female-oriented poetic. The mother, singing the song, asks
Anklets on the Pyal 3
for divine protection as she celebrates the birth of a child. The child, girl
or boy, is as precious, rare, and pure as a swan or a pearl, both things of
great beauty, one connoting gracefulness and the other, wealth. The
mother empathizes with her baby daughter—sorrow for a daughter is sor-
row for a mother—but like the many women narrators in this volume, she
is aware of women’s predicaments beyond her own when she seeks “the
girl in the basket” of the bogeyman [bu– civada]. . Is this girl in the basket
abandoned, is she unwanted, or is she just a plaything? Whichever she may
be, she is wanted, to be included with “us.” The mother points her daugh-
ter toward worlds peopled by womenfolk: in the natal home are Hayamma
–
and Bayamma, her sisters, and in the conjugal home, Igamma and
Do– mamma will be her cosisters, or wives of her brothers-in-law. Tellingly,
while the names Hayamma and Bayamma are comforting (one of the
meanings of hayi is comfort), õ–ga, the word for housefly, and do–ma, the
word for mosquito, suggest that female company in the conjugal home
may not be congenial, in fact, even annoying.
The child (endearingly called “cinnari, ponnari”) is addressed as
Laksmõ– , using an affectionate form of address commonly reserved for little
girls who are considered bringers of prosperity. While extolling Rama, the
prince-god of the epic of the Ramayana, in traditional praise-language as vic-
torious and beautiful, the mother teasingly asks Sõ–ta of the Raghavas (Rama’s
dynasty) who Rama is. Or does the mother also remind us gently that Rama
can be recalled by turning to Sõ–ta? Female presences are strong, and, as
Narayana Rao shows, women’s Ramayana songs from coastal Andhra
Pradesh tell us a “Ramayana of their own.”3 Prominent in brahman women’s
songs are not the heroic martial adventures of the Valmõ–ki Ramayana, but
the day-to-day events in the lives of the women of the Ramayana. “Non-
brahman songs,” evincing even less interest in Rama when compared to
Ravana, also similarly sympathize with Sõ–ta, although their critique targets
men of the upper caste in whose fields they work (Narayana Rao 1991).
This chapter’s title is inspired by the final lines of the song and suggests
how this volume has been imagined. The mother in the song hears anklets on
the pyal, the sound reminding her of a daughter out at play who is perhaps re-
turning home. In older homes in South India, the pyal is a raised platform
made of stone or wood that runs alongside the main door. Either enclosed
or opening into a courtyard or a street, the pyal is used for activities such as
casual socializing and leisure, for summertime resting, for children’s play, and
for bargaining with itinerant vendors. Culturally, the pyal is a rich metaphor
for multipurpose space that is at once inner and outer, at once akam (inner)
and puram (outer), and claimed by men, women, and children alike.5
One of the first gifts a girl child in South India receives is a pair of sil-
ver anklets (andalu– or pa.t.talu– in Telugu). The anklet indexes female own-
ership, is integral to the aesthetic of everyday or ceremonial adornment,
accentuating femininity, and is an intimate and necessary detail in perfor-
mative arts like dance. Simultaneously, however, the anklet implies subtle
and looming differences in class, social status, and symbolic value, differ-
ences that have been evocatively treated in poetic imagination. In I.lanko
Atika
. .l’s extraordinary Tamil epic of the fifth century C.E., Cilappatikaram,
the “epic of an anklet,” a gem-filled anklet becomes an instrument of
truth. R. Parthasarathy, in the introduction to his translation of the epic,
reflects on the symbolism of the anklet as it appears in different places in
the epic and with different owners. If at times it connotes female beauty
and chastity, or seductiveness, at other times, it evokes loss or widowhood
that culminates in rage, vengeance, and sexual energy. Kannaki, the hero-
ine, gives her anklet to her husband, Ko– valan, who takes it to the market
to exchange for money. Cheated by a greedy goldsmith, he is wrongfully
accused of having stolen the queen’s anklet and is executed by the king.
Distraught by the news, Kannaki proves to the shamed king that Ko– valan
was innocent: her anklet is filled with gems, while the queen’s is filled with
pearls. The enraged Kannaki, who becomes a fiery goddess, tears off her
breast and flings it at the city of Madurai, and Madurai is consumed in the
flames of her curse. At one point before Ko– valan’s execution is a poignant
and ironic scene in which the remorse-stricken Ko– valan, who has aban-
doned Kannaki for a courtesan, returns. Mistakenly thinking he needs
more jewelry to pamper the courtesan, Kannaki spontaneously offers, “My
anklets. Here! Take them” (Parthasarathy 1993: 92). The anklet is trans-
formed constantly in the epic but it also transforms the epic, and the same
can be said of folktales that tell this story.6
The anklets evoke overlapping worlds of memory, femininity, and
play, worlds that the narratives in this volume explore and interrogate. In
these narrative settings, female roles, and role-playing itself, are open to
scrutiny as they are enacted, enjoyed, suffered, reversed, or negotiated by
characters in the stories or by narrators themselves. Cultural types like the
son-in-law are laughed at, bawdy body lore is enjoyed, and overt misogy-
nist narratives are interrupted, endorsed, or reworked. The narratives are
exuberant in their sense of play. As studies of play demonstrate, play can
in fact marginalize players when it cloaks unequal power relations and
makes frames fuzzy and the playing-field unclear (Lindquist 2001). But
play also indicates creativity, freedom to become, and a place where cri-
tique is possible (Bateson 1972; Sutton-Smith 1997).
The four following essays recount and analyze stories that are unified
by A. K. Ramanujan’s understanding that women-centered narrative is one
that is narrated by women, is shared among women, is about women, or is
a varying combination of these (1991). This, however, does not exclude
men’s voices and men’s presence in the storytelling and conversational set-
tings that the essays discuss. Ramanujan uses a Kannada story about a
woman told by women to suggest the following characteristics of women-
centered tales: (1) heroines are either already married or marry early, and
with marriage begin trials; (2) symbols that may appear in animal- or in
male-centered tales take on different meanings in women-centered tales
countering “constructs and stereotypes”; (3) the stories typically illustrate
female creativity and agency that reflect women’s ability to tell and make
heard, an observation Ramanujan draws from Ruth Bottigheimer’s study
of the Grimms’ household tales (1987).
A PRELUDE FROM HASSAN, KARNATAKA
The label on my audiocassette reads: Lalitamba, Singer from Hassan,

Karnataka. 14 April 1995. Sringeri. It would have remained a casual entry
among the many I made during my fieldwork for another project, if it did
not unstring the memory of the itinerant woman singer in her midtwenties
walking down the street with her baby in a sling, a small harmonium on her
side, singing for her livelihood. Her vibrant, clear voice ignored the ca-
cophony of the traffic of Sringeri, a small but busy pilgrimage town of
southwestern Karnataka, as she sang “tavaru mane” songs (songs of a
woman’s natal home). The dismal realism of her songs and the resonant
pathos of her rendering have remained with me over the years. One song
was a plea to a bangle seller: Please go to my natal home, bangle seller / Come
back and tell me about the happenings there / But when you go, don’t tell them
that my life is being wrung out here. / Instead show them these symbols [ban-
.
gles] of my sumangali status.7 Another song’s refrain was, As long as mother
was alive / the natal home was ours. / After her death / God alone is our suc-
cor. I impulsively recorded a handful of her songs, of which I translate one
fully here. Her repertoire of that afternoon is directly in conversation with
the essays of this volume whose words and worlds eddy out into many
homes and lives across India. I reproduce this song also to finally acknowl-
edge our fleeting—and probably our only—encounter, deep for me, but in
all likelihood nothing for her. And perhaps too because the song and its
singer iconize that powerful itinerant process by which narratives by and
about women are told, half-told, or remain untold, are heard, half-heard,
overheard, or even not heard in Indian society. Itinerant narratives—as all
narratives at some point become as they discover newer and newer con-
texts—nevertheless leave profound, manifold impressions that shape per-
ceptions of the gendered universe.
Lalitamba—from the brief conversation we had before she moved on
to the next house—was from Hassan in central Karnataka, and made a liv-
ing from street-singing in different parts of neighboring Chikmagalur dis-
trict in Karnataka (where Sringeri is located). She knew about twenty songs
at that time, and was unsure about where she had learned them. Most of
these songs were about dilemmas of women caught between natal and con-
jugal affinities. My neighbor, a young mother of two boys who listened to
these songs along with me (we had been chatting when Lalitamba entered
our street) asked her why she sang only “tavaru mane haduga . .lu” [natal-
home songs]. Lalitamba replied, “It’s mostly women who listen to my
songs, and they ask for such songs” (April 1995).
After sending me away from my natal home8

don’t forget me, annaiyya [elder brother]
Never having seen a mother or father

We are orphans, o annaiyya
Annaiyya
don’t forget me, annaiyya
Who can I call “mother,” annaiyya?

Mother, father, kith and kin, in this life, you are all to me
Who can I call “mother,” annaiyya?

Mother, father, kith and kin, in this life, you are all to me
In this life, don’t weep on my account, annaiyya

In this life, don’t weep on my account, annaiyya
Being a muttaida9—in this life, that is enough for me

Annaiyya
After sending me away from my natal home

We are orphans, o annaiyya
Annaiyya
When I was a baby, you rocked me in the cradle

When I could speak and walk, you begged for alms and raised me
Getting me married to a blind man

you showed me the path to a town I had never seen
Annaiyya
After sending me away from my natal home

Orphan, that is me
The husband who tied my tha.li,10 he is god, annaiyya

Being a muttaide—in this life, that is enough for me
The money we scrape together is enough for us to eat and sleep

The road to my natal home is thorn-ridden, annaiyya
Annaiyya—
What can I give you in this life, annaiyya?

In the next birth, become my father, annaiyya
I will be born your son and repay my debt to you
I will be born your son and repay my debt to you
Annaiyya—
Annaiyya—
Lalitamba’s song highlights the emphases of the essays in this vol-

ume, which address South Indian kin worlds, women’s anguish amid a pa-
triarchal normative, and a multivocal ironic subjectivity that inverts but
also seeks continuities with the priorities of a male-centered world. The
song plays out the familiar push and pull between the natal home that a
married woman longs for and the conjugal one to which she is bound. The
marked absence of other women in the song emphasizes the isolation felt
by the female protagonist in the song. In this case, the brother, the an-
naiyya, is the natal home, and signifies all natal connections. From this
comes the desperation: “Don’t forget me, Annaiyye.” If metonymically the
brother is the natal family, he then bears the obligation of getting his sis-
ter married and helping her achieve the auspicious status of a muttaide
(married woman), an obligation that could potentially mark the closure of
his responsibility. But she reminds him that he must not forget that he is
also a brother, one who conventionally bridges natal and conjugal homes
for a sister. The brother, we learn, has brought her up through self-sacri-
fice and hardship, but has married her to a blind man, ironically showing
her “the path to a strange town.”
The female protagonist is constrained by a system of patriarchal
transactions and is dogged by material hardship, but clearly she is not ren-
dered voiceless. She articulates, through the use of irony, a sad critique of
the brother she loves. Her brother’s sense of inevitable duty has sacrificed
the only possession she has tangibly held: her sense of belonging. The rites
of marriage have initiated her into a second orphanhood, making her a
twice-born orphan. In a subtle, swift change in a line in the refrain (“Or-
phan, that is me” from “We are orphans”), she notes that they no longer
share a common predicament. The recurring line “in this life [ba.linalli]”
is double-edged. It emphasizes a culturally rich inheritance she has re-
ceived in this life—the status of muttaide—but an inheritance that has be-
come burdensome. The narrator uses the word “sakaiyya,” which I
translate as “enough for me” but the word also connotes being “fed up.”11
Dispossessed even of her natal home, the path to which is now thorn-
ridden, she asks her brother, “What can I give you in this life?” The answer
suggests that she also inherits also something she must carry over into the
next life: a debt. And it is a debt that cannot be repaid—unless she is born
a man, and unless her brother is reborn as her father. The debt can then be
repaid through the father-son relationship, considered by Hindu scriptures
a legitimate route for the dispensation of debt (pitr rna). Why is this debt
incurred at all when the brother has after all performed his duty? Perhaps
the answer to this question is partly in the earlier observation that roles
played out in life create moral meanings and transformations. The brother,
by performing the duty of a father, has created an additional constellation
of relationships with his sister. These relationships draw her into a different
orbit of affections and obligations. All kinds of shifts are necessary for the
debt to be repaid, it seems, and once again a very fine line is drawn be-
tween bonding and bondage. These shifts are implied in the semantic
polyphony of the word rna. And although the sister acknowledges the
magnitude of the brother’s stepping beyond his role, her critique is per-
haps enhanced by what she does not say. Why does she not say that she will
be born as his mother in the next birth? Does she feel that the brother has
done his duty perfunctorily, even callously, by committing her to a “blind”
man? Or does she feel that a life of reciprocated relationships is a privilege
available only to males, and hence were she able to choose her next birth,
she would choose the life of a son (but with a memory that can retrieve the
affections and mortgages of a previous female birth)?
Gloria Raheja and Ann Gold, presenting a rich selection of women’s
stories and songs from Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh (1994), also note that
frequently, what one encounters in women’s oral traditions is an ironic
commentary on the discourse of patriliny which demonstrates a “critical
awareness of [patriliny’s] contradictions. The irony in these songs does not
seek to displace that discourse entirely but to question its claim to exclu-
sive moral authority” (Raheja 1994: 105). Raheja and Gold similarly find
that morally and emotionally laden brother-sister ties are enacted in oral
narratives, and that these ties could also have considerable economic im-
plications as in elaborate gift-giving. Peter Claus observes that even in the
matrilineal society of Tulunad, in Karnataka, the brother-sister bond is
salient and the brother has a “strong moral obligation” to ensure the wel-
fare of his sister and her children (1991: 141). Indeed, brother-sister oblig-
ations carry over even to the children of the brother and the children of
the sister. In one paddana
. (women’s ritual narrative-songs sung in the
fields), the brother uses his moral bond with his sister to send her back to
her husband (Claus 1991).
While women-centered narratives cherish brotherly love, heroism,
and chivalry (celebrated in festivals like nagapanchami in Karnataka and
Andhra Pradesh and rakshabandhan in north India), they are all too aware
of the fragility of sibling ties. Thus, in this volume, in the essays by Kanaka
Durga (in “The Tale of the Sister’s Sacrifice” or “The Tale of De– vanamma”)
and Lakshmi Narasamamba (in the brother-and-sister tale), brother-sister
relationships take dangerous turns into competitive, incestuous, or exploita-
tive territories.
NARRATOR-WORLDS
Ethnographically situated folktale collections began to emerge as a

distinct genre in late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century in India, and
it is pertinent to note that many of these collections considered women to
be repositories of folk narrative. In 1868, an extraordinary collection of
folktales called Old Deccan Days, or Hindoo Fairy Legends, Current in
Southern India, was published by Mary Frere. Traveling in Southwestern
India with her father, Bartle Frere, then governor of Bombay Presidency,
Mary Frere collected stories from her ayah and traveling companion, Anna
Liberata de Souza, a Calicut-born Goan Christian who had settled in
Pune. The twenty-four tales in Old Deccan Days are preceded by several
layers of authorial narrative of which the longest is an autobiographical re-
flection in English by Anna de Souza that Mary Frere tells us she tran-
scribed. In this section titled “The Narrator’s Narrative,” Anna tells us
about events and choices in her life and about her relationships with her
mother, her grandmother, and her children. Although scores of folktale
collections followed Old Deccan Days in colonial India, unfortunately none
emulated Frere’s sensitive ethnographic methodology. Nevertheless, many
collectors acknowledged narration and narrative as a women’s expressive
domain, and collections like Alice E. Dracott’s Simla Folk Tales, or, Folk-
tales from the Himalayas, which comprised stories narrated by a wide range
of “village women belonging to the agricultural class of Hindus in the
Simla district” (1906: x) were published. But there were others that
claimed for their source single woman-tellers. L. B. Day, in the Preface to
his Folktales of Bengal writes that when R. C. Temple urged him to collect
and publish “unwritten” stories, Day “readily caught up the idea and cast
about for materials. But where was an old story-telling woman to be got?
I had myself, when a little boy, heard hundreds—it would be no exagger-
ation to say thousands—of fairy tales from that same old woman,
Sambhu’s mother . . .” (1883: viii). Eventually collecting twenty-two sto-
ries from a variety of narrators who include a Bengali Christian woman
(ten stories), two old brahman men (nine stories), an old barber (three sto-
ries), and his old servant (two stories), he concludes that he has “. . . rea-
son to believe that the stories given in this book are a genuine sample of
the old old stories told by old Bengali women from age to age through a
hundred generations” (1883: ix). In Indian Fairy Tales (1880), a note-
worthy successor to Mary Frere’s Old Deccan Days, a teenager, Maive
Stokes, presents stories narrated to her “by two Ayahs, Dunkni and
Muniya, and by Karim, a Khidmatgar [servant, orderly]” (Stokes 1880: v).

Muniya, we later learn is a “very white-haired old woman,” and Dunkni, a
younger woman who had heard the stories from her husband. Mary
Stokes, Maive Stokes’s mother, occasionally includes the narrators’ views
in the “Notes” to the collection. Pandit S. M. Natesa Sastri’s four-volume
Folklore of Southern India (1884) names its sources as his grandmother and
his stepmother. And yet, with the exception of Mary Frere’s collection, the
woman narrator appears in the folktale collection only to depart as soon
as the stories begin to unfold. This elusive depiction of the narrator, while
noting her as an inveterate storyteller, did not celebrate her lived life as a
woman. But one could argue that these folktale collections were not con-
cerned with the day-to-day materiality of the storyteller’s life, and conse-
quently they caulked the interactive spaces and moments in which
narrations happen, making invisible the storyteller’s verbal inventiveness.
The preference for narrative over narrator (and the symbiotic rela-
tionship between the two) becomes problematic in collections that explic-
itly claim stories as straightforward transcripts of cultural practice—a
position that overrules the world and work of imagination. Collections of
folktales published in recent decades (Beck et al. 1986; Ramanujan 1993;
1997), which also owe a debt to unnamed grandmothers, are, however,
more reserved about eliciting cultural “truths” from the tales, and seek in-
stead a robust appreciation of the tales as they engage with each other and
with other literatures and cultural sites. Illustrating this is Ramanujan’s ob-
servation: “A folktale is a poetic text that carries some of its cultural con-
text within it; it is also a traveling metaphor that finds a new meaning with
each new telling. . . . one should bear in mind that these tales are meant
to be read for pleasure first, to be experienced as aesthetic objects” (Pref-
ace, Ramanujan 1993).
Although the essays in this volume do not consciously align them-
selves with the bittersweet history of the characterization of female narra-
tors, they nevertheless speak to it. They reveal instead that rather than
silently departing from collections of narratives that claim female sources,
women narrators are present everywhere in the narrative experience
(whose beginnings and closures are incredibly elastic) and that gender is
forefronted (not backgrounded) in the making of cultural meaning. Fur-
ther, the essays in this volume written in 1995,12 share with recent works
in life history and narrative the insight that the intersections between a nar-
rator’s life and the stories she tells are not predictable or simplistically map-
pable, but that intersections do exist and can be dialogically explored by
researcher and narrator (Marriott 1989; Grima 1992; Mines 1994; Gold
1994; Narayan 1997). Moreover, “meanings” ascribed to stories by narra-
tors could change with the passage of time and with the gathering of fur-
ther life experiences. Other recent collections of essays on South Asian
expressive forms persuasively demonstrate the inexhaustible relevance of
the study of gender in everyday life (kinship, foodways, dress, commu-
nicative practices), sacred landscape, ritual, and performance traditions
(see, e.g., Blackburn and Ramanujan 1986; Claus, Handoo, and Pat-
tanayak 1987; Appadurai, Korom, and Mills 1991; Kumar 1994; Raheja
and Gold 1994; Feldhaus 1995; Busby 2000).13 This pervasiveness of gen-
der in quotidian economic and ceremonial life is treated with excellent, re-
flexive contextualization by Leela Dube in her work in the Lakshadweep
Islands and in Central India (2001). Lively debates on the politics of
ethnographic practice, and postcolonial critiques of knowledge-making
have helped scholars articulate a praxis that is historically situated and so-
cially sensitized (Marcus and Clifford 1986; Breckenridge and Van der
Veer 1993). But to “new” turns in ethnographic practice, feminist cri-
tiques have proved time and again that gender-blind cultural maps are
often simply products of optical illusion, if not cultivated blindness (for
elaborations, see Visweswaran 1988; Gordon and Behar 1995; John 1996;
Dube 2001). And as Margaret Mills notes, “Too often in critical-histori-
cal reviews, post-modern or not, ‘I didn’t see it’ is allowed to imply ‘It
wasn’t there’” (1993: 184). Fine-grained literature on feminist ethnogra-
phy and narrative reminds us that the speaking voices of women narrators
belong to living bodies of women, so that their narrating universe is thor-
oughly in conversation, back and forth, with self-perceptions, with other
persons, and with broader aspects of social life (Abu-Lughod 1993; Jordan
and Kalcik 1985; Dwyer 1978; Gluck and Patai 1991; Kumar 1994;
Narayan 1997; for example). The essays in this volume show that women
narrators not only exist alongside male narrators but that the alongside-
position is both vigorously competitive and cooperative.
In the essays by Handoo, Narasamamba, and Venugopal one is not
likely to find detailed self-reflection on the wheres, whys, and hows of the
author’s presence and agenda in her research setting. But perhaps these es-
says still remind us that co-presence, which is recognized today as existing
beyond the bounds of orally articulated discourse (e.g., Mills 1991), also
just as certainly exists beyond that which is cataloged, even “genred” by
reflexive ethnography. I find myself thinking about how reflexivity is a
process of partial and provisional disentanglement as we try to capture
those deep intersecting, overlapping, tumbling, and changing ways in

which we experience and understand our personhood. While I leave it to
readers to dwell on the shades of reflexivity one encounters in this volume,
it is nevertheless important to point out that the authors of this volume
draw on their lives in India as women for the interpretations they propose
in this volume. Their experiences as Indian women (shaped by their class
locations, alma maters, careers, and other forces) mean that they partici-
pate in self-conscious and subconscious ways, in whatever degrees of dis-
tance or involvement, and in cultural discourses and practices that
implicate womanhood in India.
Lurking near these affinities is a term that has been much debated in
folklore and anthropology: native. Critics point to the othering and essen-
tializing that underlie the use of this term as belied by colonial deploy-
ments of the category “native,” nationalist reappropriations of that same
label, and diasporic realities that complicate claims to native land (Ap-
padurai 1988; Malkii 1999; Narayan 1993; Srinivas 1976, 1998). But it
remains the case that shared arenas of experience or the perception (mu-
tual or one-sided) of shared experience makes it possible to “be native”
contextually and temporarily. As Mills observes, “One thing that gender
studies can add to the notion of social groups is the experiential decenter-
ing of social membership. Thus group membership for any one person be-
comes a Venn diagram of intersecting and superimposed circles of
interaction, not all of them face-to-face, as we see now, but all involving al-
ternative shared rules systems upon which assumed alternative shared sol-
idarities are played out” (1993: 176). Lalita Handoo’s observations about
the cultural salience of the son-in-law figure come from her observations
of cultural patterns, her reading of other folktale collections that link her
corpus to other regions in India, her participation in women’s gatherings,
and in everyday life in different parts of India. Lakshmi Narasamamba tells
us that being perceived as a Hindu woman interested in learning about
Muslim women’s lives (so that cross-cultural understandings could be
built) helped her establish connections in a Muslim community, but there
is little in her essay to suggest that the religious identities of researcher and
community superceded their gender identities. Thus her conversations
with Muslim women are not between “Hindu” and “Muslim” women,
but between women who share comparable life-experiences.
Kanaka Durga chooses quite consciously to document the stories
and songs of Rajamma, because she found her a “a simple woman, a replica
of the folk and of popular culture who carves a domain of her own. . . .”
The temptation to read this assessment as unproblematized othering by

a not-simple, not-folk researcher is preempted by Kanaka Durga’s complex
analysis of Rajamma’s repertoire in relation to her lifestory. Even more,
one realizes that the anthropological critique of the “Other” is not one
that is of central importance to Kanaka Durga or Rajamma, or one that af-
fects their relationship, which is evidently one of mutual respect, affection,
and continuity.
The fact that all the authors primarily present summaries of narratives
(Kanaka Durga also provides translations of narrative texts in the appendix
to her essay) pushes one to think critically about “summary” as an ethno-
graphic genre. While the summary format, hardly new, for reproducing oral
narratives may be a response to academic and publishing practicalities, one
wonders about how authors insert themselves into summaries of other peo-
ple’s narratives by selecting “luminous” details from what they hear or
record and by (re)organizing these details. What cultural continuities and
authority do researchers envisage as they summarize narratives they hear,
and transcribe moments of participation? What subtexts of personal experi-
ence guide these processes of summary, transcription and translation, and
what kinds of authorships are implicated? How do prior relationships (be-
tween narrator, researcher, audience) affect the production of summaries of
oral narratives such as those in this volume?
A central line of inquiry for all the authors revolves around the ways
in which narrators, most of whom are women in this volume, create and
explore points of dialogue, disagreement, and tension between the nar-
ratives they tell and the social realities in which they live. Thus, Lalita
Handoo considers the implications of pan-regional “narrating societies”
that share stories about the “stupid son-in-law.” Underlying Handoo’s
analysis, based on her fieldwork in Karnataka and Kashmir and on her ac-
quaintance with other regional collections, is the question of what one
can learn about women’s narrative voices in settings where narrators are
multiple and co-present, where they co-construct narratives actively, and
where the focus is not so much on a particular female narrator as on the
ambience generated by diffused female “authorship.” The settings for
Handoo’s study are mostly “domestic,” and the social occasion permits
bawdy joviality whose target is the sexually and intellectually inept son-in-
law. Conversely, Handoo asks, what does the tale type itself, pervasive as it
clearly is, say about female communities of narrators and listeners? She
speculates, “despite the son-in-law’s high social status in the Indian kin-
ship system, the popularity of stupid son-in-law tales in India indicates the
sensitive attitudinal status of both the son-in-law and the narrating soci-
ety that identifies itself with the girl’s family and probably with the female
sex as a whole.”
Handoo’s insight is in keeping with Joyce Flueckiger’s work, which
rigorously demonstrates connections between women’s statuses in actual
lives and female images in performed traditions. Flueckiger shows that in
Chhattisgarhi genres like bhojalõ–, dalkhaõ
.
–
, and sua nac, which Chhattisgarhi
residents claim to be distinctive to the region, women, either as performers
of songs and stories or as heroines of popular narratives, celebrate and enjoy
powers and potentialities through dramatic enactment (1996). In earlier
work, Flueckiger finds that women consistently appear in leading roles
across several Chhattisgarhi genres, and she relates this to the greater free-
dom, visibility, and status Chhattisgarhi women have when compared to
women in Uttar Pradesh. She says, “Freed from the restraints of upholding
the traditional ideology of a specific caste and promoting its martial ethos,
the epic in Chhattisgarhi . . . is closer to being a model ‘of ’ Chhattisgarhi
society than a model ‘for’ it. The epic is not, however, a mere reflection of
Chattisgarhi society. Rather, it is also an arena in which an alternative social
model is exposed, explored, and given voice” (1989: 53).
If certain contexts make female audiences and women tellers con-
verge for Lalita Handoo, in a sense pluralizing the female narrator, in
Saraswathi Venugopal’s essay, the narrator—for the audience—is part of a
broader landscape in which the depiction of gender in the narrative seems
to take precedence over the gender of the narrator. The two small, infor-
mal groups of Tamil men and women in the village of Uttumalai (in
Tirunelveli district) and the city of Madurai seem to diverge in their re-
sponses, not because of their geographical and economic particularities (as
Venugopal initially supposed they would), but because of their gender
identities. Venugopal wonders whether this holds lessons for other more
detailed and extensive studies of audience responses in tale-telling events:
Would women listeners elsewhere also cross so-called urban and rural di-
vides to respond similarly to narratives involving women? If they did,
would this comment not only on the gendered reception of audience
members, but also on the perception of gendered predicaments?
Lakshmi Narasamamba takes up the question of what powers can be
imagined to be held by oral narrative itself, and how those powers may or
may not be extended to, or assumed by, the narrator. She presents narra-
tives told by a number of women who range from a fourteen-year-old girl
to a trained ustadbi (Muslim religious storyteller) and by two elderly men
in a Muslim community in Eastern Godavari district in Andhra Pradesh.

She also includes stories narrated by a Muslim healer-couple in Hyderabad.
In her study, women narrators re-architect female doorways and spaces in
male-constructed domains, recognizing and restoring through expressive
traditions and activities the female agency of this world. In one story about
Bõ–bõ– Fatima, the saint and daughter of Mohammad, the reconstruction is
quite literal when Bõ–bõ– Fatima appears in a devotee’s dream urging women
to build a women-only dargah (a Muslim tomb of a saint). Narasamamba
learned during fieldwork that trespassers to this shrine are known to have
been evicted by swarms of bees! She concludes, “Women who perform and
carry on narrative traditions are not just passive bearers, but are custodians,
critics, reviewers, makers and remakers of societal structures.”
In Kanaka Durga’s essay, we see dramatic contiguities, or “conver-
gence,” to use her term, between the narrator’s day-to-day world, her
memories, and her vision of her years to come, and the stylized narratives
she performs. Kanaka Durga thus focuses on the storyteller’s repertoire.
Kirin Narayan, finding similar continuities between narrators and narra-
tives in her study in the Kangra region of Himachal Pradesh, writes,
A repertoire is a choice selection, assembled by chance, by occasions

for repeated hearing, by aesthetic predilection, and by themes com-
pelling to the teller. As a selective corpus lodged inside a mind and
shared by a sensibility, the tales in a person’s repertoire relate to each
other; they comment on, disagree with, and extend discussion on in-
terrelated themes. (1997: 212)14
Candid conversations between Kanaka Durga and Rajamma, a sixty-year-

old widow from the golla [cowherd] community in Chavarambakam vil-
lage in Chittoor district, Andhra Pradesh, not only tell us about the
rapport they come to share, but illuminate the crisscrossing dialogue be-
tween Rajamma’s life history and her narrative repertoire. Through
metaphors, poetic refrains, proverbs, and motifs, Kanaka Durga traces the
sinewy relationships between events Rajamma narrates and the experiences
she remembers of her life, and concludes “Narrators and narratives are not
separate entities. Narrators live in the narratives they tell. . . .” The tragic
death of one of Rajamma’s sons and the heartrending disappearance of an-
other relocate themselves as poetic subjects in Rajamma’s performed nar-
ratives. In so doing, Kanaka Durga comes to the understanding that the
transformation into poetic subjects perhaps consoles Rajamma because the
tragedies, which she relives day after day, cannot know closure.
TELLING ON SOCIETY
Natal and conjugal homes loom large in women-narrated stories, but

often, they are crowded. Or there is no room and yet plenty of space. My
own friendships in India and North America have brought home to me
that for many Indian women, self-expression and familial identifications
are frequently tested, even tortured, at the intersections of conjugal and
natal ties. At the same time, for other women, those very crossroads can be
empowering. What makes, or mars, such ties, and what makes them am-
biguous? As one can ask about the street singer Lalitamba’s song, what
transformations are implied with regard to (expected of, enforced on) a
woman’s subjectivity and her body as she negotiates the sites of multiple
familial loyalties? The narratives—or the summaries and retellings of
them—presented in this volume speak directly and passionately, with
humor and with feeling, to these questions. They ripple out to explore re-
lationships between husbands and wives, between daughters-in-law and
the conjugal family, between brothers and sisters, and between parents and
children, especially daughters. Complicating this kin world are rites of pas-
sage for women, rites whose normative persuasion the narratives interro-
gate and sometimes simply refuse.
Some of the narratives recounted in Lakshmi Narasamamba’s essay
most directly do this. In the stories she analyzes, the ultimate destiny of a fe-
male heroine—a flourishing tribe in women’s narratives—is not always mar-
riage but the acquisition of martial and intellectual prowess, something the
heroine demonstrates with gusto. Further, the route to marriage is off the
beaten track, and marital relationships are envisaged as egalitarian, as in the
story of the badshah’s daughter who successfully overcomes superhuman
hurdles and acquires magical powers.15 On the other hand, in Rajamma’s
narratives (in Kanaka Durga’s essay), which also depict strong women, mar-
riage, whether by choice or by force, is fraught with risks, vulnerabilities,
and ambiguities. Episodes of rape and incest in Rajamma’s stories provoke
one to ask more broadly how acts of violence against women are commit-
ted to collective memory and then appear in narrative.
The stories in this volume argue powerfully against one-dimensional
readings of systems of social rules. Complex kin relations discourage us from
imagining, for example, that the natal home is always a secure haven for a
woman. Rajamma narrates a story in which a married woman continues to
live in her natal home and is raped by her brother, but she also tells us a story
about an unmarried woman who pledges her soul and her body to her lover,
and the couple dies to keep their love. If there is the story in which a brother
rewards his talented sister with his kingdom only after he has clandestinely
tested her chastity, there is also the tale in which brothers sacrifice their sis-
ter but lose their entire clan when she curses them in retaliation.
Authoritarian imperatives, as wielded by “the in-laws,” are doomed
in laughter and ridicule in Lalita Handoo’s India-wide collection of narra-
tives about stupid sons-in-law. The genre targets the figure of the son-in-
law, who, synecdochically representing the conjugal family, is subjected to
periodic checks on his power. The resultant othering implies, Handoo ar-
gues, that conjugal authority is in fact critiqued and subverted by those
who seem to be its passive recipients (see also, kesýa songs in Raheja and
Gold 1994). Further, the bawdy humor that frequently accompanies son-
in-law tales punctures constructs of male sexuality by exposing the son-in-
law’s sexual ignorance and his fear of female sexuality. In the ludic space
created by son-in-law tale narrations, “. . . resistance may be overt, or en-
tertained unconsciously, by inverting the accepted frames of normality, by
turning into a laugh what authority considers sacred, or by offering propo-
sitions that are a-moral [sic]” (Lindquist 2001: 22). A Kannada song, sung
in my mother-in-law’s family, comes to mind for it engages in telling ways
with Handoo’s narratives:16
Our brother-in-law went to Kashi17

In a boat made of steel
To get lots and lots of Ganga
In a mosquito net
O! At the pleasure of meeting

her sister, Yamuna devõ–
Ganga devõ– swelled and surged
And flailed and thrashed the boat.
Brother-in-law cried bitterly!
Our brother-in-law went to Kashi

In a boat made of steel
To get lots and lots of Ganga
In a mosquito net
O! The boat struck a rock and split open

The mosquito net fell on brother-in-law
And the rock struck him on his jaw
With all dreams of Kashi being dashed
Very grateful to have saved his mustache

Brother-in-law returned home.
Gender-specific roles, as allocated by patriarchal worldviews, are re-

cast, and follow entirely new social scripts, in the process critiquing not just
roles but role-making itself. One of Saraswathi Venugopal’s narratives ex-
ploits the well-known perception that a daughter-in-law brings a particu-
lar kind of female competition into the household by reorienting
emotional ties, in particular those between mother and son, and brother
and sister, so that the narrative ends in the daughter-in-law’s dramatic re-
venge against the mother-in-law who has victimized her. Outside the con-
jugal frame, women’s resistance to patriarchy—itself a generalized term
that calls for contextual analysis—as Veena Oldenburg points out, is “not
a part-time or sporadic activity, but a way of life” (1991: 28; see also
Caughran 1999). The authors here agree enthusiastically. Handoo writes,
“Although . . . women seem to have tacitly accepted their assigned image
as the ‘weaker sex,’ the ‘oppressed,’ and bearers of suffering and humilia-
tion in the name of karma (destiny), they also seem to have, from time to
time, used humor to break the stereotypes of male wisdom and superior-
ity, and the subversion of these stereotypes is best attempted in the stories
about stupid boys and stupid sons-in-law.” Or, in Narasamamba’s words,
“Women are never silent when it comes to representing themselves in a
world which is often perceived as a ‘man’s world.’ These narratives indicate
that women use their voices to claim and safeguard their own space, which
is often invaded and appropriated by their male counterparts.” But the
space survives invasion, combats it, and frees it for women’s self-expres-
sion. In “The story of the Princess in the Golden Cow,” recounted in
Narasamamba’s essay, a mother prays for and gives birth to a girl child,
flouting her husband’s mandate against having female children, and is tri-
umphantly supported by her seven sons. Often, the notion of male-only
territory is shown to be specious as when women who become saints are
worshipped at their own women-only dargahs, or when women become
rulers of kingdoms, or doyennes, not victims, of domestic domains.
Intriguingly, alternative destinies in these narratives do not seem to
include caste-ordered worlds. Communities of listeners engage with nar-
ratives and narrators, and in audience interactions provide metanarratives
that comment on actual experiences of gender in society. Venugopal’s essay
draws attention to instances during which metanarratives are interactively,
spontaneously, and spiritedly composed. While performance analyses have
been cognizant of the tremendous roles played by audiences in shaping the

performed “text” or in shaping retellings (Bauman 1984), what Venu-
gopal’s essay does is to explore how one might locate the playing out of
gender in audience responses. When a tale is narrated about a victimized
Chettiyar, who—caught in the competition between his two wives—ulti-
mately has his legs broken by the two wives, the small, listening audience
reacts in different ways. A man remarks, “Only the second wife can be af-
fectionate!” and a woman says, “A man who has two wives deserves this
kind of treatment!” During the narration, this same woman cites a Tamil
proverb that means “Fighting between co-wives is bound to be terrible!”
How do negative—even ostensibly misogynist—remarks that women
make about themselves register on narrators and listeners, and how does
gender moderate misogynist discourse in oral narrative settings? Or as
Margaret Mills asks, perhaps the question ought to be, what does the con-
text of such a remark’s usage tell us about its lived meaning for women? To
elaborate, Mills describes how her Afghan woman friend used in conver-
sation what seemed to Mills a misogynistic proverb, “Women are seven
steps ahead of the devil.” However, when Mills reflects on the economi-
cally stressed and emotionally charged familial circumstances in which the
friend had employed the proverb, she concludes that in fact, the friend,
rather than seeking to perpetuate negative stereotypes about women, used
the proverb to defiantly indicate the potential power that women held
(Mills 2000). So, returning to the Tamil proverb cited above, one could
explore whether other contexts of the proverb’s use makes it a comment
about a women’s competitive protection of conjugal spaces?
In Venugopal’s study, audience responses include differences in in-
terpretation, allusions to personal situations, interjections that demand
that narrative details be altered, and comments about the social veracity of
narratives heard, as well as laughter, and silence—all of which suggest mo-
ments in the lives of listeners, rather than indicate an unchanging collec-
tivity. Nevertheless, these moments are important because they reveal
emergent negotiation and dialogue between men and women about gen-
der relations. We are reminded of James Taggart’s finding that oral narra-
tions of folktales in Spanish villages in the Cáceres region display variations
that are tailored by the gender of the teller, and by participation from the
audience. He says, “The narrators, who hear of gender images in one tale,
will modify those same images in another tale as they attempt to illustrate
their views of gender relations and influence others. . . . The dialogue,
when taken in its entirety, contains many exchanges that mediate the
interlocked, and contradictory male and female world-views to facilitate
cooperation and the development of intimacy in courtship and marriage

life” (1990: 15). Venugopal’s audience-centered study has implications for
those countless storytelling exchanges, lengthy and momentary, that hap-
pen seamlessly, noneventfully almost, where interactivity is accentuated.
So it all seems to argue in the end, that it is somewhat hard to imag-
ine a narrator with no narrative, or narratives that succeed in evicting their
narrators (who are also obstinate beings), and—although less difficult to
conceive of—an imaginative audience who will not listen to stories. In fact,
A. K. Ramanujan tells us a Telugu folktale called “A Story in Search of An
Audience” (narrated by K. Katyayani in Hyderabad in 1988, and orally
translated by V. Narayana Rao) in which a series of busy people who do
not listen to an old woman’s story about the sun-god are punished with ill-
fortunes. The old woman’s story, whose telling and hearing are considered
auspicious (and mandatory) on a Sunday in the month of Magha, finally
finds an eager audience in the unborn girl child of a pregnant woman. For
having heard the story, she is blessed with magical powers and great for-
tune by Adinarayana, the sun-god, who himself comes to revive her dead
husband, the king. The story eventually becomes a permanent tradition
with tellers and hearers (Ramanujan 1991: 26–29).
IMAGES, COUNTERED AND CONNECTED
Discourse that marshals images of the ideal Indian woman and stip-
ulates everyday behavior for women is significantly differentiated but per-
vasive. Religious scriptures, ancient epic narrative, nationalist moral tracts,
sectarian code-books, colonial abstractions, and diasporic displays of com-
munity identity posit “the Indian woman” as the locus of the continuity of
tradition as well as of the march of modernity. Much of this discourse cen-
ters not on the materiality and specificity of women’s everyday lives but at
best on generic imaginations of gendered experience, relying on typifica-
tions of “women’s nature.” For a long time, as archival records of essen-
tialist projects of British colonial politics and Indian nationalism highlight,
the “woman’s question” was taken up not out of inherent interest in it,
but because it was tactical or politically expedient to invoke. For example,
the debates of a century ago about the practice of sat õ– [immolation of a
woman on her deceased husband’s pyre] expose the complex and multi-
ple political agendas of orthodox Hindu male supporters of the practice, of
British colonial administrators, and of nationalist reformers of “Hindu tra-
dition,” agendas, most of which were not concerned with the materiality
of the burning bodies of women—and even less with the lived circum-
stances of their social lives (Mani 1998). In more immediate memory,
Tanika Sarkar demonstrates that exclusionary Hindu and Muslim funda-
mentalist ideologies construct an immoral Otherness to augment political
positions and make the treatment of women the essence of moral differ-
ence between the two communities (1998). Anand Patwardhan’s docu-
mentary film, “The Hero Pharmacy” (1995), captures vividly the ways in
which parochial political and popular street rhetoric incorporates chauvin-
istic imagery that accentuates the social privileging of masculinity. At
the same time that one confronts such totalizing and sexist discourses in
India, it is important to share the caution expressed by feminist scholars
that culturally grounded gender inequities and economic asymmetries nei-
ther automatically confirm that women in so-called Third World countries
are silent suffering subjects of male ideology nor do they automatically al-
locate representing agency to “Western” feminists (Mohanty, Russo, and
Torres 1991).
Against contemporary political resurgence of “Hindu” ideologies
that institute a language of exclusive fraternity with starkly defined gender
roles, these essays take on added significance, joining other works that
hold up textured vignettes of everyday life in South Asia (Srinivas 1976;
Khare 1984; Trawick 1990; Kumar 1994; Wadley 1994; Mines and Lamb
2002). Women’s songs and stories, persuasive and passionate, powerfully
illustrate how authoritarian discourses are vulnerable to interruptions
when narrative avenues provide for everyday forms of resistance (Scott
1990). The authors in this volume, in pointing our attention to the wide
range of tones and themes evinced by the material they present, caution
against “a romance of resistance,” to borrow a phrase from Lila Abu-
Lughod (1990). To elaborate, Abu-Lughod asks, “How might we develop
theories that give these women credit for resisting in a variety of creative
ways the power of those who control so much of their lives without either
misattributing to them forms of consciousness or politics that are not part
of their experience—something like a feminist consciousness or feminist
politics—or devaluing their practices as prepolitical, primitive, or even mis-
guided?” She concludes, “Yet it seems to me that we respect everyday re-
sistance not just by arguing for the dignity or heroism of the resistors but
by letting their practices teach us about the complex interworkings of his-
torically changing structures of power” (1990: 55). Against this back-
ground, the essays in this volume bring together women’s narratives from
South India that propose normative worldviews that are thoroughly
embedded in the everyday detail of women’s material and spiritual lives,

lives in which love and fidelity are priorities, loyalties need not be polarized
or compromised, injustices wrought can be avenged, and self-expression
creates its own avenues against all odds.
Between narrators, narratives, everyday lives, and researchers, is a
story of intimacies. Rajamma says to Kanaka Durga, “My girl, I do not
know that all my tales are about women. . . . I have sympathy and concern
for women and their problems. I myself faced many troubles as a lonely
woman. I have to stand by the side of my family as if I were a man. So I
have a soft corner for the women who suffer in the world of males. I tell
such narratives and songs to the young girls and children in my leisure time
or in the agricultural fields or while grazing the cattle to enlighten them
about the nature of the world . . . I seek happiness in memorizing and per-
petuating them among the womenfolk.” Such intimacies are not only those
formed out of mirror images, but also out of dreams and other realities.
Lakshmi Narasamamba reflects, “I understand their stories as an ongoing
rehearsal in their voice world that helps them to take options, and make
choices, change social rules, and act according to these new rules within
their groups.” These reflections link women to other women across regions
and histories without eliding their personal locations. I found myself re-
membering the explanation of Urmilaji, Kirin Narayan’s storyteller-friend
in the Kangra region: telling stories helped her understand suffering. Clos-
ing this introductory chapter, I realize I have consciously drawn on the
words and lives of many women. I am also oddly drawn to a letter that my
father wrote for my birthday many years ago, after I had left India to study
in the United States, about how much I strongly resembled in tempera-
ment and looks his mother, who had died when he had been three years
old. They had both been very ill with a raging fever. I am always tantalized
by the “fact” that the anniversary of her death coincides with my birthday
in the Hindu calendar. Family lore tells me a story that my father also re-
called in his letter to me: “. . . My grandmother used to tell me that my
mother prayed that she should go but her son should be spared, much to
my grandmother’s disgust who apparently said, ‘Let the brat go but may
you be spared!’ ‘No, my son should live,’ was the desire of my mother and
so it happened. So she sacrificed her life for me. So strong was her attach-
ment to me that I daresay she waited to be reborn in my family. . . . Those
who had seen my mother and those who are around now still and have seen
you have remarked on the strong resemblance. . . . So this is your history. If
you stretch your memory, you can recall your grandmother’s life. . . .”
APPENDIX: TRANSLITERATION OF SONGS

TRANSLATED IN THE ESSAY
1. Telugu cradle song I recorded from Mrs. S. Nagarajan and Vijaya

Shankar, 7 February, 2002, Hyderabad, and New Delhi.
Ululuuluulu-a hayi
Hayi hayiga
Apadalu gayi
Ululuuluulu-a hayi
Adadi
. pu.t.tindõ– hamsa pu.t.tindõ–
Mogavadu
. pu.t.tinadu . mutyammu pu.t.tinadu
.
Ululuuluulu-a hayi
Edavaku edavaku veri na talli
–. .
Ediste
. nõ– ka.llo nõ–raru karu
Ululuuluulu-a hayi
Edavaku
. edavaku
. veri na talli
nõ– ka.l.lo nõ–raru karute ne–nu chu– dale
–
. nu
Ululuuluulu-a hayi
Palaina karave bañgaru ka.l.lu

Ululuuluulu-a hayi
– –
Bu civada
. ra ra but. talu-alluko
. ni
–
But. talo
. unna papanu makicci po ra
Ululuuluulu-a hayi
Hayamma Bayamma akka cellelu

Sridevõ– Bhudevõ– to– ti –
. kodallu
.
Ululuuluulu-a hayi
Cinnari Ponnari Sri Laksmõ– rave

Adi Laksmõ– rave amma to ada.
Sri Rama jaya Rama śringara Rama

Rame–mi kavalane raghavula Sita
Ululuuluulu-a hayi
Adapo
.
–
ye pilla vacceno ledo
–
Andala cappudaya
. arugu la mõ–da
Ululuuluulu-a hayi
2. Tavaru mane hadu . [song about the natal home] sung by Lalitamba,
itinerant folksinger from Hassan, Karnataka. Recorded in Sringeri,
Karnataka, 14 April 1995, Lalitamba.
Tavarinda ka.lisi nanna

maribe– da
. annaiyya
Tayi tande kanada tabbalõ– navaiyya
Annaiyya maribe– da annaiyya
Ammanendu kariyalu yaridare annaiyya

Tayi tande bandu ba.laga ba.linalli nõ–nayya
Ammanendu kariyalu yaridare annaiyya

Tayi tande bandu ba.laga ba.linalli nõ–nayya
Ba.linalli nanagagi a.labe– da annaiyya

Ba.linalli nanagagi a.labe– da annaiyya
Muttaida tanavu ba.linalli sakaiyya
Annaiyya maribe– da
. annaiyya
Tavarinda ka.lisi nanna maribe– da

. annaiyya
Annaiyya nanna maribe– da
. annaiyya
–
Maguvagi iruvaga tot. tilalli
. tu gide
–
Matu bandu nadedaga
. bikse be di
. sakide
Kannilladavarinda kankana va kat. tisi.
–
Kanada u rige dariyannu to– ride

. annaiyya
Annaiyya maribe– da
. annaiyya
Tavarinda ka.lisi nanna maribe–da annaiyya

Tali kat. tida

. ganda
. devaru annaiyya
Muttaida tanavu ba.linalli sakaiyya
Hidudu
. tanda hannavana indi . malaguvasi namagayya
Tavaru– ra darige mu.l.lade annaiyya
Annaiyya, nanna maribe– da

. annaiyya
–
I jañmadalli kodalu
. e–nirudu annaiyya?
–
Mundõ na jañmadalli tandeyagu annaiyya
. ninna rnavannu tõ risini
–
Maganagi hut. ti
. ninna rnavannu tõ risini
–
Maganagi hut. ti

. annaiyya

. annaiyya
3. Kannada song on dimwit brother-in-law.
Kaśige ho– da namma bava

Kabbinada do– nilõ–
Raśi raśi gange tarakke
So.l.le parde lõ–
O! tangi Yamuna de– võ– yo.la

Sangha vayitendu ubbi ubbi
Ganga devõ– ukki ukki
Bõ–si bõ–si do– ni kukki
Bava attaru bikki bikki!
Kaśige ho– da namma bava

Kabbinada do– nilõ–
Raśi raśi gange tarakke
So.l.le parde lõ–
. taki doni vodedu

–
O! bande .
–
So.l.le parde bavana badedu .
Bande
. douda . pat. tege
. hodadu.
Kaśi ase naśavagõ–
Mõ–se u.ldiddu eśto– vasi anta

Kaśi ninda bandaru bava
NOTES
1. See Appendix for transliteration of song-texts. For this song, see

song Number 1.
2. Lalitha Handoo’s essay is based on collections from various
regions of India. Her fieldwork, however, which also informs the essay, is
in Kashmir and Karnataka.
3. See also Usha Nilsson and Madhu Kishwar’s articles on lived
perceptions of Sõ–ta in Richman, 2000.
4. Narayana Rao notes that he gathered non-brahman songs from
published collections that do not mention the particular non-brahman
caste of the singers.
5. For more on akam and puram as performance genres, see
Ramanujan (1986).
6. Parthasarathy notes a variant folk legend, “Chandra’s Revenge”
recounted in Mary Frere’s Old Deccan Days (1868).
.
7. “Suma ngali” is a term denoting the status of a woman who is
considered auspicious because her husband is living. The status is con-
trasted to widowhood, a state considered depleted of auspiciousness.
8. Number 2 in Appendix.
9. The Kannada term, and a common cognate to many South
.
Indian languages, for “suma ngali.” See note 7 above.
10. Two small gold or metallic disks strung together with black
beads in a necklace worn by married Hindu women, signifying her mut-
taide status.
11. The now-dated practice of naming a girl “sakamma” or a boy
“sakaiyya” comes from the hope that one could stop whatever affliction
had been striking earlier children in the family. “Saku” is the word for
“enough.”
12. These essays were first presented at the XIth Congress of the In-
ternational Society for Folk Narrative Research (ISFNR) in Mysore, India
(January 1995).
13. For how performance-based approaches to the study of narra-
tive have helped widen the meaning of “context,” see, for example, Bau-
man 1976; Degh 1969; 1978; Dwyer 1978; Pentikainen 1978; Tedlock
1983.
14. See also Juha Pentikäinen’s 1978 Oral Repertoire and World View.
15. This story in Lakshmi Narasamba’s collection is strikingly simi-
lar to Joyce Flueckiger’s recounting of the oral epic of Lorik Canda, whose
cultural significance is remarkably different even in neighboring regions
of Uttar Pradesh and Chhattisgarh—the Chhattisgarhi epic depicts female
characters as prime movers of action, not because of their chastity, but be-
cause of their resourcefulness (Flueckiger 1989).
16. See Number 3 in Appendix.
17. The Kashi yatre [pilgrimage to Kashi] is a customary part of
South Indian weddings, during which the groom pretends to abandon the
wedding and seek sannyasa or renunciation in Kashi (Varanasi in North
India), the famous Hindu pilgrimage site. The groom is “persuaded” by
the bride’s father or by her brother that married life is superior to ascetic
life, and that together, the bride and groom can meet the challenges of life.
The groom “turns back” and the marriage ceremonies are resumed.
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2
The Son-in-law Story:
Gender and Genre
LALITA HANDOO
tupid son-in-law stories (ATU 1332, 1687, 16911), a subgenre of
S numskull tales, are a significant genre in Indian narrative tradition and

an important part of the oral tale repertoire of India. This subgenre
cuts across regional, social, linguistic, and ethnic barriers. Unlike fairy tales,
epics, and legends, this group of tales has not received the attention it de-
serves from folklore scholars. Investigations of its generic qualities, such as
its relationship with jokes, legends, anecdotes, humorous, and trickster tales
are necessary, as are studies of the origin, the functional aspects, and the in-
structional value of this important form of oral narrative. Confusion about
the genre boundaries of stupid son-in-law stories is evident in Aarne-
Thompson’s index itself. There trickster tales and other humorous anec-
dotes are listed under “Numskull Stories” and “The Stupid Man Stories”
despite the fact that numskulls and tricksters represent different worlds: in
one, the protagonist is stupid, in the other, he is superintelligent (if nega-
tively so). Nonetheless, stupid and trickster characteristics occasionally over-
lap in some numskull tales, especially in Indian numskull tales.
The barriers—culturally specific or purely symbolic—between the
normal and the numskull world can be classified as spatial, socioethnic, and
attitudinal or behavioral (Handoo 1983: 253–262). Spatial barriers be-
tween the normal and the numskull worlds in oral narratives are sometimes
drawn with geographical specificity, with well-defined locations, such
as Gotham in England, Chelm in Poland, Poshekhon in Russia, or Schilda
in Germany. In India, each cultural region has one or more well-defined
35
geographical locations inhabited by “stupids”: Bhainswala [a locality of

shepherds] in Haryana, Shikarpur in Punjab, Bhogaon [a cow-village] in
Uttar Pradesh, Kattazham in Kerala, Baro in Bihar, Alur and Tippanampatti
in Tamilnadu, and Moira in Goa. Undefined geographical locations also
exist, but they bear symbolic names like Tsotalahoom [asshole locality] in
Kashmir and Pedagaon in Maharashtra. And finally there are anonymous
numskull settlements symbolized by and represented by nonurban popula-
tions, such as villagers, peasants, and shepherds, where socioethnic barriers
are drawn between different social groups on the basis of socioeconomic
status and group customs.
Stupid tales are always told about “others,” whose otherness may be
defined in geographical, ethnic, social or kinship-related terms. In the ab-
sence of spatial and ethnic characteristics, stupid individuals or characters
are identified within the narrating society itself at the levels of family and
kinship by factors such as age, gender, and social hierarchies. In India, for
example, age and experience often symbolize wisdom, and old people are
always believed to be wiser. This attitude, also validated in narratives, reg-
ularly produces expressions such as the “old wise men of the village.” In
numskull tales particularly, stupidity is almost always attributed to younger
people, such as a stupid offspring of normal parents, and in terms of gen-
der, stupidity is associated with a stupid boy, a numskull spouse—generally
the male spouse, or a stupid son-in-law. It is interesting to note that many
Indian numskull tales, particularly the tales from Maharashtra, Goa, Kar-
nataka, and Andhra Pradesh, present fine examples of tales in which num-
skulls are characterized as males, such as stupid peasants, weavers, boys,
husbands, and—of course—stupid sons-in-law. However, some stupid
daughter-in-law tales of the “Literal Fool” type are reported from Tamil-
nadu, which may be indicative of the different kinship system and social
attitudes of the people of this region.
Despite the son-in-law’s high social status in the Indian kinship sys-
tem, the popularity of stupid son-in-law tales in India indicates the sensi-
tive attitudinal state of both the son-in-law and the narrating society that
identifies itself with the girl’s family and probably with the female sex as a
whole. The Sanskrit jamato daśamo griha [the son-in-law is the tenth
planet] and its vernacular equivalents give the son-in-law the status of the
tenth planet, which needs to be propitiated every now and then for one’s
well-being.2 Other equivalents of this expression are Kannada a.liya mane–
to.liya [the son-in-law washes away (the wealth of) the house] and the
Kashmiri zamtur gav turun kajawath [son-in-law is a cold pestle that
The Son-in-law Story 37
needs to be warmed up every now and then]. The son-in-law’s superior

position in his wife’s parental home, where his numskull behavior surfaces,
is culturally assigned. And it is this symbolically superior position that
makes his actions seem even more ludicrous.
Here I shall approach Indian “stupid son-in-law” tales from a gen-
dered perspective to examine their main characteristics, their distribution,
and their narrative structure. The stories I present here are from my field-
work in Kashmir and from the Mysore region of Karnataka, but I also
draw on collections made by other reseachers from various other regions
of India. These tales not only reflect the constitution of the gendered na-
ture of social life in India, but also seem to strongly express a “counter
system” as an element of female narrative. A. K. Ramanujan identified
some narratives as “women’s tales” and defined them as “such tales whose
protagonists are women—tales about mothers and daughters, mothers-
in-law and daughters-in-law, wives and concubines, fathers and daugh-
ters” (Ramanujan 1994: 34). Most of these tales detail the sufferings of
women at the hands of others, whether male or female. Although women
seem to have tacitly accepted their assigned image as the “weaker sex,”
the “oppressed,” and bearers of suffering and humiliation in the name of
karma [destiny], they also seem to have, from time to time, used humor
and subversion to attack stereotypes of male wisdom and superiority, most
evident in stories about stupid boys and stupid sons-in-law. Another ex-
pressive form employed by Indian women to break the stereotype of male
hegemony is the genre of the Sithne g õ–t, songs sung as a part of the mar-
riage ritual all over India. While it is priests who recite the Vedic hymns at
marriage ceremonies, it is women who generally sing folksongs including
the Sithne g õ–t.
In a Hindu wedding, the groom’s party is treated with great respect
and hospitality on its arrival at the girl’s parents’ home. The women, in
groups, welcome the groom’s party by singing humorous songs in which
the bridegroom is depicted as a fool, a buffoon, an ugly, dull, or bull-
headed man, or an animal such as a bull or a monkey. These songs also
ridicule the bridegroom’s relatives by abusing them and thus symbolically
inverting their roles and attributes. From a psychoanalytical point of view,
it is interesting to note that these songs might be helpful in reducing or
diffusing the tension inherent in the oppositions between the natal and the
conjugal families, displacement of the females, gender discrimination, and
the resultant harassment that seems to be concealed in the institution
of marriage itself. One can notice this kind of inversion or role reversal in
normal discourse as well. The verbal abuse in phrases such as mard adat-
sot (Kashmiri), mard mua or mua mard (Hindi, Punjabi)—which mean
“death to the male” or “dead male”—seem to emphasize the same point.
It is interesting to note that females do not use these verbal abuses as ex-
pressions of protest in male contexts, but rather in female contexts, and in
conditions of uncertainty.
Although the protagonists in stupid son-in-law tales are always
males, these tales seem to be the creation of a female fantasy that rejects
male hegemony, at least temporarily. In so doing, such fantasy character-
izes the son-in-law as a stupid, ignorant, illogical person, who is unable to
understand simple kinship relations, nondeductive logic and its applica-
tion, or even commonsense social behavior.
In my fieldwork, I found that stupid son-in-law tales are told pri-
marily by women in domestic settings to a group of women, which may
also occasionally include children of both sexes. Sometimes, I found that
a tale was reproduced as an allegory by a male either in a private or a pub-
lic setting. However, depending on the content of the tales, the gathering
may consist exclusively of women when the social context encourages shar-
ing of humorously obscene and bawdy stupid son-in-law tales. Under
these conditions, depictions of a son-in-law’s ignorance of sexual behavior,
his minimal sexual prowess, or his fear of female sexuality abound. Such
stories seem to reflect narrators’ strong resentment of gender inequities in
Indian society, and occasionally they suggest symbolic castration of the stu-
pid male hero. Some of these tales, including the one of the illiterate son-
in-law, who due to his stupidity makes his mother-in-law and her family
believe that his father-in-law is dead, seem to suggest the presence of a
kind of Oedipus complex in the deep structure of these tales (Handoo
1983, 1988a, 1994). Variants of such tales are prevalent in several regions
of India such as Karnataka, Goa, Assam, Bengal, Uttar Pradesh, Bihar,
Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, and Pondicherry. The regional culture shapes
the particularities of the tale determining, for example, the kinds of foods
or the geographical details mentioned in the tale. There is a clear differ-
ence between fairy tales and “Stupid Man Tales” (ATU 1675–1724), par-
ticularly stupid son-in-law tales: while fairy tales end with happy weddings
and kingdoms, stupid son-in-law tales begin with marriages and continue
with the sociocultural and behavioral problems that follow. That these tales
reflect the nature of gendered power relations in Indian society hardly
needs to be emphasized.
Stupid son-in-law tales, like other stupid tale types, are highly struc-
tured. In Proppian terms, these tales seem to be task-task resolved types,
with a set of five functions: (1) task, (2) reaction, (3) contrary result,
(4) mediation, and (5) positive result/task resolved (Handoo 1983,
1994). The hero of these tales is assigned a job or is given some instruc-
tions or advice in conformity with his new role as a son-in-law (task). The
hero follows the instructions literally (reaction) and makes a fool of him-
self (contrary result). His wife or mother-in-law tries to mediate, but the
stupid hero’s behavior continues to show an inappropriate application of
rules of inference. The hero becomes a fool by misunderstanding advice or
instructions, or by applying advice and instructions in the wrong place, at
the wrong time, and in a wrong context. His actions bring about incorrect
or contrary results that disturb the social equilibrium and invariably defeat
the main purpose for which the instructions were designed. Examples of
this kind of tale together with their documented occurrences demonstrate
the widespread distribution of stupid son-in-law tales in India.
Tale Number 1
“You know there was this young boy who was recently married.
As per the custom, he was to visit his in-laws for the ‘first invita-
tion.’ He wore new clothes3 and got ready to go to his in-laws’
house. When he was ready to leave, his mother told him, ‘When
you go to your in-laws’ house you should sit thazaras [at a higher
place] and talk heavy stuff (serious matters), and do not make a
fool of yourself. Do not forget that you are the son-in-law of that
house.’ The young boy replied, ‘Do not worry, I will do exactly
what you want me to do.’ Thus, he left home to go to his mother-
in-law’s house. When he reached his in-laws’ place, as was ex-
pected, he was received with great respect and led to the finely
decorated room. When he was about to enter the room, he re-
membered his mother’s advice and his eyes started looking for the
highest place. He ran in and jumped up and sat on the top of the
almirah [steel cupboard] that was kept in the room. Now, the in-
laws had invited many more people for a feast in his honor and to
introduce their son-in-law to their friends and relations. They
were all shocked to see his unusual behavior. They pleaded with
him to come down and occupy the respectable seat arranged and
decorated for him. But he would not budge. ‘Please come down
and take your seat,’ said the mother-in-law. Remembering his

mother’s advice to talk heavy stuff, he said, ‘Pestle.’ ‘Oh, what are
you talking about?’ asked the frightened mother-in-law. ‘Mortar,’
said the son-in-law. ‘Oh, my god, what has happened to him?’
moaned the mother-in-law. ‘A grinding stone,’ said the son-in-
law. Hearing this, the mother-in-law almost fainted and said,
‘What has befallen my daughter! He seems to be possessed by
some evil spirit.’ The relatives and friends assembled there
laughed at the stupidity of the son-in-law.” (ATU 1685, Kashmir.
Author’s personal collection [APC]. For versions from Kerala, see
Jacob 1972: 52–53. For versions from Goa, see Rodrigues
1974:172–175)
Tale Number 2
“There was once a son-in-law who was illiterate. His parents had
sent him to the parish school when he was young, but instead of
learning to read and write and sing, he had only learnt to climb
coconut palm trees and knock down tender nuts, roast cashew
nuts on the hills, catch birds with lime, and sundry other acts
which had made him the leader of truants. It was only before his
marriage that he had assiduously practised his signature so that he
could sign the marriage register. His education, however, had
been taken for granted by the mother-in-law.
Soon after his marriage he went to the house of his wife.
The father-in-law was away on a voyage. One day, the postman
brought a letter addressed to the mother-in-law, who immediately
asked her daughter to have it read by the son-in-law. She was anx-
ious about the health of her husband, for in the previous letter he
had written that he had been ill. The mother-in-law stood at the
door of the hall, holding the palou [decorative end] of her sari
tightly over her shoulder, and covering her face with the edge.
The son-in-law who was sitting in the hall opened the letter and
stared at the sheet. He could decipher a few alphabets but the let-
ter remained a mystery.
He stared and stared in silence while his wife and mother-in-
law waited for the news.
‘I hope there is no bad news,’ said the mother-in-law, half
to herself.
‘He will read it to you after he has read it himself,’ said the
daughter.
The son-in-law stared at the written matter and a deep sense
of regret at having wasted his school days in truancy overcame
him. To confess his ignorance before his mother-in-law was the
utmost disgrace. A sense of terrible shame filled him and tears
welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
His wife watched him with deep concern. ‘Is there anything
wrong?’ she asked. ‘It must be some bad news,’ the mother-in-law
said. This was too much for the son-in-law to bear. He could not
control himself and burst forth into sobs.
This was a signal for the mother-in-law to take alarm. It was
sure news of death, her husband’s, certainly. She let out a scream
of grief and rushed inside and began to mourn aloud. The daugh-
ter followed her and joined in the wailing and soon the whole
household took up the refrain. The neighbours came to offer their
condolences and wiped their eyes in sympathy. It was a house
of mourning.
The son-in-law still held the letter in his hand and sobbed
away in the hall, where he was left alone, a very picture of distress,
as all the people crowded round the mother-in-law. It was only
when a school-going village youngster approached him that he
asked him to read the letter.
‘Grandfather is coming home tomorrow!’ exclaimed the in-
nocent lad, and rushed to the scene of mourning, holding the let-
ter triumphantly in his hand and proclaiming to the mourning
assembly the glad news. ‘He says he is arriving tomorrow!’ the
boy chirped with delight. ‘Grandmother, he is fine, he says.’
The mother-in-law wiped her tears, and all the neighbours
felt greatly relieved. It was some time before the son-in-law could
get over his embarrassment.” (Rodrigues 1974:175–176)
Tale Number 3
“The elderly in-laws were eagerly awaiting the arrival
of their son-in-law. Their daughter had already arrived . . . She
informed her parents that her husband was too busy to accom-
pany her and that he would positively come a day before the
Deepavali festival.
It was customary for the bridegroom to celebrate his first

year of Deepavali after marriage in his parents-in-law’s house. The
father-in-law, however poor he might be, was expected to present
the couple with costly clothes and jewels as Deepavali dowry.
As regards food, the mother-in-law would prepare some very
tempting dishes.
A few hours before the day of Deepavali the son-in-law ar-
rived. The younger in-laws welcomed him with shouts of joy and
the elders with a smile. His wife was the happiest of all. Everyone
enjoyed his company.
The mother-in-law disappeared into the kitchen. She had to
prepare the Deepavali special dish, the other items on the menu
having been prepared earlier.
A couple of days back she had paid a heavy price for a pea-
cock. Since peacock meat is the softest, she wanted it to be served
specially to her son-in-law.
The cooking was over. All the dishes were displayed. It was
then offered to the statues of the gods. The camphor was lit and
everyone prayed in silence.
When the camphor had burnt and the flame had gone out,
all of them sat in a row while the mother-in-law served the food.
Finding something strange in one corner of the plantain leaf
the bridegroom asked his wife: ‘What is that dish?’
‘Peacock meat,’ she replied.
‘What?’ he raised his voice.
‘Peacock meat . . . finely prepared . . . my mother is an
excellent cook, you know.’
‘Who doubts it? But do you eat peacock meat?’
‘Whenever it is available to us . . . It’s a very costly bird.’
‘But I don’t eat it.’
The mother-in-law who heard their conversation inter-
rupted and said, ‘Peacock meat is the tastiest of all bird meat.
Please taste just a little piece. I am sure you will like it.’
The father-in-law too spoke. But the son-in-law refused and
said, ‘I have never tasted peacock meat nor do I intend to do
it now.’
The mother-in-law was disappointed. Had she known her
son-in-law’s allergy to peacock meat earlier, she would not have
paid such a high price for a peacock.
However, the son-in-law was pleased with the other items.

He congratulated his mother-in-law on her tasty preparations.
‘But they are nothing compared to the tasty peacock meat,’
said the father-in-law.
‘We are privileged people to taste peacock meat,’ said one.
‘Well! We are certainly lucky enough . . . oh! What a fine
dish!’ applauded another.
‘Deepavali comes but once a year,’ said his wife.
The son-in-law felt that the others were trying to tease him.
He didn’t want to hear any more. He quickly finished his meal.
The festival of Deepavali was bid good-bye by firing crackers.
Too much of eating and rejoicing made everyone go to bed
early. Soon they were all fast asleep.
At midnight, the mother-in-law was awakened by some
noise from the kitchen. At first she thought that it must be a cat
or a rat and tried to sleep. But when the noise did not stop, she
had her own doubts.
A hurricane lamp in one hand and a raised walking stick in
the other, she tip-toed towards the kitchen.
To her great surprise she saw there her son-in-law struggling
to release his head from inside the earthen vessel in which she had
cooked the peacock meat.
It didn’t take much time for her to guess what had hap-
pened. At first she pitied him. But the next moment she laughed.
The son-in-law stood still. ‘Please help me,’ he requested in
a pitiable tone. The mother-in-law gave a sharp tap on the pot and
broke it.
He heaved a sigh of relief. He was embarrassed to see her.
With a bent head he confessed: ‘Since everyone said that peacock
meat tasted so nice I felt like eating it. But since I had refused
when you offered it to me I felt shy of asking you, and so chose
this midnight hour . . . But when I came here, I found not a piece
of meat left in the vessel . . . But the smell was so enticing, you
see, I tried to lick the inside of the pot. But in my venture my
head got caught in the pot.’
The mother-in-law heard him in silence.
‘Please,’ he continued, ‘let it not be known to the others.
They will make fun of me. Please do not betray me.’
She nodded approvingly and went back to her bed.
The next day at dinner everyone was surprised to find pea-

cock meat again. But the surprise turned into wonder, when they
noticed the son-in-law eating peacock meat with an unruffled
calm. They all winked at each other.
No one told them what made the son-in-law change his
mind overnight.” (Raja 1987: 54–57).
This tale ATU 1,691, 1,685A has also been documented in Goa
(Rodrigues 1974: 176–178), Assam (Goswami 1980: 138–141), Bihar
(Chaudhury 1968: 34–35), and Tamilnadu, Maharashtra, and Karnataka
(APC). In a version from Tamilnadu, when the mother-in-law finds the
son-in-law with his head in the pot she says in disgust, “Let his head break,
but let him not break my precious pot.”
Tale Number 4
“A son-in-law was invited to his mother-in-law’s house for a feast.
The mother-in-law made several delicious dishes for him. Among
these dishes was kadabu
. (a sweet dumpling). The son-in-law loved
it and ate three, four, then five portions. Then he asked his
mother-in-law for the name of this sweet. She said, ‘This is
‘kadabu.’
. The son-in-law returned home soon after, muttering the
word ‘kadabu’
. lest he forget. By the time he reached home he had
unwittingly reversed ‘kadabu’
. to ‘budaka.’ Soon after he reached
his home, he told his wife how nice a cook her mother was and
asked her to prepare ‘budaka.’ She said, ‘What the hell is ‘bu-
daka?’ I have never heard of anything like that before, and I do
not know how to cook it.’ The husband kept on saying how his
mother-in-law had prepared a nice sweet dish, but the wife would
not understand. Then he became angry and beat her. The wife
cried and cried, her face swollen with beatings she muttered to
herself, ‘You beat me so mercilessly, my face is swollen like a
‘kadabu.’
. ‘That is it! I want you to make ‘kadabu,’
. shouted the
husband. The poor wife understood that he had unwittingly
changed ‘kadabu’
. into ‘budaka,’ but what could she do, poor
thing.” (ATU 1,687, Kannada tale, APC).
Versions of this tale exist in Goa (Rodrigues 1974: 178–179),

Maharashtra, and Uttar Pradesh (APC).
Tale Number 5
“Once in olden times, it is told, there lived in a certain village a
certain man’s son-in-law. One day, they say, he had gone alone to
visit his father-in-law and mother-in-law in their home. While
there his mother-in-law was engaged in cooking curry and rice,
and at the same time she kept up a conversation with him. In this
way the evening fell.
Now the old woman had prepared some bamboo shoots as
curry; when she had done cooking, she poured out some water
for him to wash his hands ere sitting down to eat, and placed a
stool for him near the door. When he had washed his hands and
come in again, he sat down on the stool, and she brought him the
curry and rice. Whilst eating the son-in-law thought it was meat
curry he had; but he did not find any lumps.
So he asked his mother-in-law, ‘I say, mother, what kind
of curry have you prepared? I cannot make out exactly what
it is.’ Now there was the bamboo door at the back of the
son-in-law.
So the old woman said, ‘Look there what is at the back of
you, my son-in-law, that is what I have made into curry for you.’
So the son-in-law turned round and saw it was a bamboo
door; but looking he kept quiet and said nothing; and the old
woman too said thus much and nothing more.
The son-in-law, however, thought in his mind: I find this
curry perfectly delicious; when every one is asleep presently, I shall
walk off with this door. This he made up his mind to do so.
True enough, when all had done eating, they retired for the
night, and when every one had fallen asleep, he got up quietly and
loosened the door, and that very night he took their door on his
back and walked off with it, nobody being aware of it at the time
the deed was done.
When they awoke at cockcrow in the morning and looked
about, there was no door to be seen; and when they called out for
the son-in-law, there was no answer. So they said: ‘Look and see if
he is there or not; he doesn’t answer.’ They looked about for him,
but he was not there.
Then the old woman suddenly burst out into a loud laugh,
whereupon her daughters said to her: ‘Why, mother, what are you
laughing so heartily at?’
Then the old woman said to them: “Your elder sister’s hus-
band, girls, has most assuredly decamped with this door. Yester-
day. I made him a curry of bamboo shoots, and he asked me, ‘I
say mother, what kind of curry have you prepared? I cannot make
out exactly what it is.’ Whereupon I said to him: ‘Look there what
is to the back of you, my son-in-law, that is what I have made into
curry for you.’ Perhaps that is why your elder sister’s husband has
carried off the door.”
When she told them this, every one laughed very much and
said: ‘This brother-in-law is dreadfully stupid.’
True enough, when the stupid fellow had walked off with
the door, he took the whole thing to pieces and chopped all of it
into small bits. Then he told his wife, ‘Make this into curry to-day,
please.’
She replied: ‘How am I to make a curry of this? Will this dry
bamboo taste well? Not a bit of it. You are very stupid.’
He replied: ‘Not so, it is simply delicious. Yesterday I went
to see your mother and the others there; then she made me some
curry of this; you may not believe it, but I tell you, it tasted to me
just like meat curry; and that is why I made off with this door of
theirs, for they would not give it to me.’
His wife said: ‘Who is then going to eat this dry stuff, that
you want me to make curry of it?’
To which he replied: ‘All right, if you other people won’t eat
it, make some curry of it for me.’
So, as he would not listen to her, she sure enough made him
some curry of it and gave it to him along with some boiled rice.
Then he poured some of the gravy on it, and mixing it together with
his hand he took a mouthfull, and all the while his wife was watching
him closely. But as the rice and gravy did not taste particularly nice,
he laid hold of a lump of the curry and gave it a bite; when he was
unable even to bite a piece off, his wife, no longer able to restrain her
mirth, burst into a loud laugh, in which he himself also joined.
Then he said, ‘What kind of a curry have you turned out?
You have not succeeded, and therefore it is not savoury. How is it
you have not dissolved this piece? Mother dissolved altogether
every piece in the curry she gave me; I could not find a single
lump in it, whereas you have given me nothing but lumps; you
have got it in lumps just the same as when I cut them up; you
have not dissolved them one bit.’
Then his wife said, ‘I am not acquainted with this curry; you
had better cook some for yourself.’
And true enough, when he had cooked some for himself
too, he could not get it to dissolve. Whereupon they had a good
laugh at him. From that day forward he got the surname of ‘Stu-
pid,’ and by addressing him thus every time they met him they
teased him well.
That is the end of the tale; it is so much.” (Bodding 1990
[1925–1929]: vol. 2, 27–33)
Tale Number 6
“Old Mariam was a wise woman, but she was worried about her
son, Thoma. The trouble with him was that he would be silent
when he ought to say at least a few words. But Thoma was very
timid, and afraid that he would say the wrong thing.
The young man was about to go to his wife’s house for the
first time. If he didn’t say anything to anyone there, what would
they think? So his mother told him, ‘Look here my boy, you
should not keep very silent at your wife’s house. You must say
something to your father-in-law at least.’
‘What can I say, mother?’ he asked.
‘Oh, ask him something in which he would be interested.
You can think of something, can you not?’ asked she.
‘Oh yes, I will do that, never fear,’ said Thoma.
When he reached his father-in-law’s place, he was welcomed
with great affection and respect. The arrival of a son-in-law is a
great event in a Malayali home. A very fine meal was prepared for
him, and they all sat together for lunch.
All this time, the young man was thinking of a suitable
subject to talk about. Of course, he did answer the questions
which were put to him. But he wanted to put some questions
himself to the old man. At last he found a subject that could not
fail to grip.
‘Father, are you married?’ he asked.
Wise people say that speech is silver, but silence is golden.
But could we say that the son-in-law’s words were as valuable as
silver? No doubt his wife’s people, by those words, were able to
judge the worth of the treasure they had secured.” (Jacob
1972: 60–61)
Tale Number 7
“Sheikhji had not visited his mother-in-law’s place for quite some
time. Then came his mother-in-law’s letter inviting him. There-
fore his mother wanted him to comply with his in-laws’ wishes
and go to visit his mother-in-law. He agreed and got ready to
leave. It was at that time that the mother gave him some advice,
she said, “Remember, son, when you are in your in-laws’ place, be
humble and accept everything they give you gladly.4 Sheikhji nod-
ded his head in affirmation and left home.
On his arrival there he was received with great respect befit-
ting a son-in-law. Then it was dinnertime, and a lavish dinner was
served. His mother-in-law served the food, but to every dish, one
by one, he would say, ‘No.’ Then came curries, and his answer was
again, ‘No, no.’
Finally the mother-in-law pleaded, and Sheikh Chilli remem-
bered his mother’s advice. He held the bowl in his hand and poured
the hot curries right over his head! The relatives present there were
all aghast but Sheikh Chilli explained, ‘My mother told me to ac-
cept everything ‘sar mathe pe’ [see footnote 4].” (Rajasthan, APC)
This tale is very popular in the entire Hindi region including Uttar
Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, and Bihar, and is an important theme in the
Sheikh Chilli cycle of stupid tales.
Tale Number 8
“One day a man had to visit his mother-in-law. When he was about
to leave, his wife said, ‘Take something for your mother-in-law.’
The man agreed and on his way bought butter, put it in his cap, and
placing the cap on his head, and proceeded to his mother-in-law’s
house. By the time he reached his in-laws’ house, the butter had
melted over his head and his face and he looked miserable. When he
told this to his wife, she said, ‘Butter should have been carried in a
container. Anyway now take a small puppy for her.’ He was im-
pressed by his wife’s wisdom and bought a puppy, put it in a con-
tainer, closed it, and carried it to his mother-in-law’s place. When he
arrived there, he handed over the container to his mother-in-law.
She opened it and found a dead puppy in it. The puppy was suffo-
cated to death. ‘What kind of ugly joke is this?’ said she. He
explained and his mistake was discovered. His wife was angry and
shouted at him, ‘You should have tied it with a rope and carried it.’
Next the man decided to make up for his mistakes and bought a
jile–bi [a deep-fried sweet] for his mother-in-law. Pleased, he tied it
with a rope and dragged it behind him to his mother-in-law’s
house. On his arrival there, he wanted to untie the jile–bi to present
to his mother-in-law. There was no jile–bi, only the rope. He was
ridiculed for his stupidity.” (ATU 1,696, Maharashtra, APC)
This tale is also reported from Karnataka and Madhya Pradesh.
Tale Number 9
“Once a boy asked his mother, ‘Mother, all my friends are married,
why do you not get me a wife, too?’ The mother said, ‘Son, you
were married when you were very young. Your wife lives in that vil-
lage across the river. Go and get her.’ The boy agreed to go. An aus-
picious day was fixed for him to go and on that day he left for his
in-laws’ house to fetch his bride. He walked a lot before he reached
the village. His mother had already sent a message to his in-laws to
send the bride with him. When he reached there he was received
very well. As the custom demanded he stayed there for two to three
days. Then on the day of his departure, they dressed up the bride
with new clothes and jewelry and decorated her hands and feet with
alta [a red pigment]. She looked beautiful. The alta on her feet was
beautiful and the boy was impressed with it. Mother-in-law saw
them off and with tears in her eyes she said, ‘Take her carefully and
take good care of her.’ Soon after the boy left his mother-in-law’s
house and set off towards his home. He and his new wife walked a
lot and reached a river. It had to be crossed to reach his village. He
remembered his mother-in-law’s request and did not want the alta
on his bride’s feet to be washed away. Therefore, he thought of a
plan and carried her on his shoulder with her feet in the air to keep
them dry and her head downwards. By the time he had crossed the
river and reached the other side the bride was dead.” (ATU 1,293B,
Bihar and Santhal area. APC)
In stupid person tales, the hero’s stupidity becomes apparent when

he leaves his own domain and enters some other domain or when he
changes one domain for another, such as going from his village to a city,
from his home to a marketplace, or from inside the home to outside. Sim-
ilarly, in stupid son-in-law tales, the hero’s stupid behavior also surfaces
when he is in a situation that connotes “otherness,” for example, when he
is in his in-laws’ house, and when he is confronted with the opposite sex
(his mother-in-law, his sister-in-law, or his wife). There seems to be a con-
tinuous comparison and contrast between the intelligence, wit, pluck, and
behavior of the two sexes throughout these tales. For example, the pro-
tagonist fails to understand his mother’s advice or instructions and also
misunderstands his mother-in-law’s behavior or her message.
Generally, these tales show only the first three Proppian functions:
task, reaction, and contrary result, and lack mediation and positive re-
sult/task resolved. They conclude with negative results. In a few tales, a se-
ries of stupid acts and negative results are followed by a series of freak
accidents that allow the hero to emerge victorious, as in the following tale.
Tale Number 10
“Once a son-in-law was going to his mother-in-law’s place for the
first time after his marriage. His mother advised him not to eat in
a clumsy and greedy manner in his in-laws’ house and to refuse
everything he was offered. He left home, and when he arrived at
his in-laws’ place, everybody, especially the mother-in-law, was ex-
cited to welcome the son-in-law. She prepared delicious food for
him. As the practice is, she offered him her specialty kakvi.5 The
son-in-law refused to eat, saying ‘No’ to her. When he saw every-
body else eating and enjoying the dish, he felt sorry but didn’t
want to contradict himself. So he waited till it was dark and every-
body went to sleep. When everyone in the house was sleeping, he
got up and went to the kitchen looking for kakvi. There he found
the kakvi pot hung on a hook in the ceiling, which was too high
for him to reach. As he tried to knock a small hole in the pot with
a stick, the pot broke and its contents fell over him. He was cov-
ered with molasses, his head, face, body, everything. Now, when
the pot broke it made a sound that woke up the mother-in-law.
Thinking that a thief had broken into the house, she shouted for
help. Hearing this the son-in-law ran out of the kitchen to the
adjacent storeroom where bales of cotton wool were piled up.
While hiding himself in those bales, cotton wool got stuck to the
molasses on his head and body. Hearing the commotion in the

storeroom, everyone in the house went into the storeroom look-
ing for the thief. At this point the son-in-law ran into the cattle
shed and hid himself among the sheep. In the meantime, every-
body began to look for the son-in-law, couldn’t find him, and
began to worry. The son-in-law wanted to tell them that he was
there, but how could he, with such a messy appearance? He had
to spend the night in the cattle shed. The same night, two real
thieves came to the cattle shed to steal sheep. They picked up the
fattest of them all, and that was the son-in-law covered with cot-
ton wool, looking like a sheep! The thieves tied him in a sack and
carried him off. Eventually, they got tired and put the sack down
under a tree where they wanted to rest a while. When they put the
sack down, the son-in-law groaned from within, ‘Ah! You hurt
me!’ The thieves thought that it was a ghost and ran away leaving
the supposed sheep there. After they had gone, the son-in-law got
out of the sack and went home, telling everybody how he had
heard the thieves break into the house and had chased them
through the storeroom out of the house.” (Maharashtra, APC)
Variants of this tale can be found in Uttar Pradesh (Bahadur 1972:

89–90) and Assam (Goswami 1980: 138–141). In the above tale we en-
counter a form of mediation: the task is completed as the hero is absolved
of his stupidity and as his status and respectability are restored. This tale has
all five Proppian functions and ends with the task being successfully re-
solved. The process of mediation in these tales is significant for several rea-
sons. First, the son-in-law (re)gains his status by accident, not by his valor
or by his wisdom. Second, the son-in-law who commands respectable sta-
tus in actual Indian kinship systems is equated in the narrative system with
a person of low status (thief) and an animal (a filthy sheep), with the latter
triumphing over the former (son-in-law). These tales present an interesting
phenomenon. As in other numskull tales, a kind of role reversal in the usual
dichotomies (normal versus nonnormal, wise versus foolish, ordinary versus
extraordinary) is suggested, by which a man of high status (a wise man or
an extraordinarily important person who holds the highest status in the kin-
ship system), is equated with an ordinary person of low status. During the
son-in-law’s journey from home to his mother-in-law’s house, he under-
goes a chain of transformations both human and nonhuman and living and
dead. From a normal being, he is transformed into a nonnormal being, that
is, into a stupid person who is a misfit in the normal world. While some tales
end with simple mockery of the son-in-law’s stupidity, others go far beyond
laughter and acrimoniously deposit the hero in the cattle shed among the
animals. Thus condemned, he is equated with furry, feathered, or filthy an-
imals. He is also forced to undergo the degradation of being or appearing
to be a nonbeing such as a ghost or spirit, before he resumes his original sta-
tus. These transformations seem to symbolize a rebirth of the son-in-law as
hero. These and other important semiotic characteristics of this narrative
genre have not yet been investigated thoroughly. I believe that an analysis
of the son-in-law tale genre can contribute to an understanding of the semi-
otics of gender bias in Indian society.
NOTES
1. ATU refers to the updated Aarne/Thompson classification and

bibliography of folktales. See Hans-Jörg Uther, The Types of International
Folktales. A Classification and Bibliography (⫽ Folklore Fellows Communi-
cations 284, 2004).
2. Indians in general and Hindus in particular strongly believe in
good and bad effects of planetary configurations and their positioning on
the lives of all living beings. Therefore, to avert their bad and adverse ef-
fects, Navagrihas [the nine planets] are worshiped and propitiated both
in big and small temples exclusively meant for them, and in homes as well.
Navagriha worship is a common feature of Indian society and cuts across
regional barriers.
3. The idiomatic expression in Kashmiri is “nov suuth-booth,” which
literally translated to “new suit-boot.”
4. The Hindi expression used is “sar mathe pe swõ–kar karna,” which
literally means “accept on your head and forehead,” that is, “accept every-
thing unquestioningly.”
5. A sweet dish made of molasses.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
APC. Author’s Personal Collection.

ATU. See note 1.
Aarne, Antti and Stith Thompson. The Types of the Folktale. Folklore
Fellows Communications. No. 184. Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum
Fennica. 1948.
Bahadur, K. P. Folktales of Uttar Pradesh. New Delhi: Sterling Publishers
Pvt. Ltd., 1972.
Bodding, P. O. Santal Folk Tales. 3 Vols. Cambridge: Harvard University
Press, 1990 [1925–1929].
Chaudhury, P. C. Roy. Folk Tales of Bihar. New Delhi: Sahitya Academy,
1968.
Goswami, P. D. Tales of Assam. Gauhati, Assam: Publication Board, 1980.
Handoo, Lalita. “Indian Numskull Tales: Form and Meaning.” Asian
Folklore Studies. Vol. XLII: 253–262, 1983.
———. Folk and Myth. Mysore: Central Institute of Indian Languages,
1988.
———. “Common Features in Indian Numskull Tales.” In Folklore in
India: Commonness and Comparisons. Eds. Jawaharlal Handoo and
K. Karunakaran. Coimbatore: Bharathiar University, 1988a.
———. Structural Analysis of Kashmiri Folktales. Mysore: Central Insti-
tute of Indian Languages, 1994.
Jacob, K. Folk Tales of Kerala. New Delhi: Sterling Publishers, 1972.
Rodrigues, Lucio. Soil and Soul: Konkani Folktales. Colaba, Bombay,
1974.
Raja, P. Folk Tales of Pondicherry. New Delhi: Sterling Publishers, 1987.
Ramanujan, A. K. “Toward a Counter-System: Women’s Tales.” In Gender,
Genre, and Power in South Asian Expressive Traditions. Eds. A. Appadu-
rai, F. Korom, M. A. Mills. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania
Press, 1991. Pp. 33–55.
3
The Role of Gender
in Tale-Telling Events
SARASWATHI VENUGOPAL
G
ender plays a critical role in tale telling events in India, where per-
formance presupposes gender distinctions that reflect social struc-
tures and kinship norms. In earlier work, I used the “contextual
theory of meaning” developed by Raymond Firth, who defines meaning as
“. . . a complex of contextual relations, and phonetics, grammar, lexicology,
and semantics . . .” (quoted in Lyons 1977: 609). Further, as John Lyons
explains, “Every utterance occurs in a culturally determined context-of-
situation; and the meaning of the utterance is the totality of its contribution
to the maintenance of what Firth here refers to as the patterns of life in the so-
ciety in which the speaker lives and to the affirmation of the speaker’s role and
personality within the society” (Lyons 1977: 607). In my earlier work (Venu-
gopal 1992), I showed how the texture and text of a particular tale (Dundes
1980) told by a particular person depended on context, and how both texture
and text vary in tellings of the same tale in different contexts. The principal
differences between the two contexts were determined by gender.
Drawing on two structured tale-telling events, this essay seeks to draw
attention to the responses of audience members in the two events that took
place in what I provisionally call “rural” and “urban” settings. My specific
question when I undertook this study was whether “rural” or “urban” loca-
tions had an impact on responses made by listeners, especially by women in
these locations. If the “rural” or “urban” location of the telling made a dif-
ference, then how was gender implicated? The storytellers and the listeners
whose tales and responses are discussed here were all native speakers of Tamil.
The rural setting was characterized by its location in a village, by the relatively
55
low level of formal school education of the storyteller and the audience, by
the lower economic class of the participants, and by an inability to afford
modern facilities. The urban context, on the other hand, was city based, with
participants from the upper-middle class, who had in some cases postgradu-
ate education, and who could afford modern amenities. While my fieldwork
material in this essay does not allow for conclusive insights or for generaliza-
tions about “Indian” or “Tamil” or even about the members of the audience
in these events, it highlights the importance of tracking audience responses in
narrative events across gender lines that could intersect other social and geo-
graphic “locations” in more extensive and detailed studies of folk narrative.
That listeners’ engagement actively contributes to both the telling and the in-
terpretation of oral narrative is today recognized as pivotal to understanding
a narrative event (Dundes 1966; Narayan 1989; Mills 1991).
The narrator in the rural setting, Krishnan, was a sixty-five-year-old
Hindu man, a farmer from the Yadava caste who lived in the village of Ut-
tumalai in Tirunelveli district in southern Tamilnadu. Although he had no
formal education, he was a versatile storyteller. The four persons who
formed the small listening group were also Hindus from the Yadava caste,
resided in Uttumalai like Krishnan the storyteller, and had middle- to
high-school education. The three young men, Radhakrishnan, Raju, and
Kannan were around twenty years of age and farmers by occupation, while
the only woman in the group, Mangai, was thirty-seven years old. The col-
lection was made by John M. Kennedy, an M.Phil. student in 1991 at
Manonmaniyam Sundaranar University, Tirunelveli. Krishnan narrated
many tales, of which two will be analyzed here (Kennedy 1991). The tales
were all narrated in Tamil, and the translations are mine. While I do not
omit any details of the tales, where colloquial expressions and dialectical
words could not be translated precisely, I offer provisional translations. For
instance, in the first story I present, when the Tamil original says that
the “coconut shells of the Chettiyar ran away,” I translate that remark
as “. . . both his [the Chettiyar’s] knees were badly damaged,” since in
Uttumulai dialect, one’s knee caps are referred to as coconut shells.
Tale Number 1: A Chettiyar with Two Wives

There was a Chettiyar who had a wife but no children. His wife
insisted that he take a second wife. So he married another woman.
Both women lived in the same house for some time. But the
arrangement did not last long. They began to quarrel; the village
chief intervened and said that the first wife should live in the
The Role of Gender in Tale-Telling Events 57
ground floor and the second wife on the first floor and that the
Chettiyar would live one month with the first wife and the next
month with the second wife. On the thirtieth day, the second wife
called the Chettiyar from upstairs and the first wife heard it. Only
a ladder was used to go up in those days. When the Chettiyar was
climbing up, the first wife caught hold of his legs, and the second
wife caught hold of his hair. This went on for some time. Sud-
denly both the women lost interest and let go at the same time.
He fell on the ground and both his knees were badly damaged.
The village chief saw him and ordered that the right knee wound
should be cured by the first wife and the left by the second.
The first wife, being wiser, used some good medicine, which
began to cure the wound, but the second wife applied lime pow-
der, which made the wound worse. One day the second wife was
making do– sai1 and suddenly thought she would examine “her”
wound. She saw both the wounds; the first wife’s wound was al-
most cured. She could not bear it and hurt the first wife’s wound
with the do–sai ladle. The first wife, who had washed her hair, was
untangling it with a chinukkoli [which looks like a knitting needle].
She suddenly thought she would take a look at “her” wound and
went to the Chettiyar’s room. On seeing the second wife hurting,
“her” wound, she poked the second wife’s wound with her
chinukkoli. The Chettiyar was crying in pain and was almost dead.
Tale Number 2: A Mother-in-law and Her Daughter-

in-law
There lived a mother with her son. The mother arranged the son’s
marriage. The bride was so innocent that she was cheated by her
mother-in-law. The old woman would cook, both she and her son
would eat, but they would give nothing to the daughter-in-law.
One day she cooked rice and fish curry and went to see some
quarrel in the street. The daughter-in-law was tempted to taste
the curry and soon she had eaten everything. When the mother-
in-law returned, she was shocked and asked her about the food.
The daughter-in-law said, “I ate it up.”
The mother-in-law waited for her son to return home and
when he arrived she told him, “See, this kind of wife is not necessary
for you. Take her to the cremation ground and burn her.” He put
her in a gunnysack and took her to the cremation ground. He forgot

to take a matchbox with him. He left the bag and rushed back home
to fetch a box of matches. As soon as he left, the girl cried, “Help.”
There were some shepherds around who let her out and put a dog in
her place in the bag. The girl went toward the forest, [climbed up
and] sat on a tree, and fell asleep.
There came a team of robbers who sat down under the
shade of a tree and began dividing the stolen jewels among them-
selves. Among these robbers there was a blind robber who was
not given his due share. He said, “Be just, men. If you are not
just, thunder will strike you.” The girl who was sleeping suddenly
fell down from the tree, and the robbers, thinking that it was
thunder, ran away leaving the stolen loot there.
She took all the chains and necklaces and went home. Her
mother-in-law was shocked to see her alive, but she was happy to see
the jewels. She asked what happened. The girl told her that her hus-
band burned her, that she went to heaven and met her father-in-law
and other relatives there. The father-in-law gave her all these jewels
as gifts. He further asked why the mother-in-law [his wife] did not
visit him, and said that he would be very happy if she visited him.
The old woman was greedy and soon asked her son to burn
her too. He took her in a bag and burned her. In the night he was
waiting for his mother to return from heaven loaded with gifts.
He asked his wife, “You returned soon; but mother has not re-
turned yet, why?”
She said, “Your mother has met her husband after such a
long time. So she won’t return soon. She will bear five or six chil-
dren and will live with your father happily. Just go to sleep.”
Before I discuss the responses of audiences and speculate on their im-

plications, I will move on to a performance I arranged in my house in the
city of Madurai. The storyteller was forty-three-year-old Mrs. Deivamani,
who was a university teacher with a doctorate in economics. She came
from the Nadar caste, which appears in government lists as a “backward
caste,” although at present it is one of the economically prosperous castes
in Tamilnadu. Traditionally, most of the men of this caste are businessmen,
but in recent times, both Nadar men and women pursue higher education.
As a child, Mrs. Deivamani learned several tales from her grandmother in
her village home in Virudhunagar, which has now become an industrial
suburb of Madurai city. Mrs. Deivamani was a keen observer of traditional

Nadar feasts and fasts.
The men in the audience were Yadheendran (a forty-year-old bank em-
ployee) and twenty-year-old Karthik Prabhakar (who had a master’s in liter-
ature and was studying for a master’s degree in physical education). The
women, apart from myself, were the following: thirty-five-year-old Mrs.
Andal Yadheendran who had earned an M.A. in social work, and was em-
ployed as an adviser in a well-known automobile firm. The Yadheendrans
were Naidu Hindus. Then there was Mrs. Duraipandi, a thirty-eight-year-
old Pallar Christian who worked as a second-grade teacher; Mrs. Yasodha
Prabhakar (with an M.S. degree in computer applications); Ms. Pavai Venu-
gopal, a Naidu, a twenty-one-year-old MBA student; Mrs. Sundari Kannan,
a forty-five-year-old homemaker and a university graduate from the Nadar
caste; and Mrs. Dhanam Oyyappan, also a homemaker with high school ed-
ucation. Mrs. Yashoda Prabhakar, Karthik Prabhakar, and Mrs. Oyyappan
were Yadavas. Also present were two primary school boys and one high
school girl. Although I mention the castes of these individuals, caste back-
grounds did not seem to have any impact on either the reception or the nar-
ration of the tales. While I had known Mrs. Deivamani for more than twenty
years as a friend and colleague, and the members of the audience had been
my neighbors for about ten years, Mrs. Deivamani did not know many
members of her audience. While there was initial reserve when she began
narrating stories, perhaps because of this unfamiliarity and also perhaps be-
cause the listeners were unaccustomed to an “arranged” social performance,
after a few minutes, they began to interact and participate in the event. The
audience and Mrs. Deivamani belonged to more or less the same reference
group in terms of education, social expectations, and place of residence. Al-
though they differed in their caste identities, they shared language, values,
and beliefs. The following three tales were told by Mrs. Deivamani.
Tale Number 3: Thirumalai Nayakkar’s Wife2

Thirumalai Nayakkar had a queen who used to boast that gold or-
naments and jewels would be found floating even in drainage
water in her mother’s home. The king could not bear this after
several repetitions. One day he told her, “Let us go to your fa-
ther’s house and see if what you say is true.”
She was afraid that she might be exposed and, therefore,
made some prior arrangements. She took a lot of jewels from the
king’s treasury, which she planned to show to the king when he

visited her parental home. Soon, however, the king discovered the
trick. He sent the queen to her parents’ house and said, “Stay
there. Don’t come back, if you come back my treasury will be-
come empty.”
In Dr. Deivamani’s view, this tale tells us that a woman should not
make false boasts about her mother’s riches in her husband’s house.
Tale Number 4: The Tale of the Eight Storks

There were a husband and wife who had six children. Every day
the husband used to go hunting and would bring back exactly
eight storks. One day he told his wife, “If only we did not have
these children, both of us could share all eight storks and be
happy without hunger. So we shall kill them.” The wife agreed
and told him that she would kill them. The next day when he
went hunting, he could bag only two storks. This kind of hunt-
ing continued for several days. He repented killing his kids, and
told his wife, “I thought we would be happy. But we are getting
only two storks; one each as before. This is not what we thought
would happen.” The wife told him, “I knew you would soon
come to this conclusion. That is why I hid them in baskets away
from your gaze.” Saying so, she let them out. Then they were
happy and content with what they got.
Tale Number 5: On a Mother-in-law and Her Daughter-

in-law
A mother-in-law was very rude to her daughter-in-law. Only after
both she and her son had eaten, would she allow her daughter-
in-law to eat. She would give her rice mixed with tumbai [white
flowers]. It would take a long time for the daughter-in-law to
separate the flowers and eat the rice, of which there was usually
very little. One day when they went to a wedding feast, the
mother-in-law did the same thing there too. When her son
learned about this, he drove his mother away and lived with his
wife happily.
SOME REFLECTIONS ON AUDIENCE RESPONSES
Responses To Tale Number 1: “Tale Of A Man With Two Wives”
Mangai’s responses to Krishnan’s narration in Uttumalai included

the following remarks: “A quarrel between two wives of a man would al-
ways be terrible,” and “A man with two wives deserves such punishment!”
When Krishnan said that the moral of the story was that any man who had
two wives would necessarily suffer, Kannan, one of the unmarried men, re-
marked—the other men were silent during and after the narration—“Only
the second wife will be affectionate.” Kannan used an idiomatic expression
for “second wife” [cinna võ–.tu], which literally means “small house.” At
this, Mangai was provoked to say to Kannan, “I shall tell your mother
about your opinion,” making an overt reference to the fact that marriages
are usually arranged by parents in this community. It is appropriate to re-
call here the extent to which “. . . the control of sexuality falls more heav-
ily on females in most societies and their sexuality and reproductive nature
becomes a part of a family’s social strategies” (Claus and Korom 1991:
99). Perhaps Mangai was also voicing a woman’s anger against men who
have mistresses or more than one wife. Her remark contrasts with the
male-centric Tamil proverb, which regards having a mistress in a positive
light for the male: “Even if a man has a beautiful parrot-like wife he should
have a monkey-like mistress at least.”3
Mrs. Deivamani narrated the same basic story about the Chettiyar,
but colloquial dialect, jokes, and humor were missing in her version. In-
terestingly, Yashoda, a recently married woman in the “urban” Madurai
group, similarly responded with the following remark: “If this is the case
of a man having two wives, what will be the fate of a man having more
wives?” Andal, Yadheendran’s wife, said, “I was happy that in the story
women were more powerful and men were less shrewd.” Again the only
response from the men in the group came from Yadheendran who said,
“One wife is more than enough.” This remark elicited my own retort that
“Women, too, feel that one husband is more than enough!”
The group in Madurai seemed to respond differently from the lis-
teners in Uttumalai to marital arrangements, with both men and women
noting the problem with multiple spouses and male dominance. While
Mangai too resists the idea of multiple spouses, one wonders if her reasons
for resistance are different? Do workplace pressures and tensions of urban
living contribute to “urban” responses in the depiction of gender balances

in the tales? The comment of another woman on women’s power and
men’s lack of shrewdness hints at resistance to male dominance.
Responses To Tale Number 2: “Tale Of Mother-In-Law And

Her Daughter-In-Law”
Mangai’s responses stood out against the general silence from the
men listening to this story in the village context of Uttumalai. She ex-
pressed great interest in the description of the jewels—an interest that
Krishnan made special note of—but when Krishnan, the storyteller criti-
cized the daughter-in-law, Mangai chided him. Also when Krishnan, as
part of his narration, said, “The daughter-in-law told her husband, ‘Your
mother has seen her husband . . . she will bear five or six children,” Man-
gai took exception saying, “Don’t talk so badly about women.” At once
Krishnan responded to her comment and told the others, “See how she
defends her own sex!” The tale-teller’s direct responses to Mangai’s pres-
ence in his audience, and the group’s enthusiastic laughter that encour-
aged him to bring more humor and realism into his narration, provide an
apt example of a dynamic that Alan Dundes observed in connection with a
speaker who changed a joke to a considerable extent on seeing a woman in
the audience. Audience behavior, even nonverbal behavior such as facial
expression, can influence the telling of a joke (Dundes 1980: 27). In
Madurai, however, it turned out that the women remained silent, and it
was Mr. Yadheendran who said factually, “Mothers-in-law are usually cruel
to their daughters-in-law.” He also opined, “A daughter-in-law would
dominate her mother-in-law only if the mother-in-law was aged.” Another
man said his personal experience with his mother and wife corroborated
the tale’s views.
Responses To Tale Number 3: “Thirumalai Nayakkar’s Wife”
Krishnan, the storyteller from the village of Uttumalai, did not nar-
rate this story. When Mrs. Deivamani narrated it in Madurai, one of the
men told her to proclaim loudly that women should not brag about their
natal families so that “everybody” [read: his wife] “got the message.” At
this comment, his wife said, “You were quiet till now. Did it take this tale
for you to burst out?” The personal overtones of this exchange perhaps
comment on a common belief, which may have much truth to it, that
Indian women usually praise their parental homes and men usually neither
like nor accept this praise. This is a cultural tradition that would provide
good material for psychoanalytic interpretation; as Freud long ago recog-
nized, cultural traditions are internalized during childhood in the individ-
ual superego, which becomes the vehicle of tradition and a bearer of all the
age-old values handed down from generation to generation (Kakar 1981:
11). A wife’s pride in her maternal or natal home can also be understood
as arising from “the special maternal affection reserved for daughters, con-
trary to expectations derived from social and cultural prescriptions,
[which] is partly to be explained by the fact that a mother’s unconscious
identification with her daughter is normally stronger than with her son”
(Kakar 1981: 60). As with Mangai who protested against Krishnan’s dep-
recatory remarks about women, women in the Madurai audience sponta-
neously defended women’s feelings portrayed in the tale and in the
narrating context. This unrestrained gender identification illustrates
Sudhir Kakar’s observation that “our biological-physical endowment in-
delibly embellished by the culture of the particular society which sur-
rounds us from the beginning of life, [envelopes] us like the very air we
breathe . . . [W]ithout [that] we do not grow into viable human beings”
(Kakar 1981: 8–9).
Responses To Tale Number 4: “Tale Of Eight Storks”
This story also was not narrated by Krishnan. In Madurai, the men
made no comment, but the women brought up social issues and policies
that discriminate against girls. Two women took seriously the subject of
killing of children in the tale, relating the scene to female infanticide in
Tamilnadu and to family planning, both of which topics had been heatedly
argued against in the media. One could ask how much this engagement
with the media and concern with social issues has to do with the education
and professional background of listeners in this “urban” context.
In Tamil homes, folktales are frequently told by women and some-
times by men. A grandmother’s tales told to her grandchildren serve not
only as an entertaining pastime but at a deep level also hand on cultural
messages from generation to generation. Although the idea that women
are dependent on men throughout their lives often has been pounded into
the consciousness of Indian women, girls, and even infants, tales and songs
told and sung by women protesting against their male counterparts are fre-
quently encountered (Venugopal 1998: 2). Not only tale-tellers but also
women present at tale-telling performances show their protest over men’s

control and dominance and defend their sex at crucial times. Viewed con-
textually and from an ethnographic point of view, the men’s and women’s
utterances in this study reveal social and psychological underpinnings: male
dominance over the female, woman’s indirect way of opposing and con-
demning men’s attitude and behavior, faith in the system of arranged mar-
riages, and a mother’s role in her son’s life.
The debate that ensued among women in the Madurai setting and
Mangai’s responses to Krishnan’s tales in a rural village possibly reflect how
societal pressures impinge on women’s daily existence and on their sense
of self at every turn. Referring to nonclinical interviews documented by
Margaret Cormack in The Hindu Woman, Kakar writes, “Some of the
traits connected with low self-esteem—depressive moodiness, extreme
touchiness and morbid sensitivity in interpersonal relations—come
through in the testimony of modern educated Indian girls . . .” (Kakar
1981: 60). In my study, even preliminarily, gender seemed more under-
scored than geographical location in the responses of audiences. Expres-
sions of resistance vary with the social locations of women’s lives, whether
these are in so-called rural or urban settings, but they share a dissent about
patriarchy. To build on Kakar’s insights, perhaps women in Mangai’s situ-
ation use the medium of folklore and folksongs to express these feelings:
“‘God Rama, I fall at your feet and fold my hands and pray to you, never
again give me the birth of a woman’” (quoted in Kakar 1981: 60).
For even a speculative analysis of some of these responses, it is im-
portant to bear in mind that folklore performances should be interpreted
contextually so that the influence of individual, social, and cultural factors
that shape them and make them meaningful can be brought to bear on the
interpretation. As Richard Bauman has noted, “The storyteller takes what
he tells from experience—his own or that reported by others. And he in
turn makes it the experience of those who are listening to his tale” (1986:
2). American folk narrative tellings lead to similar observations. Consider
the following remarks of Dan Ben-Amos about a tale-telling event: “The
teller knows his audience and relates specifically to them, and the listeners
know the performer and familiarity is often relative to the size of the gen-
eral reference group. A storyteller who has a regional reputation may en-
tertain people whom he does not know as intimately as he knows the
people in his own village. Yet, even in such cases, both the performers and
the audience belong to the same reference beliefs and background knowl-
edge, have the same system of codes and signs, the social interaction. In
other words, for a folklore communication to exist as such, the participants

in the small group situation have to belong to the same reference group,
one composed of people of the same age or of the same professional, local,
religious, or ethnic affiliation. In theory and in practice tales can be nar-
rated and music can be played to foreigners. Sometimes this accounts for
diffusion. But folklore is true to its own nature when it takes place within
the group itself” (Ben-Amos 1979: 440–441).
In this tentative exploration, what is striking is that women seemed
to express resistance, not around an urban/rural divide, but around issues
of class, suppression, and struggle against in-laws. At the same time, con-
tinued study of tales that are told both that in cities and village areas could
help illuminate the complexities of gender in narration and participation in
rural and urban contexts.
NOTES
1. A crisp fried bread made of ground boiled rice and blackgram.

2. Thirumala Nayakar was a famous Telugu king of the seven-
teenth century who ruled over southern Tamilnadu, with Madurai city as
the capital.
3. Kili pola pontatti iruntalum kuranku pola oru vappatti venum.
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4
Voiced Worlds:
Heroines and Healers in
Muslim Women’s Narratives
K. V. S. LAKSHMI NARASAMAMBA
INTRODUCTION
I
n this article, I focus on women’s folk narratives in a Muslim community
in the coastal district of East Godavari in Andhra Pradesh that I studied
in 1989–1991. Research on women’s contemporary folk culture in the
Indian Muslim community is relatively scarce (see Grima 1992; Flueckiger
1995), although we have studies on other aspects of Muslim women’s lives in
South Asia (e.g., Papanek and Minault 1982; Metcalf 1990; Kumar 1994).
Largely unfamiliar to the academic world, neither is this world familiar to the
general public, even though Hindus and Muslims live in the same neighbor-
hoods. This unfamiliarity often results in a deep divide between different pop-
ulations that perpetuate social stereotypes, like the perception that women in
the Muslim community have no folk forms of expression other than their re-
ligiously prescribed duties and lives within four walls. I discovered that even
Muslim men held this stereotype although they were aware that Muslim
women have other forms of expression. My own fieldwork convinced me that
Muslim women seem to hide or hesitate to reveal these other forms of ex-
pression since such forms may not be socially approved. Once women became
convinced that the purpose of my study, however, was to understand their lit-
tle-known forms of self-expression, they began to share their repertoire with
me in order to promote understanding across communities.1
67
It was not smooth sailing, however. There were ups and downs, just
as might be expected in cross-cultural ethnographic endeavors. Although
the outcome was a happy one, I had to cross many barriers to understand
these expressive traditions across the multitude of stereotypes of Muslim/
women/folk/narrative. While some people expressed doubt about my
ability to participate in Muslim women’s worlds given my Hindu identity,
being a Hindu woman, in fact, helped me because it communicated the
genuine interest of another woman—although an “outsider” member of
the majority Hindu community—to learn about, and to appreciate, Mus-
lim women’s universes. I made interesting discoveries that introduced me
to a range of subgenres of narrative in women’s folk culture.
The narratives I present here were originally told in Urdu and subse-
quently translated by me into Telugu and English. Like other Indian lan-
guages, Urdu has its own regional flavor in the Godavari district: in syntax
and vocabulary, it closely resembles Telugu, the regional language of
Andhra Pradesh. The narratives in this essay are from both rural and urban
settings, and represent approximately half of the tales told to me. I was
struck by the powerful expressive gestures and language, the bold, open
questioning, responding, and criticizing, as well as by the power of women,
as reflected in folk religious systems and narrative structures, to which their
stories introduced me. This study demonstrates that power does not neces-
sarily exist only with “literate” women, and that female power is com-
manded and expressed in many ways. These wonderful artistic oral
narratives represent one such expression of women’s power.
THE STORYTELLERS AND THEIR TALES
I provide a brief background of the narrators’ lives in order to con-

textualize the narratives that follow. In nearly every neighborhood I vis-
ited, I found an elderly woman who was regarded as an Ustadbi [a
traditional teacher who trains young children, especially girls, in the recita-
tion of the Qur’an and other regular prayers as well as in Urdu]. Some of
them hold congregations in homes weekly and on special days of religious
importance. Along with these duties, they also lead kahanõ– [folktale] per-
formances, and ritual storytelling about women saints. Some of them per-
form a kind of healing as a part of their duties, and they also play a
prominent role in both religious and secular musical traditions.2
These varied activities demonstrate that women share the common
formal religious culture that is marked by practices of namaz [daily
Voiced Worlds 69
prayer], and fasting during Ramzan [Ramadan], but that simultaneously

they also maintain a culture of their own within groups of women. Women
do not exclude or embrace either of these cultures but reconcile these two
paths into one that suits their religious needs.
In age, my narrators ranged from their teens to their sixties. In
terms of religious practice, they were mostly from the Sunni sect. Among
themselves they spoke Urdu, but they also spoke functional Telugu. With
a few exceptions, most of the narrators were not formally educated, but
they were certainly culturally literate and extremely articulate, educated
through traditional learning. The narratives I present in this essay are
typically narrated to women by women in informal gatherings, and also to
children through several venues that include their traditional learning
environments with ustadbis. The storytellers refer to these narratives
as kahanõ–s [folktales]. Interestingly, they use the same colloquial term
for ritual storytelling. They sometimes use the term qisse, which also
means folktales.
Initially, these narratives did not seem to be just stories with a begin-
ning and an end. The opening and closing of these oral tellings are quite
distinct, sometimes contrasting sharply with published folktales. These dif-
ferences themselves provide insights into narrators’ lives and cultural values,
which together with their performance and their content (re)present previ-
ously unheard voices and unseen possibilities.
The tales that I consider here share a common platform with Indian
folktales in that they have some of the features mentioned in A. K. Ramanu-
jan’s women-centered tales (1991: xxv). Acknowledging Ramanujan’s pio-
neering work, I see in these tales shades of the countersystem that he
describes. By “countersystem,” I do not mean the establishment of an “all-
woman domain” that relies on the denigration of the other sex. I mean, in-
stead, that the countersystem of these narratives demands that the voices and
claims of women be heard on a par with those of men, because women as a
group are yet to be considered as fellow human beings. Although they com-
prise half of the population of the Indian Muslim community, they have nei-
ther possibilities for “active” participation in that society, nor the necessary
public “space.”
I present summaries of these narratives in three groups. In the first
group are folktales recounted only by women. The second group contains
tales with some religious bearing, narrated by women, but also by one
man. The third set consists of two types of women’s folk narratives that
are significant for what they embody in terms of unorthodox and folk
religious practices.
Tale Number 13: The Wife and Her Husband

This tale, an Urdu telling of the False Bride tale-type,4 was narrated
to me by a fourteen-year-old girl, as she took me back and forth between
other informants’ houses.
A woman died, leaving behind a fair daughter. The husband re-

married. The stepmother, jealous of the fair girl, changed her into
a parrot by fixing a nail on her head, and gave her own daughter,
a dark girl, to a prince in marriage. The fair girl, now a parrot,
happened to sit on a clothesline. As she shed tears, they dropped
into the pocket of the prince’s shirt, which was hanging on the
line. As they fell, the tears turned into mo–ti and hõ–ra [pearls and
diamonds]. The washerman brought the shirt back to the prince
who was puzzled to see diamonds and pearls. The prince made in-
quiries, and was brought the parrot. He clasped the parrot by its
feet, and touched the nail on its head through which the step-
mother had effected the fair girl’s transformation. As soon as he
pulled the nail out, the parrot turned into the beautiful girl. After
the prince learned the entire story, he punished the stepmother
and married the fair girl, and they lived happily ever after.
The first male character in the story is the paternal figure who remains
in the tale as long as the plot favors the “fair” girl. Soon after he is widowed,
however, he precipitates misfortune by marrying another woman but then
disappears, never to be mentioned again. The stepmother causes all the
“fair” girl’s misfortune and unhappiness. The “fair” girl invites the second
male character into her life and replaces her father’s former affections with
the prince’s love. Thus we see that it is the heroine—and not a male pro-
tagonist—who ultimately is responsible for reversing an unfortunate course
of events and repairing the damage her stepmother had done to her. Thus
she brings about the shift to a good ending, even though misfortune had
befallen her because of a woman’s evil intentions. The tale was narrated to
me solely from a heroine’s point of view, in which all other roles were
formed and framed secondarily.
Tale Number 2: The Badshah’s Daughter

The next narrator I present was a homemaker in her forties when I
met her. She lived in the village of Katheru, about two kilometers from the
town of Rajamundry.5 She used to train a few girls in her village in meth-
Voiced Worlds 71
ods of praying and in the recitation of the Qur’an, and also used to visit
neighbors’ homes by invitation to lead kahanõ– performances. Although she
narrated this story to me when I was the only listener, I learned that she
occasionally included this story among other stories she narrated to her
students. She also told me that during her hours of leisure, she would go
to a Hindu neighbor’s house in the afternoons where a woman used to
narrate Puranic stories. My informant told me that she had been raised in
a district that honored the tradition of having a female spiritual teacher, a
guruvulamma, and it was from her that she had heard some of the stories
she knew. Here is a summary of the story she narrated:
The only daughter of a badshah (badshah) [king], a heroine is

known to make decisions about everything when her father is un-
able to. Once, an unknown person sends a message asking the
badshah to send his daughter to a particular place. If this were not
done, the princess would be taken away by force. The princess sets
off on her journey, consoling her parents. Soon she meets a prince
who is in disguise, and she marries him, but this is not the end of
the story. The story takes many turns. One day, the princess’s hus-
band disappears. To get him back, she undertakes a quest. On her
way, she reaches a kingdom where the king asks her to find his
missing son; she finds him and brings him back to the king. The
king, very pleased, offers his son to her in marriage. Declining be-
cause she is already married, she continues her journey. In her
next adventure, she kills a demon to save the only daughter of a
mother.6 In this journey, she is helped by an old woman in one of
her trials. In another episode, she meets an old man who suffers
from a disease, which she cures using herbs. In return, the old
man helps her. In the end, the princess even goes to the “world of
gods,” from which she gets her husband back. She rejoins her par-
ents who applaud not only the fact that she won herself a hus-
band, but more than that, they praise her intelligence.
The heroine in this story is not just a beautiful doll waiting

for a prince to come someday to marry her, and marriage is not her
only destiny. She has many other desires to fulfill. When the princess’s
father is worried and indecisive in the face of a threat, it is she who
assumes control and authority. She solves not only her own problems,
but those of others as well. The male characters in the story depend on
her for support. She accomplishes everything through her intelligence,
and not through physical might, as male counterparts typically do in

such situations.
In this tale, as well as in some other tales, it is a revolutionary ele-
ment that the teller replaces a single boy child with a single girl child born
to a king. This is indeed a significant change, appearing as it does in narra-
tives that take shape in a women’s world, and it signals an entirely different
model for female expectations and behavior. In a woman’s narration, even
the characters occupying the position of kings (males who are powerful)
are unable to solve their own problems; they depend on and must request
the female protagonist’s support. Furthermore, the heroine, as in this
story, makes male characters acknowledge her capabilities, making it clear
to men as well as to women that women can and do act as men might, but
more important, women can perform even better in trying situations. It
may seem surprising to those who are deeply involved in the cause of rais-
ing women’s self-awareness that women living in sociosexually segregated
circumstances give evidence of having evolved such capacities without any
formal training, but from their own experiences.
Tale Number 3: The Princess in the Golden Cow

The next storyteller was a homemaker from an urban area, an us-
tadbi, who at the time of this narration was in her fifties. She invited other
women to this storytelling session. The female audience also included chil-
dren and thus comprised a range of ages.
A king who had seven sons threatened his wife with divorce if she
delivered a girl child. The wife was miserable, but prayed to Allah
to give her a girl child all the same. Her seven sons also consoled
her, and told her not to worry, saying that a mother’s love is
greater than that of a father’s. They assured her that they would
bring up their sister even if their father abandoned their mother.
She delivered a girl child by the grace of god, and she and her
seven sons brought her up in secret. When the girl grew up, she
asked her mother to show her her father, and also demanded that
she show her the outside world. Finding it difficult to conceal her
presence now that she had grown up, her brothers and their
mother tried to provide for her by having her live safely some-
where else. They hid her in a statue of a golden cow. With the
princess inside it, it floated down a river until it came to a washer-
man. He took it to a prince, who eventually married the princess.
Voiced Worlds 73
But suddenly, the party of the bride to whom the prince had pre-
viously been engaged showed up and killed her. The prince, with
the help of his vazõ–r [minister], consulted a jadugarni [a female
magician] who said she would be able to restore the princess to
life, provided she was brought the dead body. An old woman
helped the prince recover the corpse of the princess. The jadu-
garni breathed life into the princess’s body and the tale ends with
a happy reunion.
In the first instance, the princess’s very existence is unwanted and

then threatened by her father, the first male character to appear in the
story. From then on, the heroine seems to cast every male character into an
inactive and secondary role or into that of a helper. The badshah’s seven
sons would seem important, given their status as “sons” and by their sheer
number. But for the teller and her female listeners, it is a girl child that is
all-important in this story. The mother, despite her husband’s threat, rec-
ognizes the importance of her own gender in her firm decision to bear a
girl child.
Further, the mother states that she had a girl “by the grace of God,”
thus distinguishing between the grace of God and the dictum of her hus-
band. In answering her prayer for a girl, in her eyes, divine approval affirms
her desire. This divine support contrasts dramatically with her husband’s
psychosocial threats. By emphasizing that her daughter’s birth resulted
from the grace of God, the mother indicates her separation from a male-
dominated society, symbolized by her husband’s demanding voice. The
mother further opposes her husband by engaging the support of her seven
sons, and proves that she retains enormous influence over them, despite
their being part of the male world.
Born to a father who hates her very being, the daughter (the heroine)
exemplifies the same kind of social intelligence that her mother has exhibited
by reducing potential male opposition to an inactive status or to a secondary
role. Her request that she be allowed to see the outside world can be seen as
suggestive of the feelings of many young girls who are silently confined to
their homes, but have a strong urge to enjoy the privileges available outside
the home to their male counterparts. It must be pointed out that in this
woman’s tale, punishment avoids aggressive violence, instead always moving
the plot forward in a manner that favors the tale’s heroines.
In these women’s tales, opposing males are either (re)moved from
their positions, are weakened in power, or are simply allowed to wither
away. The prince and his vazõ–r, both males, are forced to consult not a
(male) jadugar but a (female) jadugarni, who in fact holds the power to
breathe life into the princess’s dead body. Furthermore, to locate the
princess’s body, they seek help from another female, an old woman.
Tale Number 4: A brother-and-sister tale. The narrator

of story Number 2, “The Badshah’s daughter,” recounted
this tale:
A brother and his younger sister lost their parents. One day, while
they were going for a walk, they came to a bridge where a signboard
announced that whoever crossed the bridge together should either
get married or else should go to opposite ends of the bridge. The sis-
ter makes the decision, and asks her brother to go back and rule the
country to keep their father’s name. For her part, she decides to
cross the bridge and live alone, but before they part, they promise
each other that they will meet at the same place after their marriages.
The sister crosses the bridge, doesn’t know where to go or
what to do, and begins to weep. An old woman hears her and
comes to her. She consoles her saying that the two of them could
live together, since she too is alone. With the old woman’s help,
she meets a prince, gets married, and bears a girl child. After a
time, her husband dies and her daughter grows up.
As promised, she meets her brother and expresses her wish to
give her daughter in marriage to his son. Her brother turns down
her proposal and insults her. He also ridicules her in saying that she
should give her daughter to a faqõ–r [a Muslim mendicant, ascetic, or
wonder-worker]. She goes in search of a faqõ–r, and meets a prince
who bears that name! She gives him her daughter in marriage, and
the prince later defeats her brother in battle on her behalf.
In the story, both brother and sister initially face the same fate. But it
is the sister who takes the initiative in making a decision for both of them.
The pivotal position of females continues, as the sister meets an old woman
who guides her to the prince who fathers her girl child. And finally, when the
brother treats her with scorn when she offers her daughter to his son, the sis-
ter punishes him indirectly, through the agency of her princely son-in-law.
This brother-and-sister tale has many variants. For example, one vari-
ant about seven brothers and a sister is popular among women of all age
groups in this community, and I heard it narrated by a woman in her sixties.
What made her story particularly interesting were the changes she made to
Voiced Worlds 75
gender roles likely to be depicted in published sources. This woman’s nar-

ration retained the central theme “sister saved by her brothers,” but her
telling changed the functions of the dramatis personae in ways that are con-
sistent with the Muslim women’s narratives discussed in this essay.
The story about the seven brothers and their sister underscores the
importance of a single sister, whose recovery from a demon who has kid-
napped her is sought by her seven brothers. When they arrive, however, it
is the sister who acts as leader, telling her brothers how and when to kill the
demon. A well-known story from a major thematic group of brothers-and-
sisters tales in India, this telling suggests that the brothers’ primary function
is to rescue their sister, who remains the center of action. The brothers are
to look after her and to save her if she gets into trouble. Even though she is
younger, she is the leader whom her brothers follow, which contradicts the
normal order, in which elders are leaders. This woman’s telling maintains
the heroine’s central position in the family, a social fact that is rarely recog-
nized in the larger society. In this way the narrator fulfills a psychological
need within “her” story world where she has authority to create gender jus-
tice, which is essential for the very existence of her being.
Some of the characteristics of women’s tales here can be identified
with those in Muslim communities in other nations. For example, “Lyela
in the Lamp Stand,” an Iranian folktale, resembles the previous tale (Num-
ber 4). As the tale collector, Asha Dhar put it, these similarities are “due to
common linguistic heritage of India and Persia . . . [as well as] stronger
historical and cultural links among Islamic cultures . . .” (1978: 6). The
findings of Sabra Webber from Tunisian Muslim women’s folk narratives
from Kelibian also closely resemble some of these tales (1985: 311). She
writes, “The heroines went on fantastic voyages to search for love. They
had adventures. They were sometimes poor girls who escaped from im-
possible situations and married princes. They were scholarly princesses re-
fusing to marry any but a man cleverer than they” (Webber 1985: 311).
Let us move from these exclusively women-told nonreligious narra-
tives to a set of tales of religious import told by both sexes. The sharp con-
trast between male-told and female-told tales attracted my attention and
tempted me to examine them further.
Tale Number 5: The Story of a Son

Abba, a man in his seventies, recounted the next story I present here.
Abba and Amma, both now deceased, were Sufi teachers/healers who
lived in Hyderabad. Abba was a mursíd, a spiritual teacher who also owned
a small kirana dukan [provisions store] that was attached to their house.
While it was Amma who conducted the spiritual healing, Abba played an
accompanying role providing oral instructions and teachings. I first came
into contact with Amma and Abba through Joyce B. Flueckiger, for whom
I was a research assistant during December 1990 to January 1991, in Hy-
derabad. Joyce, who is completing a book on Amma’s life and repertoire,
shared some of her research material with me, but the stories I present here
were narrated when I was myself present at Amma and Abba’s healing and
storytelling sessions. (For a nuanced exploration of Amma’s healing prac-
tice and her identity as a female Muslim healer, see Flueckiger 1995.) I
present below one of Abba’s stories. In one conversation, he had remarked
that mothers ought not to pamper children the way they do. Fathers never
do, he added.
A mother lives with her son. One day the son steals an egg, the
next day another, and the third day the hen itself. The mother
never warns her son against wrongdoing. He grows more in-
volved with crime and becomes a big criminal who is finally sen-
tenced to death for a serious crime. As his last wish, he wants to
meet his mother. He approaches her, and pretending to want to
kiss her, he cuts off her tongue for never having used it to warn
him, saying that her silence caused his life to be ruined.
Tale Number 6: A Story of a Mother and a Son

A similar story was narrated by a female teller in her thirties, a home-
maker and a college graduate, who was employed outside the home for
some time before I met her. She explained to me that she would often tell
stories to her own child as well as to other children during mealtimes so
that the children would be persuaded to eat. She had heard this particular
tale from her grandmother who had raised her.
There once was a mother and her son. He was most undutiful to
his mother, but in other ways virtuous. She suffered all through
her life because of his undutifulness. After some time, the son died
–
and was sent to hell. Rasu l Allah [Messenger of God, a title used
to refer to Muhammad] sent for his mother and told her, “If you
excuse your son, he will be sent to heaven, otherwise not.” The
mother refused to excuse her son. As Rasu– l Allah had no other
choice, he ordered his representatives to punish the son by burn-
Voiced Worlds 77
ing. The mother at once melted with maternal love and said that
he was “forgiven.”
Of the two tellings, the man’s tale makes a woman the cause for dis-
aster and ruin in a man’s life. But in the woman’s tale, it is the woman who
endures all kinds of suffering because of her son’s undutiful behavior. He
brings ruin on himself, but is saved from his dire fate by his mother’s love.
When it finally comes down to uttering one word, “forgiven,” to save him
–
from hell as Rasu l Allah required, the mother is not initially willing to do
so. But in the end she does so, and redeems him from suffering.
The contrast between the two tellings, Tale Number 5, and Tale
Number 6, is clear. The male teller asserts, authoritatively and decisively,
that a woman who brings calamity to a man deserves to be punished, even
violently. We never hear the mother’s voice in his narration, which rele-
gates her to a passive role, but we see that her “silence” in the narrative in
fact does speak. In contrast, in the tale narrated by the female college grad-
uate, the mother’s voice is heard all through the story, even though her
suffering has been silent. Her “voice” can be understood as compensation
for the repression of female voices in general, and for their repression in
men’s stories in particular. The mother is all-powerful in the woman’s
story: in her evaluation of the tale, the female narrator stated that if a man
is otherwise highly good but not dutiful to his mother, all his virtues are
wasted, and she concluded the story with a famous saying of the Prophet
Mohammad: “Heaven is under one’s mother’s feet.”
In Tale Number 6, the mother not only raises the son’s spiritual con-
dition (from hell to heaven), but by doing so, she also elevates her own sta-
tus to a higher plane. The teller heard this story from her grandmother, and
she informed me that she liked to narrate it to children. Thus it seems as
though among women, the narrative transcends the boundaries of time as
women claim a high moral and spiritual status for themselves and for future
generations of women. The female narrator placed a man in a role opposing
the woman in the story, but he was not granted any authority. On the other
hand, the female narrator offered due recognition and respect to mothers.
The mother in the story exercises her right to forgive or not to forgive as
she sees fit. Her response is not intended to punish but to express her dis-
approval of his undutiful behavior. In the end, it is neither a person nor a
force from outside, but her own motherly love that makes her forgive him.
The mother in the female narration is never as harsh as the son in Tale
Number 5 who blames his mother for his wrongdoing and suffering. There
the son judges his mother without taking any responsibility for his lifelong
misdeeds. In contrast, in the female narration, one could say that even Rasu– l
Allah is predisposed toward women, leaving with the mother the final deci-
sion regarding clemency that could alter the son’s fate.
In stories such as the preceding one, we see the storyteller as mother,
a mother who acts as a child’s first teacher, a mother who influences that
child in its earliest years to behave properly, a mother who influences a
child’s gendered socialization—playing roles that promise gender equi-
tability in a society where the formal culture pays little attention to such
growth. The narrator’s version of this tale shows that women are aware of
the hidden dangers of gender imbalances that dismiss women and place
them behind a screen.
Both mother-son stories, the male-told (Tale Number 5) and the fe-
male-told (Tale Number 6), had a woman in the history of their tellings,
for Abba’s mother had been his source. Nonetheless, the two tales are dif-
ferent. The female teller implicitly protested against low gender status (as
it is reflected in the man’s tale) by giving a high status to her own gender.
The male teller tried to keep the mother figure in a low status. This com-
parison reveals the way in which a woman’s voice—although ignored—can
be raised to achieve gender balance and can continue to work beneath the
surface. These narratives suggest that women are never silent when it
comes to representing themselves in a world that is often perceived as a
man’s world. These narratives indicate that women use their voices to safe-
guard their own space, which is often invaded by their male counterparts.
The second set of tales, those having religious significance, includes
another tale by Abba, and one by his wife, Amma, who was in her sixties at
the time I heard her narrate these stories. Abba narrated the following tale
sitting in the small neighborhood store he managed. Abba’s story is sum-
marized as follows:
Tale Number 7
This is a story about a person who was always in prayer, not pay-
ing any attention to the material world. One day, a friend asked
his wife to prepare some food for this pious man who had not
eaten in months. The wife prepared the most delicious food and
served it to the pious friend. The man ate the food, but when she
asked whether he had relished the meal, he said he didn’t know.
Surprised, she asked her husband why he had said that. Her hus-
band said that what the friend had said was correct. The wife was
confused and could not understand. And so he asked her to cook
Voiced Worlds 79
some food and keeping a sword hanging over her head, asked her
to eat. She did so. Then he asked her the same question. She
replied just as the pious friend had, stating that throughout the
meal, she feared the sword above her. Then her husband told her
that one who is deeply involved in meditating on God would not
find taste in material things. She understood.
Tale Number 8
Abba’s wife, Amma was a woman healer from Hyderabad, the capi-
tal of Andhra Pradesh, whose patients were from both the Muslim and the
Hindu communities. Most of the time she was busy with her patients, but
occasionally in conversation, she would narrate anecdotes or tales such as
the following story about the greatness of prayer.
A badshah, childless for a long time, is blessed with a prediction of

a male child, by a faqõ–r. But the faqõ–r says the boy will survive only
fourteen years. The boy grows and reaches fourteen. His parents are
miserable. They marry him to a god-fearing and pious girl of the
same age and tell her about the boy’s fate. She sits to pray and asks
her husband to join her in prayer. At midnight a faqõ–r comes and
asks for some food. She gives away her bangles and says that by the
next day her husband was fated to die. The faqõ–r blesses her and says
her punya [merit acquired from good deeds] will save her husband’s
life, and then he goes away. The night passes and in the morning
the young husband is still alive. Both of them come to her in-laws
to pay their respects. His parents, marveling at the changed fate, in-
quire how it happened. The boy explains what happened during the
night, how his destiny was changed by the girl’s prayer.
In Abba’s tale (Number 7) “she,” in a mere passive role, is the one

who can’t understand things pertaining to the other world, the one who
must wait to learn from “him.” In the woman’s telling (Number 8), nei-
ther the boy’s parents nor the boy himself are capable of changing the
boy’s destiny. In Amma’s tale, a woman changes his destiny and is able to
lead him to safety, even in the most crucial situation, and gives him life. It
is noteworthy that Amma, whether consciously or unconsciously, adopts
the daughter-in-law’s point of view in lexical terms: the couple touched the
in-laws’ feet to pay their respects (daughter-in-law’s point of view), not the
parents’ (son’s point of view).
The third story in this group was told by the same fourteen-year-old
girl who narrated the tale of the wife and the husband (Number 1).
Tale Number 9: The Story of a Couple

There live a husband and his wife. The husband doesn’t do any
work for a living and just wanders around. Every day the wife
asks him to go and search for some work. He agrees and goes
into the forest, meditates there, and then comes back. One day,
distressed by his behavior, she shouts at him asking how they are
to feed themselves and their children. Then he lies, saying that
he had got some work. After some days she asks for the money
he gets for his work. He says that he will give it to her in the
evening and goes out as usual. Faris´te [angels] come in disguise
and give him lots of money and valuable gifts. On his return, she
says, “What happened?” Then he reveals that he does not do any
work except meditating in the forest, and that it’s the grace
of God but nothing else. She too, then realizes the greatness
of prayer.
In Tale Number 7 (told by Abba) and in Tale Number 9 (told by the

fourteen-year-old girl) the man occupies the central position as one who is
on the path to attain closeness to God. Yet, in Abba’s telling, the woman
has no place in the pursuit of the man’s godly knowledge, remaining ig-
norant until the man instructs her. In the girl’s telling, on the other hand,
the woman provokes his spiritual quest, although of course, she realizes
the value of prayer through the man’s discovery.
In all these narratives, women seemed to use storytelling as a vehicle
to facilitate the expression of their wishes, needs, opinions, feelings,
protests, dreams, and demands. I understand their stories as an ongoing
rehearsal in their voice world that helps them to take options and make
choices, change social rules, and act according to these new rules within
their groups. In their stories they show a different society, where women
can give shape to their aspirations and desired actions. But the women they
create in stories may not be realized fully in their daily lives. However, the
fact that their stories differ from the reality in which they live does not
mean that their stories are just fantasies in an imaginative world, which
women use to compensate themselves for their unfulfilled desires. As
stated by the Indian architect, B. V. Doshi, “To create, you must practice
dreaming and believe in it. Fairy tales and myths are powerful and crucial
Voiced Worlds 81
for the process of creativity” (1994: viii). Such a statement legitimates and
supplements the inherent power of women’s folk narratives. A conscious
narrative tradition is a form of (un)conscious dreaming, and in the process
of telling stories, women draw on their inner abilities to formulate and to
evolve a culture separate from their surroundings. In such an imagined en-
vironment, which they identify as their very own, they, and women like
themselves, can occupy active and central roles.
The last group of narratives are grounded in down-to-earth reality
and suggest a bridge between the first group of nonreligious tales and the
second group of religiously oriented tales, but despite their differences,
they share the same characteristics I have so far mentioned in this essay.
These tales are traditional folk narratives performed in a ritual context.
Women refer to them as kahanõ–s, but when I was collecting information
on this genre, a Shi’ite Mullah told me that they should be referred as
mauju– de, which means “miracle stories.” However, throughout my field-
work, I heard women using the term kahanõ–. According to my narrators,
nobody knew the origin of these tales. But they believe that these are his-
torical incidents, propagated orally for generations, and later also made
available in the form of chapbooks. Women narrate them among women
audiences either in fulfillment of a vow or on a regular basis. During a rit-
ual kahanõ– performance, one of the women is invited to tell the story of a
particular Bõ–bõ– (a woman saint).
Tale Number 10: B –õb –õ Segat ki Kaha– n–õ

[The Tale of B –õb –õ Segat]
A king, childless, begs a faq –õr to have grace on him, so that
he can have a child. The faq –õr grants him his wish and tells him
that he will have a girl child and that she should bear the name
Bõ–bõ– Segat. The girl is born and grows up and leads a pious life.
She refuses to marry, saying that there are hardships in marriage.
Taking the Qur’an with her, she moves into a room and disap-
pears forever. She reappears in a dream to her mother who cries
for her. She tells her not to be unhappy but to go and propagate
her kahanõ– in the world. She reveals the fact that her story has the
effect of fulfilling the wishes of those who listen to it.
In the rest of the story, there are instances in which obedi-
ent people are blessed and disobedient ones experience setbacks.
But, in the end, the latter realize Bõ–bõ– Segat’s miraculous powers,
and receive her grace.
Narratives play a key role in sustaining this particular folk culture, one
in which women who occupy positions analogous to that of Bõ– bõ– Segat are
central figures. A culture evolves through these narratives that serves the
needs of the women tellers and listeners. We see women playing extraordi-
nary roles in and around this story. In the story, a woman outperforms even
the king. The women—as saints, believers, and performers—take the lead
and occupy active roles. As in legends, a childless king finally is blessed with
a child, but it will be a girl. Further, she will reveal herself only to her
mother, someone who will in fact be entrusted with the responsibility to
propagate her story. In the fuller version of the story, it is always a woman
who must be requested to perform the kahanõ–, even when the narrative sit-
uation includes men, or even a king who has to regain lost wealth or a king-
dom for his disobedience.
Some bõ–bõ–s have shrines where they are venerated by followers, and in
this connection a category of narratives exists about women saints in ex-
clusively female shrines (Narasamamba 1992). Thus a narrative is told
about the shrine of Bõ–bõ– Fatima, the daughter of Mohammed and wife of
Ali. According to a Shi’ite woman narrator, the story goes like this.
Some generations ago, a woman had a dream in which Fatima

Bõ–bõ– gave a divine order to construct a shrine for her, and the con-
struction was to be undertaken by women only. The following
day, there were signs of the incident: the appearance of a piece of
red cloth and a beautiful fragrance which spread all over the area.
The woman who had received the command together with other
women constructed the dargah [shrine] and she became mu-
javarni (chief attendant in the dargahs) of the dargah. A wal õ– [a
friend of God] who violated the bõ–bõ– ’s order that men should not
visit her shrine and tried to enter the shrine by force was driven off
by a swarm of bees.
This particular folk narrative has made a mark by becoming an infor-

mal law that facilitates women’s taking charge as mujavarni in the woman
saint’s dargah. This is a leading and active public role, which parallels that
of mujavars, priests in shrines of male saints. This also demonstrates how a
specifically women’s folk narrative might bring about a greater structural
change in the larger society within which women live. It is notable that—
with the exception of a few historically known bõ–bõ– s such as Fatima bõ–bõ– —the
bõ–bõ– s mentioned in other such narratives are saints who were once ordinary
Voiced Worlds 83
women and housewives who had led pious lives, had performed miracles,
had both blessed the people around them with their gracious acts, and had
punished their disobedience, even men’s disobedience, thus eventually
making them understand the bõ–bõ– ’s power.
CONCLUSION
The three sets of narratives discussed in this article are arranged in an

order that reflects the ability of women to actively participate in their com-
munities. Thus, their social roles are less legitimized in nonreligious folk-
tales, more in those with religious bearing, and most in kahanõ– s. The
underlying thread in all these narratives is that women play active or ex-
traordinary roles as protagonists who go beyond prescribed norms of soci-
ety, overcome adversaries, and transform obstacles to their advantage.
Lila Abu-Lughod concludes from her study of Bedouin women that
“sexual segregation is not inherently bad for women” (1985: 657). Simi-
larly, I find here that women have turned segregation to their advantage.
For each male faqõ–r, mullah, mujavar, jadugar, ustad, and male saint,
women uphold the authority of a female faqõ–rana, mullahni, mujavarni,
jadugarni, ustadbi, and woman saint both in narrative and in social worlds.
These features tell us that women who perform and carry on narrative
traditions are not just passive bearers, but are custodians, critics, reviewers,
makers, and remakers of societal structures. In order to enjoy their due
share in all spheres, they perform in safe circles of small groups utilizing a
safer stamp of “oral tradition,” because the oral tradition that they hand on
remains free of challenge from the so-called mainstream social tradition.
Features that I identify and discuss here can be found in other Islamic
communities, as Kaveh safa-Isfahani has demonstrated in his study of female-
centered worldviews. In writing about Iranian society, he states that “. . . [in]
male-centered structures of hierarchy and segregation . . . there is a need to
view women (and other subdominant segments) not merely as passive par-
ticipants, but as vital protagonists interacting with the structures of their
domination, necessarily exercising some degree of autonomy, not only
in defining and interpreting, but in redefining and reinterpreting how
the dominant structures define and interpret them” (1980: 34). He
mentions “. . . religious and secular folklore which have major female
heroines; . . . and a rich body of women centered, Islamic folk rituals and
beliefs . . .” (34). In her study of women’s general cultural practices—
including folk culture—Margaret Strobel has also examined the ways

in which “the sexual segregation prescribed by Islam contributed to female
interaction across class lines and thus favored the formation of a female
subculture . . .” (1979: 1). Evidence like this tantalizes the researcher by sug-
gesting the possibility that similar features that are yet to be discovered exist
across the broad geographical sweep of Islamic cultures.
NOTES
My deep gratitude to my teacher and supervisor, K. V. Rao. His con-

stant guidance for over a decade has been a cornerstone of my intellectual
and academic growth. In addition, my hearty thanks to Margaret A. Mills for
going through this manuscript in its initial stage and making suggestions.
1. During the course of this research, women in this community
extended warm hospitality to me; hospitality is a tradition they honor, and
I gratefully benefited from it.
2. For more details on this subject, see my article “Muslim Women’s
Songs in Andhra Pradesh,” The Bulletin 13.1 & 2(1994): 46–53.
3. Aided by the narrators of the tales, I have provided titles of stories
mostly for the convenience of readers. Neither narrators nor their audi-
ences titled the stories.
4. Ralph Troger has extensively discussed the false-bride tale type in
Bengali folklore (1966).
5. At the request of the women who narrated some of these stories,
I do not disclose actual identities.
6. This part of the story is similar to the story of Bhima and Baka-
sura from the Hindu epic, the Mahabharata, except that in the epic,
Bhima saves the only son in a family.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Abu-Lughod, Lila. A Community of Secrets: The Separate World of

Bedouin Women. Signs 10/4: 637–657, 1985.
Dhar, Asha. Folk Tales of Iran. Delhi: Sterling Publishers Private Ltd.,
1978.
Voiced Worlds 85
Grima, Benedicte. The Performance of Emotion Among Paxtun Women:

“The Misfortunes Which Have Befallen Me.” Austin: University of Texas
Press, 1992.
Kumar, Nita, ed. Women as Subjects: South Asian Histories. Charlottesville:
University of Virginia Press, 1994.
Metcalf, Barbara D. Perfecting Women: Maulana Ashraf ’Alõ– Thanawi’s
Bihishti Zewar: A Partial Translation with Commentary. Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1990.
Narasamamba, K. V. S. L. “The Dargahs of Women Saints in East Godavari
District.” The Bulletin 11.3/4 (1992): 81–86.
———. “Muslim Women’s Songs in Andhra Pradesh.” The Bulletin
13.1/2 (1994): 46–53.
Papanek, Hanna and Gail Minault. Separate Worlds: Studies of Purdah in
South Asia. Delhi: Chanakya Publications, 1982.
Ramanujan, A. K. “Toward a Counter-System: Women’s Tales.” In Gen-
der, Genre, and Power in South Asian Expressive Traditions. Arjun Ap-
padurai, Frank J. Korom and Margaret A. Mills, eds. Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991. Pp. 33–55.
———, ed. Folktales from India. New York: Pantheon Books, 1991a.
Safa-Isfahani, Kaveh. “Female-centered World Views in Iranian Culture:
Symbolic Representations of Sexuality in Dramatic Games.” Signs 6/1
(1980): 33–53.
Strobel, Margaret. Muslim Women in Mombasa, 1890–1975. New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1979.
Sujatha Shankar, Venkatesh L. “Architecture of Primordial Space.” The
Hindu (February 6, 1994): viii.
Troger, Ralph B. A Comparative Study of a Bengal Folktale, Underworld
Beliefs and Underworld Helpers; An Analysis of the Bengal folktale type,
The pursuit of blowing cotton-AT-480. Trans. Heinz Mode. Calcutta:
Indian Publications, 1966.
Webber, Sabra. “Women’s Folk Narratives and Social Change.” In Women
and the Family in the Middle East: New Voices of Change. Ed. Elizabeth
Warnock Fernea. Austin: University of Texas Press. Pp. 310–316, 1985.
5
Transformation of Gender Roles:
Converging Identities in
Personal and Poetic Narratives
P. S. KANAKA DURGA
I
n India’s privileged civil society, knowledge, truth, and reality are
constructed in terms of the dominant male gender, and female voices
and experiences are either ignored or merely given passing reference
in the representation of cultures, which results in a monocular depiction of
society. Folklore, on the other hand, depicts the totality of tradition-based
creations by both men and women in a variety of gender relations with a
matrix of power and sexuality in many different cultural contexts. Folk nar-
rative captures the experiences of women and men in different expressive
or generic forms and demands attention by depicting interactions between
gender and genre.
Each generation forms, and transforms, generic expressions and trans-
mits them orally to the next generation. In this transmission, women play a
prominent role as tradition bearers. In the process of socialization, women
internalize traditions and values and also perpetuate them for generations
by expressing them in their own lives as they live them and in generic forms
peculiar to their own cultural groups.
In oral narrative, women are free to compose, recompose, and dissem-
inate creations that more often than not reveal unexpected voices. Reality, as
they construe it, projects fantasy about protest against, resistance to, and dis-
satisfaction with their society in ways that are free of filtration and censorship
(Kanaka Durga 1999a). Their folk narratives echo complementary and con-
tradictory negotiations of men and women who operate within the matrix of
87
gender-power-sexuality. As such, they are of great cultural value for interpret-

ing women’s perspectives.
Women’s folk narratives uncover the process of constructing a gendered
self-identity within the sociocultural context of their own lives. Further, they
represent conflicts that arise within an individual, as well as between individ-
uals and society, and also suggest strategies for negotiating conflict and for
balancing gender relations within family and society. According to Wendy
O’Flaherty, women’s folk narratives show a perfect blending of tradition and
creativity, that is, of artistry in the context of folkloristic performance (1989:
5). These narratives provide vital entry points for examining interactions be-
tween the individual and society in the construction of gender.
Recent discourse on folk narrative research recognized gender as an
issue in culture studies (Appadurai et al. 1991; Abu Lughod 1986; Ra-
manujan 1986a, 1991a; Degh 1969; Brill 1978). Women’s personal nar-
ratives are primary documents for analyzing gender issues. Grounded in
women’s lives, they reveal the perceived gender roles and how meaningful
they are to their lives vis-à-vis society. Women’s personal narratives offer
stories about how women negotiate their exceptional gender status both in
their daily lives and over the course of their lifetimes.
Gender is perceived not only as a variable factor in the study of folklore,
but also as an ever-present variable in the analysis of performance of a partic-
ular narrative. In this essay, I make an attempt to study women-centered nar-
ratives in order to analyze the narrators’ personal identity and personality in
comparison with those of the characters and events in the narratives them-
selves. The women-centered narratives can be defined as those that are told
by women, are owned by women, and are centered around women (Ra-
manujan 1991 33–34; 1991a xxv–xxvi). These narratives reveal the existence
of an independent and exclusive domain for women within which they freely
identify with female and male characters in texts that they perform. This evi-
dent interchangeability of gender roles (in terms of transformation and tran-
scendence in the performance context of a narrative) is a strategy adopted by
narrators (here, invariably women) to claim their due social status. Therefore,
it can be hypothesized that their women-centered narrative structures reenact
and dramatize women’s struggles and women’s search for identity.
My essay is based on fieldwork conducted in Andhra Pradesh. I doc-
umented several narratives, both in prose and verse, together with an au-
tobiographical account by an old woman from a pastoral community. To
demonstrate the images and the narrator’s points of identification with her
narratives, I examined five of her poetic narratives together with narratives
Transformation of Gender Roles 89
of her personal life experiences. Through her narratives she questioned and
resisted the stereotypic notion of females whose survival depends on serv-
ing males. Though in reality my informant had to reckon with the values
and norms of the patriarchal society in which she lived, she—in her narra-
tives—shattered gender boundaries in her own life and demonstrated her
desire and hope for a gender-egalitarian social system.
METHODOLOGY
When I was collecting folk narratives and songs in the village of

Chavarambakam in the district of Chittoor in Andhra Pradesh, I met an
old woman about sixty years old named Rajamma. She was very interested
in knowing what was going on in her village, and after she learned the pur-
pose of my visit, she encouraged the other women of the village to per-
form songs and tales for me, as she herself had already done. Whenever I
saw her, she was busily engaged in either grazing the cattle or milking her
buffalos. However, I was able to gather information about her from the
village womenfolk, who were very happy to tell me about her. She was a
widow, a woman of the golla, or pastoralist, caste who earn their living by
herding cattle and by farming. She was very good and helpful to the wom-
enfolk and to the villagers. She knew many songs, tales, riddles, and
proverbs, although she was not literate. Almost all the women and the chil-
dren around her hut in the village learned folktales and songs from her.
She was a repository of folklore and also a perpetuator of it who could un-
hesitatingly perform the most obscene songs as well as agricultural work
songs, or long poetic narratives traditionally performed at the time of
women’s rituals such as gobbi.1 Rajamma did not use separate genre names
for her poetic narratives, but simply called them kathalu (stories).
Village people called my informant affectionately Rajamma, Rajakka,
or Avva (Granny). Rajamma called me ammayi, which literally means
“young girl,” but can also be used to show the kind of intimacy a mother
shares with her daughter. For my part, I called her avva, “grandmother,”
an honorific term used generally by young people to address old women.
She was very happy with my calling her avva and she adjusted her work
schedule so that she could share her experiences with me. In many of my
informal meetings with her, she performed tales, songs, proverbs, and rid-
dles in Telugu, her native language. The dialect and slang were typical of
her ethnic culture.
I wanted to listen to Rajamma’s personal experiences in her own

words, since I had heard so much about her miseries and her struggles
from the villagers. Her personal narrative demonstrated involvement and
concern for the women characters in the narratives while she was perform-
ing them. Her manner while singing was sometimes emotional and some-
times reserved. Most of the narratives she performed contained woman
protagonists, while the narratives themselves appeared to be woman-cen-
tered. Her life experiences clearly had an impact on her performance style
and were related to the themes of the narratives she preferred.
Rajamma’s performances provided me with a corpus of tales that in-
cluded brilliant poetic narratives, as well as obscene songs. The villagers
themselves call the most obscene songs bu– tu patalu
. or banda patalu,
. both
of which center on sex, eroticism, illicit relations, and sensuality. As a
highly context-sensitive performer, Rajamma knows what to sing and what
not to sing, depending on her audience. For example, Rajamma told me
that she could sing a full-length obscene song in gatherings restricted to
women and could perform the same song in a mixed gathering by carefully
substituting cultural metaphors for the most obscene words in them.
Several questions guided my study. Did any relation exist between
Rajamma’s personal life and the narratives she performed? Did she identify
herself with any of the women or men in the narratives? If so, why and how?
Did she correlate incidents in her own life with events in the tales? Or did she
represent them in a subverted form? Had her personal life experiences in-
duced her to be a bearer of oral tradition? With these questions in mind, I
decided to collect personal narrative not only from her, but also from her
co-womenfolk and from other people who knew her, including her children,
grandchildren, and neighbors. The information they provided appears
in footnotes.
I met Rajamma in a variety of places while collecting her narratives: in
the cattle shed, in open fields, in her hut, in women’s gatherings under trees,
and also in her working place. Highly cooperative, Rajamma responded
openly even when I asked her potentially embarrassing questions. Having al-
ready narrated systematically, she not only understood my questions, but
sometimes rephrased them to give me correct or accurate answers.
My translation of Rajamma’s renderings from Telugu to English is
neither literal nor literary but cultural, because language is a dynamic be-
havioral pattern specific to its cultural connotation, denotation, and into-
nation. Before I devised a method to translate her Telugu into English, I
listened to her narratives many times in order to fully understand her col-
loquial speech. A regional dialect of Telugu, her language is rich in under-
tone and overtone expressions. Translation, of course, does not mean

merely finding equivalent textual material in the target language, here
English. Paul Ricoeur defines “text” as a sequence of signs longer than a
sentence (1971: 553). Lauri Honko considers a text to be any configura-
tion of signs that can be coherently interpreted by a community of users
(1998: 140). Hence the phrase “textual material” is loaded not only with
literal, but also with cultural meanings, which must be translated without
distortion of texture and context. The translation undertaken here is
“interlingual,” which is to say that verbal signs in the Telugu language are
interpreted in the English language (Basnett 1980: 14).
The type of textual material to be translated determines the method
of translation to be undertaken. In this context, the “textual material” is
in both prose and ethnopoetic forms. It is an oral text that is considered
to be open ended and is often expanded or epitomized by the narrator
contextually. Rajamma’s vocabulary is rich in colloquial and ethnolinguis-
tic forms and here and there she used English terms. No single method is
perfect in translating the cultural textual substance of the ethnographic
material. Nevertheless, I have followed the “partial translation method”
(Catford rpt. 1974: 21, 32) to translate long oral poetic narratives into
English. Some native words are retained due to their untranslatability and
cultural specificity (e.g., the word tamma in the fourth and seventh lines
of the Tale of Kantha Kamudi matha). In translating the poetic narra-
tives, “word for word” and “literal interlingual translation” (Bassnett
1980: 114) is adopted without distorting the inherent meaning of the
text, as in “bee” for tummeda and “beautiful bee” for rama tummeda.
The Telugu word rama in this context literally means “beautiful” and im-
plies “beautiful” or “handsome fellow.” The cultural metaphors used in
Rajamma’s texts are translated to carry the spirit of their language culture
from Telugu into English.
Personal Narrative
When I asked Rajamma to tell me something about her personal ex-

periences, she was silent for a few seconds. She asked me, “What are you
going to do with my personal experiences?”
I replied in a tone that I hoped would be convincing, “I will write
about you.”
Then she laughed loudly and exclaimed, “Am I Indira Gandhi or
Nehru? How can one write about a woman like me who is a cattle keeper
and an agricultural laborer?”
I told her, “Many people know about Indira Gandhi and Nehru very
well, because they were prime ministers. But only a few people, perhaps in
this part of the village, know your talents. I don’t want to write about
‘great women’ who are familiar to everybody, but about a common villager
like you. I want to tell the world about a simple woman, a replica of the
folk and of popular culture who carves a domain of her own and lives hap-
pily herself in her creations and experiences. In this village I found you a
most suitable and worthy person from whom I can gather information.
Please kindly render me your personal experiences, so that I can learn
something from your life.”
Rajamma began to tell me about her family, her brothers and sisters,
and her in-laws. She narrated her life experience very coherently, intermix-
ing it with songs, jokes, and short tales, which made the entire context
lively and informal. Moreover, it was free from inhibitions and conceal-
ments. She began: “My name is Rajamma. I was born in the Erragolla sect
of the golla caste. My father and mother come from Go– vindappanayudi .
khandrika
. in Nagiri Mandalam. His name is Varadayya nayudu . and
mother’s is Narasamma. Our family name is Ukkiri varu and I was given in
marriage to Bomminit. ti . varu.”
Here I stopped her narration. “Avva, you are a golla. How can your
2
father hold the honorific title nayudu?”
.
She replied, “My grandfather’s grandfather . . . I don’t remember his
name . . . was associated with the Jamindar of Nagiri. He was given a piece
3
of land by Jamindar for cultivation, that is nayudupa. .t.ta. Since then my
grandfather (Svami nayudu) . and my father Varadayya held the honorific
title nayudu.
. We have been doing cultivation for three or four generations.
Besides, we maintain cattle and sell cattle products.”
I asked her to continue her narration and she did so: “I have two
younger sisters, Ademma and Savitri, who were married to local bride-
grooms. I was married to Ramasvami nayudu . of Chavarambakam. My
younger brother Munisvami nayudu . was married to his two nieces, the two
daughters of my two sisters. He had no children by his first wife Lakshmi,
the only daughter of my sister Ademma, and therefore he also married my
second sister’s daughter Malli with whom he had children. Both the
cowives live in harmony . . . In my childhood, I was very active. Early in
the morning I used to wake up, clean the premises of our big hut and cat-
tle shed, sprinkle the kallapi [water mixed with cowdung], put muggu
[floor designs] before the main gate. Then I would help my mother milk
the cows. Then I would collect milk in a big pot and distribute it to the vil-
lagers. Then I would take chaddi [curd rice prepared from the previous
night’s cooked rice; see footnote 10] from home and go to the crossroads
of the village and sell buttermilk, butter, and milk to the villagers. I col-
lected all the coins and gave them to my father. My father was very loving
and affectionate to me. I was very happy in my father’s home. I played, I
sang, I danced . . . why not? Up till my marriage, every experience was
sweet and memorable.”
Rajamma closed her eyes and it seemed as if she were recollecting her
happy past. I asked her, “Were you happy after your marriage? Tell me
something about your marriage.”
Rajamma said, “My marriage? Do you want to hear? It is a long story
full of petty quarrels. All my life has been a continuous struggle; it is full of
sufferings, cravings, crying, and poverty . . . My father’s maternal uncle
[me–namama] had a son for marriage. My father wanted to give me in mar-
riage to him. But, in the meantime, my maternal uncle arranged a match
for me from the village of Chavarambakam. The bridegroom was about
sixty years old. Everything was done without discussing the matter with
my parents. Later on, he informed my father. My mother grew wild and
she scolded my father, ‘Why are you giving this tiny girl to an old man in
marriage? If she elopes or does some wrong after she marries this old man,
what will be the fate of her younger sisters and the honor of the family?
Then, also, what is so urgent about her marriage? Is she craving minda-
gandlu
. [illicit lovers]? I don’t want to get her married so soon at this age.
Perform her wedding after I succumb in my labor pains to death . . .”
Rajamma stopped here for some time. Then she continued, “At that time
my mother was pregnant. Her deliveries were always dangerous. That’s
why she got frightened. On this pretext she tried to stop my father from
getting me married to an old man. But my father could ignore my mother.
He was offended at the behavior of his maternal uncle and hence he told
my mother harshly, ‘I will give my daughter only to this old man. Even if
he dies, I don’t care. I will perform the wedding.’ My mother wept all day.
She could do nothing other than that.”
I inquired of her, “Avva, what about your feelings about these dis-
cussions? Weren’t you consulted at all?”
Rajamma looked at me blankly and replied wanly, “You know, I was
hardly nine years old when I was married. I didn’t know what marriage was
and why people married. All I knew about marriage was that it meant wear-
ing new clothes, adorning yourself with jewels and going on a palanquin
(pallakõ–). I told you that my father and the other men in my family
ignored my mother when she resisted my marriage proposal. How could
they think of consulting me?”
“Avva, can you tell me about your wedding?” I was eager to know
the details of her marriage. She began to recollect her experiences at the
time of her wedding. She looked into the distance, and spoke slowly. “My
wedding was performed at my husband’s place, Chavarambakam, since my
mother was pregnant and there was nobody to assist with the arrange-
ments for the wedding. However, it was celebrated for three days. I was
prepared as bride by muttaiduvas [unwidowed women] who gave me the
sacred bath three times with chickpea flour, oil, and sandal water. They put
vermilion on my forehead and a black spot on my left cheek to ward off
the evil eye. My me–namama [maternal uncle] brought me new clothes, a
skirt . . . a Kanchi silk skirt, a blouse, and an o–ni [half-sari]. They dressed
me in the bridal dress and adorned me with jewels. I went to the groom’s
place to the wedding like the other guests. My people scolded me, ‘You
silly girl, bow your head. You are a bride, not a bridegroom.’ I was very
angry. I replied, ‘I will be as I am. Why should I bow?’ I walked into the
pandal
. [ceremonial dais] like the other guests. I was asked to put my hands
into the pots of salt and pulses.4 I did it. On the second day, the wedding
was performed. I don’t remember the events of my wedding in order.
However, afterward my husband tied tali.5 On the third day we played
vasañto– tsava. I sprinkled vasañtam [water mixed with colors or sandal or
fragrances] over my husband and each couple played and sprinkled the
vasañtam on each other. Then I left the place with my husband for my
father’s place.”
I was very much interested to know about the villagers’ impressions
of her marriage. I asked her, “Avva, how did your family members and the
villagers feel about your marriage?”
She replied passionately, “You know how my mother wept and
neighbors criticized my father for getting me married to an old man.
My father very confidently convinced them, ‘You see, people, what is lack-
ing in my son-in-law? He will remain as he is, even after twenty years, but
my daughter would soon become old if she gives birth to four or five chil-
dren. What is wrong in it? There is no age factor for men.’ All the villagers
kept silent.”
I was wondering whether the bridegroom was marrying for the sec-
ond time. I expressed my doubt to her.
Rajamma shook her head—her husband had not been married be-
fore. His marriage with Rajamma was the first one. She explained the rea-
sons for his late marriage, “Ammayi, he did not marry for a long time. He
lived in the village as basivi.6 He was free to eat anywhere he liked and go
wherever he wanted to. Till then he had never felt the importance of mar-
riage. His brother, who went to the Second World War, came back. By the
time he returned, his wife had died, leaving no children. Since there was
nobody else to continue the family name and their lineage, they decided to
perform the wedding of my husband.”
I was curious about her marital life. I asked her, “When did you go
to your husband? How did you react to these new situations?”
Rajamma began to talk about her relations with her husband very
openly. She said, “I was at my parents’ home till I attained puberty. After
that, I went to my in-laws’ place. Before that my husband used to come and
see me occasionally. I treated him like one of the other relations who always
visited our house. My husband used to tease me, ‘Young girl, why don’t
you come to my place? You can help my sister in bringing water or clean-
ing utensils.’ I used to get angry. I replied, ‘Who are you? Why should I
come to somebody’s house and serve?’ He used to laugh at my words. At
that time I didn’t know anything. At the age of eleven years, I attained pu-
berty. My in-laws came and celebrated the occasion. Then I was unable to
understand my life. How can I lead a marital life with an old man? What
about my future? The talk of older people in and around the family dis-
turbed my mind. Under these circumstances my nuptials were arranged. It
was fixed on the ninth day of my puberty. That day we took a headbath7
and ate lunch with a variety of dishes. In the night after supper, I wore
white sari and white blouse. My aunt put flowers . . . jasmines . . . in my
hair. In a room a bed was arranged on which scent and jasmines were sprin-
kled. In one corner, a small table was arranged on which fruits and sweets
were kept in separate plates. A glass of milk was also provided. My aunt told
me, ‘Don’t hurt your husband . . . don’t be childish.’ I drank milk and ate
some sweets. I was getting sleepy. I slept on the bed. In the middle of the
night, when I was in a sound sleep, my husband was doing something with
my body, which was hitherto unknown to me. Suddenly, I woke up and
screamed. My aunt, sleeping outside the room, heard my voice and entered
the room. She took me out and told me, ‘You should listen to your hus-
band. Let him do whatever he likes.’ But that night nothing happened.
Thus, three days passed. On the next day when I was grinding black grams
for cakes I happened to hear the conversation of two women, one my aunt
and the other was my neighbor, Lakshmi. I still remember the conversation.
AUNT: “Lakshmi, Rajam is not behaving properly with her husband.

She is young and energetic and he is an old guy.”
LAKSHMI: “Yes, nowadays young girls are just like her. They don’t
care about tradition and virtues.”
AUNT: “Then why do they marry?”
LAKSHMI: “They marry old ones and elope with young men if they
are not satisfied.”
This conversation stuck in my mind. I began to think, “Oh, God!

what type of persons are they? What happens if I do not sleep with my hus-
band for some time? Why should I give reason to others to speak nonsense
about me? Our father, who always settles the villagers’ disputes, should not
bow his head before anybody. If I do some wrong, his reputation and
honor will be lost. I should be contented with what I have. ‘One should
drink soup poured into one’s own hand.’ So I should drink the soup
poured into my hand. I should be satisfied with my husband, who is given
by God.’ Thus I made up my mind to be with my husband. I did it. I
begot four children. I never felt sad for having an old man as husband . . .”
I wanted to bring her back from the memories of her early days. I asked
her, “How was your life at your in-laws’ house? Did they receive you well?”
Rajamma asked me, “Do you want me to tell my life at my in-laws’
home? Really it was full of miseries, troubles, disorders, and depressions.
Not that they are bad, but the circumstances were like that. My in-laws
were poor. I had a widowed sister-in-law. She was younger than my hus-
band and was very good and cordial to me. My husband was also very nice
and treated me as a child. But poverty was the main problem. My husband
was an old man and hence he could not take strenuous jobs. In these con-
ditions my parents helped us a lot, otherwise we would have been landed
in much financial crisis. Though by caste we are cattle herders, we had a bit
of land and hence at my parents’ home there were fewer economic prob-
lems. But here all should work to earn daily bread. My sister-in-law looked
after home affairs and I worked in the village to support the family. The
same schedule which I had at my parents’ place was started here again. But
the difference is that at my parents’ home, my earnings supplemented my
father’s income, whereas here, my income was the main source of liveli-
hood for the family. I worked as an agricultural laborer in the fields; I cut
firewood in the forest and sold it in the village. I pounded grain, chillies,
and turmeric for money. Then I brought rice and cooked for my children
and others. This was the routine of my life during the early days at my in-
laws’ home. Even today, you are seeing me. How much strain I am taking
to work from early in the morning till late in night? I work like a machine.”
I wanted to change her mood. I asked her, “Tell me something

about your experiences with your children and the efforts you have made
in bringing them up.”
Rajamma exclaimed, “My experiences? Oh. It is as big as Mahab-
harata and Ramayana. In this poverty and with these miseries, I gave birth
to four children, Damo– dara, Sulo– cana, Ramakrishna, and Ravi. I was given
fifty goats at the time of marriage, but all of them died due to the spread
of an epidemic. Only one ram was left. I sold it and opened a grocery shop
with the money realized from selling the ram. Since then our condition
was a bit improved. I cannot forget the services of my sister-in-law as she
was the real mother to my children. I became mother at the age of thirteen
and widow before I could attain the age of twenty-five.”
I wondered, “Avva, how could you manage with your four children
in the absence of your husband? Tell me how he died.”
Rajamma recollected from her memories and described the events in
a lively manner. “He died from his old age, but not with any specific disease
or complaint. Old age, poverty, and troubles all culminated in his death. I
was very much upset at the death of my husband. I never left him alone
when he was sick. He was sick just four or five days before his death. The
doctors prescribed a tonic. As soon as he consumed it, he vomited. A phar-
macist who was living in my neighborhood asked me to give him something
to eat before he took the tonic. I asked my husband to tell me what he
wanted. He asked me to bring lad. dus . [a type of sweet ball]. I purchased
them in the night. He asked me to distribute them among the children. He
ate a half of one sweet. He was looking at me throughout the night, before
he died early in the morning on the next day. I asked him, ‘Why are you
looking at my face?’ He replied, ‘If I shut my eyes for a while, I may miss
you. I doubt whether I can see you hereafter from tomorrow.’ I slept that
night. On the next day morning, he asked to take him into the verandah
and keep him on the arugu [pyal] in front of the house. I did it with the
help of my daughter, Sulo– cana, who was pregnant at that time. He relaxed
on my shoulder and took his last breath. I did not notice that he was dead.
The persons who were observing the scene declared that he was dead. I lost
consciousness. An hour later, I realized the situation and began to weep
loudly. People tried to console me. One of our neighbors scolded me,
‘Weep well . . . but only after the cremation and the other rituals are over.
Send telegrams to near and dear and see that everything runs smoothly.’ I
sent my older son Damo– dara to collect money from my customers who
purchased milk from me. I could successfully complete the funeral and
other relevant deeds. There was nothing remaining to me at home except
debt to be cleared and the responsibility of the children to be taken care of.
I was always worried about this matter. If I weep in the daytime, I could not
earn money and feed my children properly. Day and night my aim was to
bring up the children . . . nothing other than this . . .”
She was a bit tired after this long narration of the memories of her
husband and of his death. I asked Rajamma, “Avva, can I ask you a per-
sonal question?” I was a bit shy to put such questions to an elderly woman
like her, but she encouraged me to ask. I lowered my voice and asked,
“Avva, you said that you were married at a tender age and had a brief pe-
riod of family life that was interrupted by four childbirths, miseries,
mishaps, poverty, and struggles. Have you ever had any dissatisfaction with
your husband? Have you ever felt the need for a man or consort when you
have to fight in this world in the absence of a male support?”
Rajamma laughed at my series of questions. After a while she told
me, “I am not a competent and learned woman to answer your questions
graphically, but I can tell you my feelings about your questions. To tell you
frankly, I have no time to think of these problems, since I have many more
things to do. I was quite young when I was married and afterward I was
thoroughly busy in childbirths and continuous strain for a livelihood. I was
very much put down after the death of my husband both physically and
psychologically. Even though he was not helpful in running the family, he
was a support to me. Really, I felt his absence. I never thought of trespass-
ing moral values, not because of the fear of society, but for the welfare of
my children and self-esteem. If I went wrong, everybody would have
pointed fingers at me and said, ‘See, see, this Rajamma kept so and so . . .
She is now free . . . anybody can enjoy her.’ Thus I would have become
cheap and lost regard in society. Since my job was public-related, that is, to
visit every house in the village for pouring milk or for work in the farms, I
had to be very cautious and careful. Otherwise I would have lost my liveli-
hood. So I never had any thought of developing illicit relationships. How-
ever, to be away from loneliness and miseries of life, I used to constantly
engage in telling tales, singing songs of different varieties, cutting jokes to
children, neighboring women, and so on . . . I sought happiness and solace
in these acts.”
She continued her discussion about her life experiences. “However,
I was very active ever since my childhood. In my childhood days, when I
was at my parents’ home I learned many tales from my me–natta [paternal
aunt], who was also a widow and used to accompany me when I took cat-
tle for grazing in the fields. Since I used to have enough time from morn-
ing to the evening in the fields, I used to talk and exchange the traditions
I knew with the women from other communities that come as laborers to
the farms. As I am interested in the songs and narratives, I could easily pick
them up and memorize and perpetuate them to the people. Whenever I
heard a new tale or learned a song, I used to memorize and retell it to my
younger sisters and friends.”
I interrupted her. “Avva, I heard and recorded many songs, narra-
tives, and jokes from you. I found that many of the songs and lyrics are ro-
mantic, erotic, and sometimes obscene [to me]. Don’t you know and sing
other types of songs?”
Rajamma asked me, “What do you mean by ‘other songs’? Oh! I do
know lullabies, sacred songs, and so on. I am not allowed to perform
mañga.laharatulu [sacred songs] in auspicious ritual contexts because I am a
widow. Even if I perform such songs, the people who join with me do not feel
happy about it. If I sing those songs, the other women ask me to sing only
–
obscene [banda . patalu or butu patalu]
. or poetic narratives about women or
tales of kings, queens, young princes or to crack jokes or tell riddles.”
I wanted to peep into her mind, and I asked her, “How do you feel
about such performances?”
She replied, “Honestly speaking, I will be very happy to sing erotic
songs and love narratives. I feel that I am more released and relaxed if I
perform songs which have good rhythm and rhyme. I can keep even my
audience alert and active, which gives me happiness. I can remember and
catch such types of songs more quickly than the other types.”
I still wanted to know some details of her performances. I asked her,
“Why do you always tell tales about women?”
She replied in a low and soft tone. “My girl, I do not know that all
my tales are about women . . . I have sympathy and concern for women
and their problems. I myself faced many troubles as a lonely woman. I had
to stand by the side of my family as if I were a man. So I have a soft corner
for the women who suffer in the world of males. I tell such narratives and
songs to young girls and children in my leisure time or in the agricultural
fields or while grazing the cattle to enlighten them about the nature of the
world . . . I seek happiness in memorizing and perpetuating them among
the womenfolk.”
After a while, Rajamma began to talk about her experiences with her
children and their upbringing. Her narration ran as follows: “My eldest son
Damo– dara . . .” She began to wail loudly. I was taken aback, and didn’t know
what to do. I asked her, “Did I hurt you? What happened to your son?”
She wiped off her eyes with her sari and began to tell me, “My son
Damo– dara! How can I forget you?” She turned to me and said, “Ammayi,
if he had died naturally or if I had seen his dead body, my condition would
have been different. I do not know whether he is alive or dead. The way he
faded away from my sight and life burns my heart. My son studied up to
Ninth Class. Due to poverty, I sent him to Madras and put him in a cycle
shop. There he learned cycle repairs and mechanics. The owner of the shop
was a Mudaliar from Tamilnadu. He was very nice to my son and treated
him as his own brother in the beginning. My son Damo– dara was also
equally good and fair. One day the Mudaliar went to Thanjavur on his busi-
ness. He asked my son to help his wife in his absence. One day, when my
son went to his house to pick up a tool, he saw his employer’s wife with a
young man who was also a close friend of the Mudaliar. My son did not say
a word and returned to the cycle shop. Those two culprits saw my son at
the same time that he saw them. They were afraid of the event. The para-
mour belongs to Jangama caste.8 The Mudaliar knew the jangama, but
not the illicit relation he had with his wife. In the absence of the Mudaliar,
they both used to enjoy themselves with each other. As soon as the Mu-
daliar returned to Madras, that bitch distorted the version of the event and
accused my son of not coming to the shop properly and of misbehaving
with her and further she scolded her husband for entrusting the shop and
his personal affairs to such a faithless fellow as Damo– dara. The Mudaliar
scolded my son and later thrashed him. My son went to the wife of Mu-
daliar and asked her, ‘Amma, you are my sister-in-law. You are like my
mother. It is not good on your part to tell nonsense about me to your hus-
band. Can you quote an incident in which I misbehaved with you? Why
have you lied to your husband?’ That bitch did not listen to him. My son
got angry and came back to Chavarambakam. I asked my son to stay with
me. One or two months went by. One day my son asked me for permission
to go to Madras, to see his me–natta [paternal aunt]. He said he would come
back on the same day. I agreed because he wanted to see his aunt. Why
should I stop him from going? That day he took a headbath, wore white
pants and white shirt. He was as handsome as the moon. He left for
Madras. He did not return. Since then, I have been waiting for him. People
say that he is dead. Otherwise he would have come. Whenever a thought of
him comes into my mind, I cannot sleep and eat. Throughout the night I
will be weeping. That bitch caused the death of my beloved son.”
Rajamma wept for a few minutes. I consoled her. I felt guilty and I
told her so. She suppressed her grief and patted my back. She told me, “Not
at all. I can release my grief if I speak to people like you. You know . . . my
youngest son . . . beloved son . . . Ravi . . . he also died. He died due to
blood cancer. This way I was again punished by God.”
She stopped for a while and continued her narration about the death
of her youngest son. “Every day at night my son used to get a fever. He got
swellings in his joints, especially in his knees. Doctors did many tests and
declared that his leg should be amputated up to his knee since water is accu-
mulated in his knees. I can do nothing other than accept the reality. They op-
erated on the knee and removed it and gave crutches to him. After three
months again some problems started. He began to vomit blood and people
suggested to me to take him to Stanley Hospital in Madras. I took him. Days
passed. No improvement. My well-wishers suggested that I take him back to
Chavarambakam, since the doctors could not do any more. I brought him
back to Chavarambakam. After a few days he got fever and again started vom-
iting blood. He died. I wept like anything. The children for whom I have
been struggling, dying . . . it is all a waste. You can imagine my state of mind.
It was blank and shabby. I have no capacity to think further. I could not come
out of this shock for a long time. But I have to come into reality . . . I have to
see to the rest of the family. I have no husband to share with me. Who else is
for me except my daughter and her drunkard husband? My son Ramakrishna
was not old enough to console me. I persuaded my drunkard son-in-law and
my daughter and brought them here with their two children, Premalata and
Laksmipati . . . I helped them in their coming up . . .”
I asked her, “How did you help them?”
Rajamma replied, “In the same way my parents helped me when I
was in trouble. I raised loans from villagers and purchased buffalos for her.
She did business with them and could run the family and repay the debts
with the money from selling the milk and its products. Recently, in this vil-
lage a small balvadi. [crèche for children] has been opened. A rich landlord
helped my daughter to get a job in the balvadi . as a nanny for the children.
Now with the money she gets from the salary and the buffalos, she got her
daughter married and is now financially sound. My daughter and children
are really very helpful to me. Her children do not eat unless I eat. They like
me very much.”
Here I could see the difference between her daughter’s children and
her son’s children. I asked her, “Your son’s children are not good? Do they
quarrel with you?”
Rajamma shook her head. “No. Not at all . . . They are good. We
should not blame children. Whatever their parents say, they should listen . . .
My son is very nice and he is gold. If somebody else was in his place, I would
have been on the roads, for my daughter-in-law always distorts my conversa-
tion with her and complains to my son.”
I inquired of her, “Avva, why do you speak like this? Don’t you have
good relations with her?”
Rajamma was about to reply when a woman about twenty-five years
old came there, screaming in a loud voice, “Attamma [mother-in-law], are
you not coming home today? Are you eating at Vadinamma’s [sister-in-
law’s] house? There is a lot of work yet to be completed at home. Why do
you sit here and chitchat with these city girls? They don’t have any work.”
Rajamma became silent. She looked at me. Her looks made me un-
derstand her daughter-in-law’s nature. Rajamma replied to her, “Look
Lakshmi, my mind and body are not sound. I may not come home today.
This girl gave me a tablet. If possible send me milk through Laksmipati or
Ramakrishna. Today I will sleep at Sulo– cana’s home.”
That woman left the place grumbling. Then Rajamma turned to me
and began to talk about her. “See, Ammayi, she always behaves in the same
manner. Despite my hard work she never talks to me properly. She has no
respect for my words. She grumbles at my stay in my son’s home . . . How
much strain can I take daily? No change in my schedule despite rain, thun-
der, heat, cold, or any calamity. I have to wake up early in the morning,
wash the cattle and cattle shed, take the debris to the field, bring grass to
the cattle at home, drink ambali 9 [rice soup], take chaddi10 for lunch, and
go to the fields to graze my cattle. In the evening after I come back from
the fields, I have to milk the cattle, take the milk to the milk center. Then I
take a hot water bath, eat food, and sleep. Again the same schedule starts
when it is dawn. I never rest for a single minute. After working all day am I
not worthy to spend my time in a place where I could get solace or speak
with people who treat me as a human being? I never keep a single coin for
my personal expenditure. Even now my earnings are more than my son’s.
Do you believe it? We are not getting much income by agriculture. Since it
is a dry land, my son is facing many problems in watering and fertilizing. I
am equally struggling along with my son. She must understand my pains at
least, even if she does not appreciate . . . You know what happened once?
One day one of my distant relatives came to the nearby village Melam-
bakam for a wedding. After the wedding was over, he came to see me. Since
it was late at night and the bus to Madras had already left, I asked him to
sleep in my house. He was about twenty years old. That day my son left for
Nagari to bring fertilizers to the fields. We had only one room. It is a bed-
room and kitchen together. When it does not rain, I sleep in the verandah.
When it does, I sleep at my daughter’s house. I usually follow this proce-
dure. Then my daughter-in-law took her two children and went to her re-
lations’ house, which is just a furlong from my house. I did not object, since
I know her mentality. Whenever a new person or guest or anybody comes,
she behaves oddly. The boy left the village early in the morning by the first
bus. I began my schedule. I was coming from the field with fodder. It was
about seven o’clock and again I had to leave for the field. I was surprised
that many people were found before my house, among whom I saw my
daughter-in-law and her children and Sulo– cana, my daughter. I inquired
about the matter. To my surprise, my daughter-in-law distorted the entire
event of the previous night and told the people that I forced her to sleep
with the boy who was in our house last night. I was shocked at her mischief.
I had many more experiences with my daughter-in-law, but not of this type.
I understood that she had been playing another trick to send me away from
her home. I asked her to swear on her children, but she hesitated to do that.
She admitted her guilt. All the villagers scolded her and warned her not to
do such cheap tricks hereafter. Meanwhile my son came. Somebody told
him the whole episode. He grew wild and beat her. But my daughter came
to her rescue and took her into her home. My son strictly gave her an ulti-
matum that she should never behave like this in her life. If she misbehaves
she will be pushed out of the house. How many incidents such as this do
you want me to quote to reveal her character?”
I wanted to know further about her relations with her daughter-in-law.
I asked her, “Avva, have you been cordial to her even after that incident?
Have you noticed any repentance in your daughter-in-law’s behavior?”
Rajamma was relaxed in her reply to my question. “The rivalry
between a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law is the same or similar to
that between a cat and a rat or a snake and a mongoose. The fight is un-
ending. But here in my case, it is reversed. Have you understood? I have
to adjust to the reality. I can do it. I am not ready to lose my son because
of my daughter-in-law. Look, a woman, even if she is rich and self-suffi-
cient, should be under the shade of her father/husband/son. I would
have comfortably stayed either alone or at my daughter’s house with my
earnings. What about tomorrow, if I fall sick? Look at the world. The
world is blind. If I try to reform my daughter-in-law, people may think
that I am harassing her. The people would find fault only with me. I
never in my life was accused by anybody for any guilt. Now, why should
I be blamed? After I married, except for a few times, I never went to my
parents’ house. Even after my husband’s death, I never left this house.
Why should I leave it now? This is the place where I should live and die.
I am staying here for my son and grandchildren. Despite her ignorance,
I still love my daughter-in-law. She cannot alter her behavior; I also can-
not change my nature.”
I wondered at her worldview. I wanted very much to ask her a few
more questions. “Avva, I have been asking you many questions and talk-
ing to you for many days, I think ten days. You are a very sincere and af-
fectionate person. Even though I am new, you never hesitated to answer
many embarrassing questions. I want to know about your thoughts about
your future.”
Rajamma laughed at me. “Ammayi, what future do I have now? I
have already crossed nearly sixty years. My life is over. I am not going to
live many more years. I am waiting for the call of God. I did all my duties.
I never went astray from my duties. I was loyal to my husband and fam-
ily. If I did wrong or played mischief knowingly or unknowingly, it was
not for my enjoyment or for myself, but for bringing up my family and
children. God is there for everybody. He will forgive me. I plead with him
for one favor. I should die without being served by anybody. I should
leave my people with a smile while I am working or chitchatting with peo-
ple like you . . .”
I had many subsequent sessions with Rajamma to clarify questions
about her experiences. In this section I have discussed those aspects of her
personal narrative that are particularly relevant to her poetic narratives.
SUMMARY OF POETIC NARRATIVES
All of Rajamma’s poetic narratives had the following refrains at the

beginning or at the ending of each line:
gobbiya.l.lo: a goddess made by a lump of cow dung (narratives 1, 2)

rama tummeda: beautiful bee (narrative 3)
Ramacandra: Rama, the hero of the epic, Ramayana (narrative 4).
The literal meaning of Ramacandra is beautiful moon (rama ⫽
beautiful; candra ⫽ moon)
tummeda: bee (narrative 5)
In all of these songs the lead singer sings one entire line and then the other
participants, or the audience repeat the same line. The rhythm of the verse
depends on the theme and the context of the performance. Interestingly,
all of these poetic narratives are gender specific, that is, they are performed
exclusively by women, for women, and are about women. Though some of
the narratives are performed during the gobbi festival in a ritual context,
such as the gobbi songs or the songs that have the refrain gobbiya.l.lo, the
other songs are performed during agricultural operations carried out by
women in nonritual contexts, such as weeding, seeding, or planting
seedlings. However, the songs with the refrain gobbiya.l.lo are also per-
formed during agricultural operations, that is, in nonritual contexts, since
the singers’ bodies are engaged in other work. None of these narratives is
genre specific: these narrative songs are also popular in prose form as folk-
tales among the people of that folklore community.
Another interesting observation is that all the poetic narratives that
had the refrains gobbiya.l.lo, rama tummeda, tummeda, and Ramacandra
have a specific meaning. Not simple refrains used to maintain rhythm and
rhyme, these words or phrases carry definite significance.
All these verse narratives are women-centered. They are about
women’s sufferings, cravings, desires, and miseries. Over the long haul,
these feelings cannot be kept locked up in their minds and hearts, because
they are a source of stress and strain. Women need to vent them for re-
prieve from the cares of daily life. The crying songs—De–vanamma katha
(Tale of De– vanamma), Lañjavadina katha (Tale of the Adulterous Sister-
in-law), and Chellini etiki bali icchina katha (Tale of the Sister’s Sacrifice
to the River) had the refrains “bee,” “beautiful bee,” and “gobbiya.l.lo” re-
spectively. All three are filled with the sufferings and experiences of women
who are exploited by patriarchy and the dominant culture. Many of these
women have no opportunity to communicate their torment directly to the
target audience, be they men or women. They must transmit their message
to the world in a subtle manner. Consequently the women turn to inani-
mate, animate, and superhuman beings as media to communicate their
inner thoughts. In these songs the target audiences are not the bees (ani-
mal), Ramacandra (a god), or gobbemma (a goddess), but the society in
which the narrators have been born and brought up. Thus the women in
folk poetic narrative tradition deploy the refrains as a strategy to vent their
inner emotions to their target audience and hence the use of refrains is
highly connotative and denotative.
Tale Number 1: The Tale of Ka–ntha and Ka–mu du

.
(Ka–ntha Ka–mu du
. Katha)
Kama, the hero of the poetic narrative, loved Kantha. He met her
regularly in a palace that he had built on the summit of a hill in
the midst of a thick forest. Whenever they met, Kantha would eat
the chewed tamma (betel leaves, nuts, and lime chewed together)
that her lover Kama had spit out. One day Kantha went to the
palace of her lover a bit late. She saw her lover’s spit on a termite
mound and ate it. Before she had arrived, however, a snake had
vomited its poison on Kama’s spit. When Kantha reached home
she lost consciousness and her seven sisters-in-law reported to her
brothers that she had been bitten by a snake. The brothers ex-
claimed, ‘How can a snake bite her, when the fort that was con-
structed in stone and cement was impregnable and the palace is
well-lighted and properly furnished to avoid any poisonous crea-
tures?’ They wanted to cremate her, even though she was uncon-
scious but still alive. They prepared curd rice meal by using the
milks of goat, buffalo, and cow, and they took dishes of pickled
bel fruit, mango, and lime along with them. Along with their
wives and their knives, they rode their horses into the forest where
they cut the twigs of trees. They ate their food on the bank of the
stream Chalamayya Chalama. Seven brothers cut the trees and
their wives removed bark. They reached their home. The sisters-
in-law ground the bark with oil, ghee, and finally with poison and
gave the liquid to Kantha who was barely conscious. After she had
taken one sip, she was on her last breath. Her brothers brought
sandalwood for cremation. Somehow, this news reached her lover
Kama. As soon as he heard about the pathetic condition of his
love Kantha, he wanted to go to her. He asked his mother to give
him a headbath. His mother refused to send him, since he was not
married to her. Kama ignored his mother and took a headbath
and adorned himself with jewels and new clothes. His angry
mother cursed him that he should go, but never to come back
home. He rode on his horse, followed by his dog to the place
where the funeral of his love was taking place. Kantha, who had
been waiting for him, opened her eyes. Kama inquired in a subtle
manner about the whole matter and understood that she had no
role in this mishap. She clarified his doubt and took her last
breath. Then he circled her funeral pyre three times and jumped
into it. He burned himself in the fire along with her. His horse
and dog also followed him.
Tale Number 2: The Tale of Sister’s Sacrifice for

–
the River Goddess (Cellini Etiki bali icche– Katha)
Once in a village there were seven brothers and a sister. One day all
seven brothers went to a fair at Palamaneru (a village in Chittoor
district of Andhra Pradesh) on bullock carts. They took their oxen
and carts. On their way back home, the river Pale–ru got floodwa-
ters, since all its seven tributary streams rushed into it. The seven
brothers appeased the river goddess by promising that they would
sacrifice their seven oxen, seven wives, seven children, and their
mother and father, if she would lower the floodwaters. The flood
did not recede. Then they obliged the river goddess by offering
their sister as a sacrifice. To everybody’s surprise, the river subsided.
Then they all went home and told their mother, “Give our
sister a headbath and adorn her with new clothes and jewels.” She
replied, “Yesterday itself, she took a headbath and adorned herself
with jewels.” The seven brothers said to their mother, “Apply
turmeric to the new bamboo basket and put vermilion dots on it.
Also bring a new earthen pot and decorate it with white dots. We
have to offer poñgali11 to the river Paleru. Keep the bamboo bas-
ket and earthen pot on her head.” The sister went first and her
brothers and mother followed. The brothers asked their sister,
“Put the basket down on the earth and take the earthen pot and
fetch some water.” She went into the river to bring water. They
kept asking their sister to go farther and farther into the water.
The water level reached her forehead. She called to her brothers.
They did not listen and forced her to go farther and farther. She
shouted that the level of water was above her forehead. Finally she
realized that they were going to surrender her to the river god-
dess. Then, she cursed her brothers that their wives’ tali12 would
be cut and their children would die. Soon she swallowed water
and drowned in the river.
[Rajamma told me that the dying sister’s curse stood for her
wish for her brothers’ and their families’ deaths so that their lin-
eage would perish.]
Tale Number 3: The Tale of the Adulterous

Sister-in-law (Lañja vadina Katha)
The sister-in-law went to fetch water from the stream. There she
saw her young charming maridi [her husband’s younger brother]
doing some work, like cutting logs. She dipped the pot into the
water and called her maridi, “Maridi, Madhavanna, come and lift
the pot onto my shoulder.” Madhavanna refused to do so [because
that act is culturally prohibited between a sister-in-law and brother-
in-law. Ed.]. He further tried to convince her, “Sister-in-law, you
are the same as my mother. I am not supposed to do this.” She
grew wild and threatened him. “I will see that your funeral pyre
is burnt in remote forests, take care.”
She went home. She tore her white sari and blouse. She
wounded herself and lay in a corner of the room. She pulled her
torn sari over her head as a veil. As soon as her husband Ramaraju
came, she distorted the version and told him that his younger
brother Madhavanna had battered her. He got enraged. The next
day, he took some rice in a small bag and left for the forest along
with his brother Madhavanna. After some time Madhavanna took
a nap on the lap of his brother Ramaraju. Ramaraju hanged his
brother with his long hair. Madhavanna breathed his last breath.
Ramaraju lit his brother’s funeral pyre. Madhavanna regained
consciousness for a moment, revealed the truth, and died. Rama-
raju returned home sadly. He repented that he had killed his
brother, his own blood, by listening to the words of his wife who
was, after all, a female.
Tale Number 4: The Tale of a Sister who Drives

Away the Doves (Guvvala t o–le Chellamma Katha)
On the bank of a stream, Kamudu tilled the soil and raised maize.
It was the time for reaping. In the field he built a manche [watch
tower] to guard the crop from birds and thieves. He went home
and sent his sister to the fields to drive off the doves and protect
the crop. She went to the field with her slingshot and stones and
hunted many birds. She brought them home and cooked them
deliciously with salt, pepper, and ghee. She also seasoned the
cooked food with chilli powder. Her sister-in-law grew jealous of
her. She told her husband, “The hunting done by your sister does
not appear to have been done by a female, but by some male.”
Her brother grew suspicious of his sister and disguised as a

–
jangama [a Saivite mendicant], he followed her and tested her
chastity. Finally he said, “Sister, I praise you. I am proud of you. I
put a silk garland around your neck as a reward. If I go to Ka.śi,13
my karma [deeds] will be realized. And my sins will be washed off
if I dip myself in the sacred waters of Ganga. Rule the kingdom till
I return.”
Tale Number 5: The Tale of De–vanamma

(De–vanamma Katha)
There were six brothers and a sister. Her name was De–va-
namma. She was newly married and not yet sent to her in-laws’
house. She was a very truthful lady. She used to look after the
needs of her brothers and parents. Every day, she would take meals
to her brothers who were working in the fields. One day she was
going to the fields to give food to her brothers. On the way, her
sixth brother pulled her sari and outraged her chastity. Her body
was wounded and her sari was torn. Her eyes were full of tears.
Somehow she reached her other brothers and gave them food. Her
eldest brother, Ramanna asked De–vanamma, “What is the reason
for tears in your eyes? Why are your sari and blouse torn? Why is
your body wounded?” De–vanamma replied, “On my way to the
fields, I fell into the shrubs of aisle [gaccha poda] and the thorns
of babul tree [tumma mullu] hurt my head. Flames and fumes
from wet fire wood caused tears in my eyes.” She returned home
and sent a message to her husband by a crow. She warned the crow
not to set the letter down to eat fruits or grains on the way and to
give it only to her husband and not to her in-laws. Then her hus-
band came to his wife’s village. Meanwhile, her brother made all
the arrangements to send De–vanamma to her in-laws’ home. All
her brothers accompanied the couple up to a certain distance.
They asked their last brother to be with her till she reached her in-
laws’ home. In the forest, she was thirsty. Her husband asked her
to take her youngest brother with her and drink some water from
a nearby well. She went to the well and drank a handful of water.
When she was about to drink again, her brother pushed her into
the well and returned home. He convinced his parents and other
brothers that his sister had reached her in-laws’ place safely. The
husband could not find his wife even after he reached home. He
took a headbath and returned to his in-laws’ home, although his

mother tried to stop him from going on the pretext that the rivers
were full of floodwaters. In his in-laws’ home he did not see his
wife. He decided to return home. On his way, in the forest, he ac-
cidentally looked into the well, into which De–vanamma had been
pushed by her brother. There he found a beautiful lotus flower in
full bloom and full of fragrance. De–vanamma had become a lotus
flower after she died. She told him what had happened. She said,
“Forgive and forget me. I got polluted. Go to your place and live
in peace and happiness.” Then her husband told her, “I have no
life without you,” and jumped into the well and died.
IV. PERSONAL AND POETIC NARRATIVES:

A POINT OF CONVERGENCE
For a long time folklore studies neglected the life experiences of or-
dinary women in remote villages. In the recent past, researchers have rec-
ognized the importance of women’s personal narratives (Pentikainen
1987; Abu Lughod 1986). A further stage in the study of women’s per-
sonal narratives can be achieved by juxtaposing their life experiences with
their expressive traditions, such as poetic narratives. The congruent blend-
ing of two genres—personal experiences as narratives together with poetic
narratives—reveals insights into the textualization process itself in folklore
(Kanaka Durga 1999). This phenomenon is crucial for the analysis of
women’s folklore for several reasons.
1. Personal narratives and folklore genres together become comple-

mentary and result in a holistic understanding of folklore.
2. Personal experiences, as lived and narrated, become vital to the

perpetuation of folklore tradition.
3. This kind of analysis shows that the perpetuation of folklore

is achieved not in a stereotyped manner, but polysemically, lead-
ing inevitably to a multiplicity of interpretations of folklore texts
and genres.
4. Oral traditions cannot be confined by the principle of simple rep-

etition, for the synthesis of personal experience with traditional
text gives birth to new genres and new forms of expression
in folklore.
In Rajamma’s experience-as-poetic narrative, points of convergence

exist at several levels: in the style of performance; in the personality of the
narrator in relation to her experience; in her identification with the char-
acters and events of her narratives and narrations; and in the source of
strength and the consolation that she derives from the poetic narratives
(folklore) themselves in times of distress and hard work in her real life.
These are all outlined and analyzed in this section.
I use the concept of convergence here in two ways: first, in terms of
finding similarities between events or characters in the personal narrative
and those in the poetic narrative, and also in terms of demonstrating the
development of the psyche of a woman whose experiences are akin to
those in her poetic narratives. Seen in this light, the narrator’s psychology
represents a point of convergence with the expressive tradition of her folk-
lore community. Hence, convergence here is not used in terms of simple
parallelism, which has often been recognized in studies of other cultures.
I do not compare two different cultures to understand identities. Instead,
I compare the inherited corpus of an individual’s folklore repertoire with
her present life experiences. Thus I use convergence not as an intercultural
concept, but as an intracultural phenomenon.14
Style Of Performance
Rajamma’s style of rendering her personal narrative and her folk nar-
rative was extemporaneous, continuous, and also humorous. Her voice,
guided by emotions, changed according to the change in events in her
tales. (Though she had a slight stammer, it never affected the flow of her
narration or singing.) Above all, her narration was coherent, meaningful,
sequential, articulate, and artistic. In the words of Margaret Trawick
(1986: 224), an “artistic act is continuous with an actor’s ordinary life and
it is a rendition of the greater meaning of life.” Rajamma’s life, as lived and
narrated, made her into a creator of a world of narration. In that world she
sought happiness and relief; she used her stories as part of her strategy for
survival. Her narration was not at all repetitive. She had an excellent mem-
ory. She was clear both about her life events and in the tales she narrated.
She cut jokes and spoke humorously to keep her audience alert. Her nar-
ration was moderately slow, steady, and uniform. She sometimes paused
when she thought that I was unable to follow her narration. During her
narrations of both personal experiences and expressive tradition, she could
ably shift among the tale world, the story realm, reality, and fantasy. This
talent made her performance more lively and meaningful.
Rajamma’s narration was rich in proverbs, popular sayings, and fig-

ures of speech, using symbols and cultural metaphors in her biographical ac-
counts in the same way that she interwove them in her poetic narratives.
For example, she represented her adjustment and compromise with her old
husband metaphorically in her statement that “one should drink soup
poured into one’s own palm.” This euphemistic expression artistically pre-
sented the worldview of an ordinary villager, a rural female, as one that is
beyond the classical Hindu notion of karma. The karma theory invariably
denotes the concept of punarjañma. Rajamma’s worldview stands for an al-
ternative ideology, which neither points to past acts to account for the pre-
sent condition nor which predicts the future based on present acts
(Ramanujan 1991: 34; O’Flaherty 1980). In the elite version of karma and
punarjañma, there is a continuum among past, present, and future acts. In
another metaphorical expression from her personal narrative (section 2),
she compared the strained relations between a mother-in-law and daughter-
in-law to that of the perpetual antagonism between cats and rats or between
snakes and the mongoose. Although these animals are categorically separate
in the animal world, where they have dominions of their own, the stronger
animals, like the cat and mongoose, resort to fighting when they leave their
own domains. Similarly mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law need to un-
derstand their domains, for then only can they coexist peacefully. If a cat
and rat struggle for the same bit of food and if the mongoose and the snake
crave the same milk, a fight between them is inevitable. Similarly, when a
mother-in-law and a daughter-in-law both try to control the same man, a
tussle may well result. In her accounts Rajamma explained this phenome-
non aptly in symbolic and metaphorical language. In yet another instance
she compared her husband’s life before she married him to that of a basivi.
With this comparison, she was expressing the view that her husband had en-
joyed a life without responsibilities. The manner in which Rajamma negoti-
ated her life with such a husband subtly suggests the exceptional ability of
women in traditional societies to tame unruly husbands.
One motif in Rajamma’s poetic narrative, the headbath, seems to
have been strongly imprinted on her psyche. In her personal narrative she
referred to that motif when her eldest son left for Madras and vanished
into thin air. Similarly, the protagonists of tales 1, 2, and 3 had each taken
a headbath before being sacrificed, immolated, or killed. These analogies
probably supported her graphic memory of events both in her personal life
experiences and in sequential incidents in her poetic narrative.
Personality Of Narrator
The personality of the narrator as reflected in her personal narratives as

well as in the impressions of her neighbors is of prime importance to locate
points of convergence between her personal “self” and her poetic narratives.
In her personal narratives she was a protagonist. She narrated her own life in
such a way that every character was related to her life experiences. Though
female, for much of her life she had to enact a male role, except for gender-
specific psychological and biological capacities, such as childbearing. But her
role in the performance situation of her own life events appears to have been
reversed. In her words, “Though I am a female, I was never considered ei-
ther by myself or by my parents or by my in-laws as a female. I struggled in
the same way a male works for his family. I lived like a magamaharaju [liter-
ally, “male emperor” but metaphorically one who makes decisions and dic-
tates terms] ever since my childhood.” Her father brought her up as a son,
and she was very reluctant to bow her head like a bride at the time of her
wedding. From her parental home, she learned to be tough, persistent, and
have a steady mind, all of which helped greatly in her in-laws’ house. She was
not depressed when she realized that she would have to work like a bull in
her own family. She managed her family’s finances very skillfully by selling
milk and dairy products, by participating in agricultural operations, and by
opening a grocery shop. She played a decisive role in the family when her
husband was old. She did not lose her sense of direction for the sake of plea-
sures. Further, she never abandoned her duties as a housewife or as a re-
sponsible head of the family, despite being left in poverty with an aged
husband. After her husband’s death, she absorbed her grief and sorrow into
her heart for the sake of her children and worked even harder. As there was
no responsible male member in their family, she herself settled the family af-
fairs of her daughter and her son-in-law. When her eldest son disappeared
and the youngest son died, she suppressed her agony and continued her rou-
tine duties. Her balanced conduct made the villagers regard her as someone
with the integrated personality of a male, something seen only rarely in fe-
males. Everything suggests that circumstances and responsibilities made
Rajamma take on the role of a male in her family, a role that made her sup-
press her feminine feelings and tender thoughts.
In agricultural and pastoral societies, work is not usually gender spe-
cific. Males and females share domestic work as well as work outside the
house. Rajamma, however, had to carry out duties both at home and in
the fields. Moreover, people around her imputed masculinity to her, not-
ing that she spoke loudly and openly like men with both women and men
in the same slang in work environments. She could alter her jargon con-
textually by substituting cultural metaphors for the most obscene words
and expressions in colloquial language. It created an impression among the
villagers that she was a magarayudu [a male boss]. Men would naturally be
afraid to make advances toward her either as a woman or as a widow. One
might well conclude that she voluntarily and consciously forgot her femi-
nine tendencies, since she obviously believed that if she showed womanly
timidity, helplessness, and poverty in front of men, they might take an
undue interest in her or take advantage of her youth and thus exploit her.
Rajamma strategically performed her reversed role in the family by care-
fully superimposing and internalizing male traits over her “self.”
At a deeper level of analysis, Rajamma’s personal experiences reveal
in her an innocent, home-loving wife, who embodied the qualities of an
ideal wife and the traits of a tender mother. In her narration about her
wedding, one sees the innocence of child brides of those times who knew
nothing about marriage other than purchasing new clothes and jewels.
The compromises she made with her old husband demonstrate the wis-
dom of a housewife who is supposed to be contented with her own pos-
sessions, while the way in which she buried passion under household
responsibilities and child rearing typifies the perceived nature of women
in India. The pains she took to control her grief at the deaths of her two
grown-up sons and her efforts to raise her other two children reflect moth-
erly love as well as a mother’s responsibility for running a family in the ab-
sence of a father. Viewed as a whole, her personality appeared to be split
between an innate femininity and a superimposed masculinity, with one
taking precedence over the other according to the needs of the moment.
To overcome these circumstances and to cope with daily realities, it seems
to me that Rajamma cultivated a habit of always being among people with
whom she exchanged her tales, songs, and beliefs gathered from other mu-
tual friends and older people. Rajamma herself admitted as much.
In the latter part of her life, Rajamma seems to have adopted the per-
petuation of tradition as a way of venting her feelings, desires, cravings,
and grievances. In this way, she created a world of tradition, in which she
embedded themes, ideas, and events related to her life experiences and to
her folklore community.
The tales and the poetic narratives that Rajamma performed were
centered around women. Like her, the women in the narratives were pro-
tagonists, either as heroines or as villains to whom all other characters in

the narratives were subordinate. In some stories she identified herself with
heroines, whereas in others, she showed her concern for female characters
who have to struggle hard in their lives. Where there was no possibility for
her to identify with a character, she created a wished-for world within
which women could escape the exploitation of the dominant culture. Out-
wardly she sang obscene songs and cut dirty jokes, telling such tales before
a restricted audience, although occasionally she did so in a subtle way be-
fore or among an open audience. This might have been a way of releasing
dormant desires and aspirations for a conjugal life that she had lost at a
young age. A close analysis of her poetic narratives reveals virtues and es-
sential traits like chastity, forbearance, and patience in female characters
with whom she seemed to identify herself.
Self-Identity Of The Narrator: Her Creations In Poetic Narratives
Narrators and narratives are not separate entities. Narrators live in

the narratives they tell, either in disguise or in the overtones used to con-
vey a message to the target audience. Women’s personal narratives may
thus be seen to share the general function of recapitulation in fictional nar-
ratives. Folktales are highly expressive genres that are akin to life situations:
individuals often believe that narratives are lived experiences and lives are
narrated events, and this belief leads to a convergence of their expressions
and their experiences. This phenomenon reveals that genders and genres
are closely related and that one transforms the other. Artistic performance
is not an object to be studied in isolation, since a performer’s life and artis-
tic life are continuous with lived experience (Ramanujan 1986: 33–35;
Trawick 1986: 294–344 and 1999: 199; Grima 1991: 78–101). Such ar-
ticulation is explicit in women’s expressive genres such as narratives and es-
pecially so in poetic narratives and songs. Rajamma, an active bearer of
tradition, keeps tradition alive and passes it on from one generation to the
other by constantly sharing her life experiences with her companions. By
articulating the events of her life within those of her narratives, Rajamma
converged her “self” with her “creations.” Ramanujan recounts a similar
situation in which an old widow’s mental and physical functions deterio-
rated precisely because she was not able to narrate any of her stories. He
points out that “the whole tale is the tale of her acquiring her story, mak-
ing a person of her, making a silent woman a speaking person” (1991a:
42). Benedicte Grima is of the opinion that fantasy and reality often share
themes, especially when fictional narratives are situated within personal

experiences (Grima: 1991). It seems that “normative biological categories
such as gender and culturally constructed ones such as genre, are not as
taxonomically distinct as one might presume. . . . Finding a personal voice
in male-dominated galaxies of possibilities seems to be at the center of
female-related gender issues . . .” (Appadurai, Korom, and Mills, 1991: 9).
A narrator’s nostalgia appears to produce similar events in poetic and per-
sonal narratives, which is here evident as Rajamma memorized autobio-
graphical elements and then recited them, thus perpetuating them in the
community around her.
Among her poetic narratives, two of Rajamma’s songs, “The Tale of an
Adulterous Sister-in-law” and “The Tale of the Sister Who Drives Away the
Doves,” resembled events in her personal life. In her other tales, thoughts
and desires for a wished-for world and voices of female sufferings and crav-
ings are evident. Some are crying songs15 (poetic narratives Numbers 2, 3,
and 5), sung with great emotion by the narrator. Although Rajamma did not
shed streams of tears, her eyes were wet, her looks humble, and her tone
meek, though clear and emotional. While narrating an experience or a poetic
narrative, Rajamma got deeply immersed in the performance and the whole
performance appeared to me like a reenactment of the events. Her involve-
ment in her performance reflects her nearness to the context of the event
that was being described in the narrative, which in turn reflects the way she
internalized and converged her experiences and expressions.
In the “Tale of an Adulterous Sister-in-law” the female protagonist,
the sister-in-law, has her younger brother-in-law killed by her husband, be-
cause he refused to satisfy her passion. She feared that he would reveal the
truth and therefore planned to murder him. This is similar to the episode in
Rajamma’s personal narrative about her older son Damo– dara. When
Damo– dara saw his employer’s wife with her lover in intimate contact, she—
fearing that he would tell her husband—slandered him before he could
report to her husband. The dialogue between the adulterous sister-in-law
and Madhavanna, the young brother-in-law, is also similar to that of the
conversation that had taken place between the Mudaliar’s wife and her son
Damo– dara. She thus compared her innocent son Damo– dara to the simi-
larly wrongly accused Madhavanna, the adulterous sister-in-law to the Mu-
daliar’s wife, and the Mudaliar to Ramaraju in the tale. Thus she identified
the entire content and context of the poetic narrative with the unexplained
disappearance of her son Damo– dara. Rajamma said that her frequent recita-
tion of this poetic narrative consoled her and reminded her of her lost child.
In “The Tale of the Sister Who Drives Away the Doves” the narrator
identified herself with the protagonist of the poetic narrative. In this nar-
rative, the protagonist of the tale takes the role of the protector and care-
taker of the crops that are constantly threatened by birds and animals in
the field. Similarly, in real life, destiny forced Rajamma to protect and
bring up her children on her own. Initially the capabilities of the protago-
nist are considered suspect, but by the end of the tale she had received her
due recognition. Rajamma, while explaining her experiences, also spelled
out her situation as a young widow, when she was subject to rumors and
assaults. Looking back from the vantage point of a sixty-year-old woman,
she felt a sense of satisfaction in having fulfilled her duties as a mother.
Even when her own daughter-in-law attempted to assassinate her charac-
ter, the villagers, including her own son, came to her rescue. This she con-
sidered a reward for her selfless efforts in protecting and rearing her family,
just like those of the protagonist in her narrative, who was rewarded at the
end by her brother. The narrator was obviously fascinated by this poetic
narrative, and her tone evinced a deep sense of pride and courage when she
performed it.
Rajamma had a great concern for the sufferings of women in their re-
lations with men, whether brothers, husbands, or fathers. She wished that
men could be more cordial and understanding toward women in society.
Though she did not identify herself directly with any of the female charac-
ters in “The Tale of Kantha and Kamud. u,” “The Tale of De–vanamma,” or
“The Tale of the Sister’s Sacrifice to the River,” her expectations and
worldview about men, marriage, love, sex, and interrelationships among
in-laws, siblings, and parents were reflected there. Exploitation of women
in inter- and intragender relationships within a family system were well ex-
pressed by Rajamma through these narratives. The narrator’s feelings
about the exploitation of women, both physical and psychological, in a
male-dominated society as well as her desire for change in the attitudes of
women and men about chastity and morals, were projected subtly in her
poetic narratives. She aspired, through her narratives, to gender equality.
Rajamma felt that a wife or a female should always be with her hus-
band, despite old age, poverty, or any other disability. Her fear of her old
husband had once led her aunt and a neighbor to suspect her character,
which in turn compelled her to compromise and to realize that she should
be satisfied with what she was given. She suggested that it was proper for
women to be at their in-laws’ place, and not with their parents, once they
married. A married woman lives and dies in her husband’s home. If a
woman remains in her parents’ family after her marriage, it might un-
avoidably lead to unwanted circumstances and miseries, views that were il-
lustrated in her “Tale of De–vanamma,” where a female protagonist was
raped by her own brother and in “The Tale of Kantha and Kamudu,” .
where Kantha died from snake venom when she went to meet her lover. In
both tales, Rajamma portrayed a man who differed significantly from the
stereotypical behavior of male figures who might suspect or desert or kill
or torture a female for any number of reasons. On the other hand, De–va-
namma’s husband immolated himself because he couldn’t live without his
wife. His readiness to end his life, even after hearing about the incest she
had suffered, reflected his understanding that his wife had had no volun-
tary role in this sin. In the same way, in Kantha and Kama’s love episode,
the sacrifice of Kama, his horse, and his dog in the funeral pyre of his
beloved Kantha was also felt very emotionally by the narrator. Rajamma
appeared to accentuate the concept of monogamy in her poetic narrative.
Rajamma seemed to inject herself into the roles of the males who sac-
rificed their lives for their women: her desire to be with her husband in life
and in death, her concept of marriage and of the sanctity of conjugal life,
and her view of the oneness of husband and wife are manifested in the two
tales discussed above through the sacrifice of the males with whom she
identified. The exploitation of women by siblings, especially in “The Tale
of De–vanamma” (sexual exploitation) and “The Tale of the Sister’s Sacri-
fice to the River” (causing involuntary sacrifice) clearly represents victim-
ization, particularly so when a sister’s sacrifice is for brothers’ prosperity.
Rajamma registered her protest in the sister’s dying curse, which expresses
the grievances of unmarried women at the lack of protection, security, and
identity in society. Rajamma’s tone in both her poetic and personal narra-
tives manifests the longing of the women for an identity of their own and
for appreciation in a male-dominated society.
CONCLUSIONS
Rajamma was split between responsibilities and sensibilities. Respon-

sibility made her take on a male role in order to earn a living and to look
after her family, while her sensibilities led her to create a domestic domain
like that of a married woman. All her poetic narratives and tales are
woman-centered with female protagonists. Her caste and profession
enabled her to learn an increasing number of poetic narratives and social

traditions from other members of her society, as she herself noted in her
personal narratives. She boldly asserted that she performed her songs and
narratives and participated in village women’s festivals in order to divert
herself and other women from routine life with its suffering and boredom.
Circumstances had forced (or induced) her to be an active bearer and dis-
seminator of narrative tradition.
Although Rajamma had a very large folklore repertoire, she per-
formed and perpetuated only a few narratives, which she would sing when-
ever anybody asked her to do so. This fact raises important issues about
performers and performance. Why does a performer (or narrator or any-
body) remember and perpetuate some narratives and not others? A simple
answer to this question may be because he or she especially likes a particu-
lar form or tale. If so, why are certain motifs imprinted in the memory,
while others fade away or are shrouded in obscurity? The nearness and in-
separability of the narrator’s life experiences, events, characters, relations,
and feelings to similar ones in folk narratives is one cause for memorizing
and perpetuating certain motifs. Rajamma’s preferences seemed to be re-
flected in her narrative tradition; personal feelings and passions which
could not be realized in her life as a widow took shape as fantasy in her nar-
ratives and songs. Her folksong repertoire contained much that was erotic,
sensuous, and love-centered, suggesting that she sought relief from the
tension and stress created by the lack of a male companion and the inter-
ruption of her conjugal life.
Rajamma seemed to envision a society in which the value system su-
perimposed on women might be reversed. She seemed to expect that con-
jugal life should be based on mutual understanding and that it should
involve sharing rather than men’s exploitation of women. She fantasized a
world where a man might sacrifice or immolate himself for the sake of a
woman. Rajamma’s narratives demonstrated the cravings of a woman for
identity and for a nonsexist appraisal of her voluntary and selfless services
in married life and family. Rajamma adopted a narrator’s voice in order to
bridge the gulf created by these split roles. The dissemination and perpet-
uation of folklore genres by an individual in a folklore community can thus
be understood only when one juxtaposes them with the personal narratives
of that individual. The cultural meanings and dynamics of folklore expres-
sions can only be properly appreciated when they are contextualized within
the personal life experiences of the individual who produces them.
APPENDIX A
Translations of the Texts of Rajamma’s Poetic Narratives
1. “The Tale Of Kantha And Kamudu”

.
1. Goddess Gobbi, who broke the hill on the other side?

2. Goddess Gobbi, who built the house amid the forest?
3. Goddess Gobbi, who bent the flower-bearing twig?
4. Goddess Gobbi, who spit the tamma?16
5. Goddess Gobbi, I broke the hill.
6. Goddess Gobbi, I built the house amid the forest.
7. Goddess Gobbi, I myself spit tamma on the anthill.
8. Goddess Gobbi, Kantha ate it, because it is of Kama.
9. Goddess Gobbi, Kantha became unconscious due to poisoning
10. Goddess Gobbi, King of kings, who sits in the village assembly?
11. Goddess Gobbi, a snake bit your sister.
12. Goddess Gobbi, the day before yesterday’s construction was
done by stone
13. Goddess Gobbi, previous day’s construction was done by
cement.
14. Goddess Gobbi, how could a snake enter the fort, when it is
impregnable to even an ant?
15. Goddess Gobbi, how could an ant enter the fort, when it is
impregnable to even a snake?
16. Goddess Gobbi, the building is lighted in four directions and a
smooth bed is spread in the middle of the room
17. Goddess Gobbi, how could a snake bite our sister?
18. Goddess Gobbi, the snake that is bent near the pot of nuts
19. Goddess Gobbi, the snake that is found pressed near the pot of
betel leaves
20. Goddess Gobbi, the snake looked at the lime pot
21. Goddess Gobbi, the snake sleeping beneath the pot of tobacco
22. Goddess Gobbi, when she tried to pick it up, thinking that it
was a nut, the snake bit her suddenly
was a betel leaf, the snake bit her harshly
was a lime, the snake bit her deeply.
was a tobacco leaf, the snake bit her speedily.
26. Goddess Gobbi, King of kings, who sit in the village assembly,
27. Goddess Gobbi, your sister is bitten by a snake, come over here
28. Goddess Gobbi, seven brothers came from their office
29. Goddess Gobbi, they cooked a putti17 of rice as chaddi
30. Goddess Gobbi, when goat’s curd was added, the chaddi
became oily
31. Goddess Gobbi, when buffalo’s curd was added, it became
soupy
32. Goddess Gobbi, when cow’s curd was added, it became tasty.
33. Goddess Gobbi, what pickle is needed for that chaddi?
34. Goddess Gobbi, the pickle of bel fruit, soaked in snow
35. Goddess Gobbi, the pickle of mango soaked in pot
36. Goddess Gobbi, the pickle of lemon soaked in water
37. Goddess Gobbi, food, as small as that of a pearl is tied to the
fore end of the upper cloth
38. Goddess Gobbi, food, as small as that of coral is tied to the hind
end of the upper cloth
39. Goddess Gobbi, the seven brothers mounted their horses
40. Goddess Gobbi, seven brothers took axes
41. Goddess Gobbi, seven sisters-in-law took seven knives
42. Goddess Gobbi, the horses rose to sky-high
43. Goddess Gobbi, the horses created dust in the sky
44. Goddess Gobbi, they crossed a forest, impassable even to crows

45. Goddess Gobbi, they crossed the forest, impregnable impassable
even to ants
46. Goddess Gobbi, the horses reached the pond of Chalamayya
47. Goddess Gobbi, near the pond of Chalamayya, they ate their lunch
48. Goddess Gobbi, the cloth in which food was packed was left
in waters
49. Goddess Gobbi, seven brothers uprooted the trees
50. Goddess Gobbi, seven sisters-in-law removed the bark of the trees.
51. Goddess Gobbi, all of them came to Nagiri18
52. Goddess Gobbi, one sister-in-law ground the bark with oil
53. Goddess Gobbi, another sister-in-law ground it with milk
54. Goddess Gobbi, another sister-in-law ground it with ghee
55. Goddess Gobbi, the eldest sister-in-law ground it with poison
56. Goddess Gobbi, when poured speedily, Kantha opened her eyes
57. Goddess Gobbi, when poured harshly, she opened her mouth
and teeth
58. Goddess Gobbi, she was on the verge of collapse
59. Goddess Gobbi, her brothers ordered cremation
60. Goddess Gobbi, they brought sandalwood as firewood
61. Goddess Gobbi, somebody carried the message to Kama
62. Goddess Gobbi, Mother Sr –õ devi, give me a headbath
63. Goddess Gobbi, just yesterday you took a headbath. Why today?
64. Goddess Gobbi, today I want a ghee bath.
65. Goddess Gobbi, oil is taken from big vessel into small vessel
66. Goddess Gobbi, from small vessel into smallest vessel, the oil
is taken
67. Goddess Gobbi, the oil in the smallest vessel is poured on his head.
68. Goddess Gobbi, he poured water on his body by a tumbler
studded with pearls, for the first time
69. Goddess Gobbi, then poured water on his body by a tumbler

studded with corals
70. Goddess Gobbi, he put rings to his fingers
71. Goddess Gobbi, he applied vermilion mark on his forehead
72. Goddess Gobbi, he put on his shoes
73. Goddess Gobbi, he put on new clothes
74. Goddess Gobbi, he also put on a head dress
75. Goddess Gobbi, Mother, I am leaving, give me your blessings
76. Goddess Gobbi, have you tied sacred thread and had relations
with her?
77. Goddess Gobbi, don’t have relations with women
78. Goddess Gobbi, consider that the sacred thread is tied and
relations had.
79. Goddess Gobbi, I want to have relations with a woman.
80. Goddess Gobbi, have you exchanged rings and gone in proces-
sion in palanquin?
81. Goddess Gobbi, don’t have relations with women.
82. Goddess Gobbi, consider that I have exchanged rings and gone
in palanquin.
83. Goddess Gobbi, I want to have life with a woman.
84. Goddess Gobbi, have you tied basikam19 and enjoyed her?
86. Goddess Gobbi, consider that I have tied basikam and enjoyed her
87. Goddess Gobbi, I want relations with a woman
88. Goddess Gobbi, give me your blessings to leave for her.
89. Goddess Gobbi, the mother told him to go but not to return.
90. Goddess Gobbi, Kama rode his red horse
91. Goddess Gobbi, he jumped his horse and raised dust on earth
92. Goddess Gobbi, he made his horse jump sky high
93. Goddess Gobbi, the horse reached the funeral pyre of Kantha
94. Goddess Gobbi, an innocent girl! One who drives the birds
in fields
96. Goddess Gobbi, have you ever opened the space between your
breasts to anybody?
97. Goddess Gobbi, I never drove birds or opened the space
between my breasts to anybody.
98. Goddess Gobbi, a treacherous girl, who drives the birds in
the fields,
99. Goddess Gobbi, have you ever opened the space between your
breasts to anybody?
100. Goddess Gobbi, I never drove the birds in the fields and I
never betrayed anybody
101. Goddess Gobbi, the space between my breasts is not yet
opened to anybody.
102. Goddess Gobbi, Kama turned thrice around her funeral pyre
103. Goddess Gobbi, Kama jumped into the pyre of Kantha
104. Goddess Gobbi, his horse jumped into the pyre
105. Goddess Gobbi, his dog also jumped into the pyre and reached
her master and mistress.
2. “The Tale Of The Sister’s Sacrifice To The River”
1. Goddess Gobbi, my seven brothers went to purchase oxen

2. Goddess Gobbi, my seven brothers went to the fair at Palamaneru
3. Goddess Gobbi, they adorned the humps of the oxen by cloth
on which lavender-colored mirrors are stitched
4. Goddess Gobbi, they tied bells to the legs of oxen
5. Goddess Gobbi, they adorned the horns of the oxen with
horncaps
6. Goddess Gobbi, they took seven carts on their way home.
7. Goddess Gobbi, the river Paleru, joined together by seven
streams, was advancing.
8. Goddess Gobbi, we will give our seven oxen, lower your waters,
Paleru River!
9. Goddess Gobbi, we will give our seven brothers, lower your
waters, Paleru River!
10. Goddess Gobbi, we will give our seven wives, lower your waters,
Paleru River!
11. Goddess Gobbi, we will give seven children, lower your waters,
Paleru River!
12. Goddess Gobbi, we will give our father and mother, lower your
waters, Paleru River!
13. Goddess Gobbi, we will give our sister, lower your waters,
Paleru River!
14. Goddess Gobbi, then the River Paleru lowered its waters
immediately.
15. Goddess Gobbi, they along with their carts returned home.
16. Goddess Gobbi, Mother, call our sister and give her a headbath.
17. Goddess Gobbi, just yesterday I gave her a headbath. Why
today?
18. Goddess Gobbi, call our sister and adorn her with jewels.
19. Goddess Gobbi, just yesterday she wore her jewels. Why today?
20. Goddess Gobbi, apply turmeric to new bamboo basket
21. Goddess Gobbi, put vermilion to the new bamboo basket
22. Goddess Gobbi, put spots of lime, turmeric, and vermilion to
new earthen pot
23. Goddess Gobbi, we have to offer poñgali to the bund of the
river Paleru.
24. Goddess Gobbi, the sister left for the river and the brothers
followed her
25. Goddess Gobbi, the sister led the group and the mother
followed her.
26. Goddess Gobbi, put the basket down and bring water in pot
27. Goddess Gobbi, the waters to the river began to flow like blood.
28. Goddess Gobbi, water is up to the level of my feet, shall I

bring water?
29. Goddess Gobbi, go farther, you are good.
30. Goddess Gobbi, if you speak like that, how is it possible?
31. Goddess Gobbi, the water is reaching my girdle, shall I bring
water?
32. Goddess Gobbi, go farther, you are good.
33. Goddess Gobbi, the level of water is up to my neck, shall I
bring water?
34. Goddess Gobbi, go farther deep, you are good.
35. Goddess Gobbi, water is reaching to the height of my forehead.
Shall I bring water?
36. Goddess Gobbi, go deeper, you are good.
37. Goddess Gobbi, I will go assuming that your wives’ sacred
thread [tali] is cut and drowned in waters.
38. Goddess Gobbi, I will drown by assuming that your children
are dead.
3. “The Tale Of An Adulterous Sister-In-Law”
1. Very hastily picked up the water pot, beautiful bee

2. Mother-in-law, I will go to fetch water, beautiful bee
3. Why should you go to fetch water, beautiful bee
4. Why are you so anxious to go? beautiful bee
5. She did not listen to the mother-in-law, beautiful bee
6. She reached the well, beautiful bee
7. She pushed the wave and dipped the pot in water, beautiful bee
8. She kept the pot in front of her, beautiful bee
9. She looked around, beautiful bee
10. She saw her younger brother-in-law, beautiful bee
11. Who is there? Madhavanna, beautiful bee
12. Come and lift the pot to my shoulder, beautiful bee

13. Are you my older brother’s wife? beautiful bee
14. Have you not been born along with your older brother?
beautiful bee
15. Lift the water pot to my shoulders, beautiful bee
16. You are like my mother and an alternate form of my mother,
beautiful bee
17. I am not supposed to touch you, beautiful bee
18. Do as you like, beautiful bee
19. Amid the remote forests, beautiful bee
20. I will burn your funeral pyre, beautiful bee
21. She wore white sari and pulled a veil over her head, beautiful bee
22. She broke her bangles, beautiful bee
23. She wounded her body herself, beautiful bee
24. She lay in a corner of her room, beautiful bee
25. Her husband Ramaraju came, beautiful bee
26. What happened to your body, asked Ramaraju, beautiful bee
27. Who is that Madhavanna, beautiful bee
28. He squeezed my body, beautiful bee
29. Ramaraju took rice and packed it, beautiful bee
30. Madhavanna led to the forest, beautiful bee
31. Ramaraju followed him, beautiful bee
32. Amid the forest, Ramaraju stretched his leg, beautiful bee
33. Madhavanna slept on the thigh of Ramaraju, beautiful bee
34. Ramaraju killed the lice in the hair of Madhavanna, beautiful bee
35. When measured, it was seven fathoms, beautiful bee
36. Madhavanna’s hair, beautiful bee
37. His life was on the verge of last breath, beautiful bee
38. He told the truth before he died, beautiful bee
39. I listened to the bitch, beautiful bee

40. I have destroyed my shareholder, beautiful bee
41. I listened to the words of my wife, beautiful bee
42. I killed my own brother, beautiful bee.
4. “The Tale Of A Sister Who Drives Away Doves”
1. Ramachandra, who tills the land near the stream? Ramachandra

2. Ramachandra, Kama tilled the land near the stream, Ramachandra
3. Ramachandra, Kama went home, Ramachandra
4. Ramachandra, Mother who gave birth to me, Ramachandra
5. Ramachandra, the crops of sorghum are ready, Ramachandra
6. Ramachandra, Kama reached field, Ramachandra
7. Ramachandra, fixed one plow in one way, Ramachandra
8. Ramachandra, fixed two poles in two ways, Ramachandra
9. Ramachandra, cot is prepared with mango wood, Ramachandra
10. Ramachandra, fixed central pole, Ramachandra
11. Ramachandra, Kama went home, Ramachandra
12. Ramachandra, Mother who gave birth to me, Ramachandra
13. Ramachandra, whom should we send to field, Ramachandra
14. Ramachandra, send your sister to field, Ramachandra
15. Ramachandra, she took golden pebbles and catapult, Ramachandra
16. Ramachandra, the sister left for field, Ramachandra
17. Ramachandra, she climbed the manche [watch tower],
Ramachandra
18. Ramachandra, she shot the dove which is as high as buffalo,
Ramachandra
19. Ramachandra, she drove birds one side and shot them,
Ramachandra
20. Ramachandra, she shot birds which are escaping, Ramachandra
21. Ramachandra, she tied three birds in a bunch, Ramachandra

22. Ramachandra, she came home, Ramachandra
23. Ramachandra, Mother, who gave birth to me, Ramachandra
24. Ramachandra, she cooked them in ghee, Ramachandra
25. Ramachandra, she roasted them in pepper and chili powder,
Ramachandra
26. Ramachandra, the sister went to field, Ramachandra
27. Ramachandra, Kama went to field, Ramachandra
28. Ramachandra, King of kings, who sit amid the house,
Ramachandra
29. Ramachandra, this hunting is not similar to that of the women’s
hunting, Ramachandra
30. Ramachandra, this hunting is done by men, Ramachandra
31. Ramachandra, he opened his pocket, by ashes near butter tree,
Ramachandra
32. Ramachandra, he put several varieties of dresses, Ramachandra
33. Ramachandra, he took the guise of a jangam, Ramachandra
34. Ramachandra, Kama went to the field, Ramachandra
35. Ramachandra, do you know the route to Guriginjapattanam?
Ramachandra
36. Ramachandra, I don’t know either Guriginaja pattanam or
Gutti, Ramachandra
37. Ramachandra, stand beyond the bars of scaffold, Ramachandra
38. Ramachandra, why should I stand beyond scaffold? Ramachan-
dra
39. Ramachandra, I don’t know anything. Why did you come?
Ramachandra
–
40. Ramachandra, how to approach Kavu r City? Ramachandra
–
41. Ramachandra, I don’t know either Kavu r or Gasti, Ramachandra
42. Ramachandra, Why did you come? Ramachandra
43. Ramachandra, I came to sit on chair beside you, Ramachandra
44. Ramachandra, I came to reach on the scaffold and speak to you,

Ramachandra
45. Ramachandra, see that side, my brother is Arjuna,20 Ramachandra
46. Ramachandra, my mother is quarrelsome, Ramachandra
47. Ramachandra, my mother beats you by stones, Ramachandra
48. Ramachandra, I praise you sister, I appraise you, Ramachandra
49. Ramachandra, I honor you with a silk garland, Ramachandra
50. Ramachandra, climb and ride my horse, Ramachandra
51. Ramachandra, you rule the kingdom of mine, Ramachandra
52. Ramachandra, if I go to Kaśi, my deed will be realized,
Ramachandra
53. Ramachandra, if I dip in the sacred waters of Ganga, my sins will
be washed off, Ramachandra
5. “The Tale Of De–vanamma”
In the poetic narrative, each line ends with tummeda [bee]
1. Six brothers, eldest being Ramanna, tummeda

2. Truthful De– vanamma, tummeda
3. Got up early in the morning, tummeda
4. Her six brothers, tummeda
5. Took their ploughs, tummeda
6. They ran to the fields, tummeda
7. She sprinkled cow dung water in her courtyard, tummeda
8. She put beautiful colam on the floor, tummeda
9. She took the pot, tummeda
10. Fetched water from the well, tummeda
11. She poured water in the tub, tummeda
12. She cooked the meals, tummeda
13. She washed the pots of buttermilk, tummeda
14. De–vanamma put it in the hall, tummeda

15. She washed the pots of curry, tummeda
16. She put it in the hall, tummeda
17. She washed the pots of curry, tummeda
18. She took a mirror into her hands, tummeda
19. She plaited her hair, tummeda
20. She put a vermilion mark on her forehead, tummeda
21. She prepared a disk with cloth on her head, tummeda
22. She arranged the basket containing the lunch for her brothers,
tummeda
23. She was going to the field, tummeda
24. Among the six brothers, tummeda
25. The last among her six brothers, tummeda
26. He pulled her sari, tummeda
27. Squeezed her, tummeda
28. Spoiled her entire body, tummeda
29. He tore her blouse, tummeda
30. Tears were flowing from her eyes, tummeda
32. Somehow she reached the field, tummeda
33. Her six brothers, tummeda
34. Drank and ate food, tummeda
35. What is coming from your eyes? tummeda
36. What is the reason for it? tummeda
37. Undried firewood, tummeda
38. Created fumes and caused tears in my eyes, tummeda
39. Why the sari and blouse are torn? tummeda
40. On the way to the field, tummeda
41. I fell in the shrubs on the path, tummeda
42. When I tried to come out of it, tummeda

43. The thorns of babul tree fell on me, tummeda
44. She reached her home, tummeda
45. She wrote a letter to her husband, tummeda
46. She wrote a letter to the town of her mother-in-law, tummeda
47. She called a crow and gave letter to it, tummeda
48. On your way to the town, tummeda
49. There is a tree of mimusops, tummeda
50. For the want of mimusops fruits, tummeda
51. Don’t put the letter down, tummeda
52. If you go farther, tummeda
53. You can see the millet crops, tummeda
54. For the want of millets, tummeda
55. Don’t set the letter on the ground, tummeda
56. If you go farther, there is crop of bengal grams, tummeda
57. For the want of grams, tummeda
58. Don’t put the letter on the ground, tummeda
59. On your way to my mother-in-law’s home, tummeda
60. There are fruit-bearing trees, tummeda
61. For the want of fruits, tummeda
62. Don’t set the letter down on the earth, tummeda
63. If my mother-in-law comes, tummeda
64. Don’t give her my letter, tummeda
65. If my husband comes out, tummeda
66. Give him my letter, tummeda
67. The crow looked at his coming, tummeda
68. He read the letter, tummeda
69. He asked his mother, tummeda
70. I have to go to my mother-in-law’s home, tummeda

71. What is the reason for your going, tummeda
72. The stream on your way is overflowing, tummeda
73. If you tell me to go, I will go, tummeda
74. If you tell me not to go, I will go, tummeda
75. To the town of his mother-in-law, tummeda
76. He went and reached the place, tummeda
77. Five of her brothers and the eldest Ramanna, tummeda
78. Brought her sari and blouse, tummeda
79. Arranged all paraphernalia, tummeda
80. They prepared seven carts, tummeda
81. They crossed the crow forest, tummeda
82. They also crossed the stream, tummeda
83. Further they also crossed another forest, tummeda
84. De– vanamma told her husband that she is thirsty, tummeda
85. Take your last brother and drink water, tummeda
86. De– vanamma and her last brother went, tummeda
87. They reached the well, tummeda
88. De– vanamma reached the well, tummeda
89. She drank handful of water, tummeda
90. Her last brother pushed her into the well, tummeda
92. Fell into the waters of the well, tummeda
93. Her last brother crossed all the forests, tummeda
94. Reached his home, tummeda
95. How did you come so early? tummeda
96. Have you gone to the city of our sister? tummeda
97. The sister and husband, tummeda
98. Did they reach safely? tummeda

99. Till they reached their home, tummeda
100. I was there and returned after they reached, tummeda
101. Among six brothers, tummeda
102. The youngest of all, tummeda
103. Told these words, tummeda
104. Reached already, tummeda
105. De– vanamma’s husband reached home, tummeda
106. He reached his town, tummeda
107. Why are you coming, my son? tummeda
108. Where is our daughter-in-law? tummeda
109. They are coming slowly, tummeda
110. They did not come, tummeda
111. He took a headbath, tummeda
112. He returned to his in-laws’ home, tummeda
113. He reached the home, tummeda
115. She did not come there, tummeda
116. Six of her brothers, tummeda
117. Amazed at the event, tummeda
118. He was on his way to his town, tummeda
119. He looked into the well, tummeda
120. He peeped into the well, tummeda
121. She took the form of a lotus flower, tummeda
123. Became a lotus flower, tummeda
124. Then what do you say? tummeda
125. I was polluted, tummeda
126. You, be safe and happy, tummeda

127. Go to your place, tummeda
128. Live happily, tummeda
129. Forget me and our relationship, tummeda
130. I have no life without you, tummeda
131. He looked in and around, tummeda
132. He jumped into the well, tummeda
133. He reached his wife, tummeda
NOTES
1. The gobbi panduga. [the festival of gobbi] is exclusively celebrated

by unwidowed women for the longevity of their husbands, or the beget-
ting of children, and by unmarried women who seek prospective bride-
grooms. The ritual is performed in the month of dhanurmasa, which
corresponds roughly to the period between December 15 and January 15.
This is a very important season for peasant families, since new harvests
reach their homes at this time. Every year during this period, young girls
collect thick cow dung and prepare balls from it, adorn them with beauti-
ful flowers such as marigolds and chrysanthemums, put dots of vermilion
and turmeric and rice flour on them and keep them on the muggu [auspi-
cious floor designs] drawn in front of the main gate of the house every
morning. In the evening, before sunset, the gobbi are removed and are
stuck to the walls. These cowdung balls are called gobbemmallu. This is ob-
served throughout the ritual period.
Before the end of the dhanurmasa, young girls in the village form
groups and arrange sande . gobbemma [cow-dung balls] in the evenings. For
this, girls collect cow dung and adorn it like the gobbemmalu and put it on an
elevated wooden pedestal, which is also purified and decorated with turmeric,
vermilion, and rice flour. A lamp is lit in an earthen plate (pramide) and san-
dal sticks are burned. Then the girls and the young women form circles and
move rhythmically and clap, accompanied by the songs that have the refrain,
gobbiya.l.lo. After the ritual is over, the girls offer cooked and fried bengal
grams, bananas, soaked split green grams [vadapappu],
. jaggery (crude sugar
blocks made by processing sugar cane juice), water mixed with pepper, and
elaichi powders [panakam]. Coconut is broken, naive–dya [sacred food] is of-
fered, and camphor is lit. Then the participants share the prasadamu [the
sanctified offerings], take the sande

. gobbemma in a bamboo basket, kept usu-
ally on the head of an elderly woman, and go to a local stream. There they
leave it in the water and see that it floats. Then they return home.
2. The nayudu. is an honorific title held by rich peasants in commu-
nities like Kammas and Velamas, the powerful landed aristocracy of the
medieval period in Andhra Pradesh. The nayudu . is derived from the word
Nayakudu,. which means a leader. According to Rajamma’s explanation,
members of the caste society who do agriculture on the land conferred by
the landlord like Jamindars can hold the title.
3. The pa.t.ta is a document stating the extent of a peasant’s land.
The nayudupa
. t. ta
. is the landholding (pat. ta)
. of the nayudu.
4. Rajamma told me that the act of keeping the right hand of the
bride in the pot of pulses and salt meant that a woman, the boss of the
kitchen, should always keep in view the proper supplies of kitchen provi-
sions. It is a symbolic act enacted at the time of marriage to show the bride
her place as a housewife and to fix her domain in her new family.
5. Sacred thread tied to women at the time of wedding, a thread
to which turmeric is applied and gold disks, the mañga.lasutras, are
attached.
6. A Sáivite mendicant with no responsibilities who lives from the
kindness of the villagers. Literally, a basivi is a devara dunnapo– tu, a sacrifi-
cial bull marked and dedicated to a god or goddess. It has religious sanc-
tion to roam freely, to eat everywhere, and to sleep anywhere.
7. Having a headbath, a purificatory ceremony, either ritualistically
with oil, shampoo, nuts, sandal paste, and the powder of greengram,
blackgram, and so on or simply with cold water is compulsory for those
preparing to participate in or to conduct sacred rituals. Before undergo-
ing immolation rituals like “sati,” the ritual participant takes the elaborate
bath. But those who conduct the rituals, who cremate the bodies, for ex-
ample, are required only to take a simple cold water headbath before and
after the ritual.
8. The jangama, which literally means “movable and not station-
–
ary,” is applied to S aivite mendicants who circulate in the villages
for the propagation of V –õ raśaivism. The nonbrahman converts of
V –õ rasáivism are jangamas or Lingayats, whereas the brahman converts
of Aradhya Saivism are called Aradhyas. See Rao 1973, Lorenzen 1972,
Nandimath 1944.
9. Ambali is a semiliquid soup made of rice mixed with buttermilk,

salt, and pepper powder.
10. The chaddi or saddi is prepared from cooked rice left over from
the previous night to which curd or buttermilk and salt are added. It is
taken as lunch for the next day when grazing the cattle. The villagers also
eat the same food as breakfast. Chaddi is a poor person’s meal.
11. Rajamma told me that the poñgali is a sacred food prepared by
boiling rice, split green grams, and jaggery in milk in a new earthen or
brass vessel to be offered to the village goddesses. Brown (1966: 701) de-
scribes the word Poñgali pe. .tu (offering rice boiled in milk) instead of a
bloody sacrifice as propitiation to the village goddess. Here, in this poetic
narrative, brothers taking their sister to the riverbank to offer sacred food,
metaphorically suggests that she is being sacrificed to the river goddess
(instead of fowl or cattle).
–
12. Also called mañga.lasu tras, these are gold disks tied to a thread at
the time of marriage and worn by married women).
13. Varanasi in Uttar Pradesh.
14. The concept of convergence is often used in the theory of lim-
ited possibilities to study similarities in different cultures and to find out
whether their sameness results from diffusion or from psychic unity. If the
similarities are superficial, one speaks of spurious convergence, and when
the similarities are found to be identical, not only in physical but also in
psychological terms, they can be understood as genuine convergence. See
Lowie 1912, Goldenweiser 1913, Burns 1989.
15. According to Margaret T. Egnor, in “crying songs,” “the singer
weeps as she sings; tears stream down her face; her voice rises in pitch and
volume with each line of the song, like a wail, and then falls and trails off.
Yet her eyes are open, and her words are clear. Ordinarily, a crying song
represents some grievance the singer has against some particular person of
higher status than herself, though the songs may be sometimes directed
against the world at large” (Egnor 1986: 297).
16. Tamma is a pulp formed by chewing betel leaves, nuts, and lime
together. The act of eating this male-chewed pulp by a female, and vice
versa, indicates the extent of love and intimacy between a couple.
17. Putti is an Indian measure of grains that is roughly equivalent to
480 kilograms. It is also used as a measure of land, a putti of which gives
the same amount of produce.
18. Nagiri is a place in Chittoor district and is presently a taluk head-

quarters. Indian states are divided into districts, which are further divided
into taluks. A taluk is a small administrative unit in the Indian geo-
political structure.
19. Basikam is a nuptial crown worn on the foreheads of the bride
and bridegroom at the time of marriage.
20. Arjuna is the third of the Pandavas of Mahabharata, who was
proficient in archery. He is considered a hero of the Mahabharata.
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Afterword
RUTH B. BOTTIGHEIMER
T
his book has taken me far from my usual subjects—European fairy
tales, British children’s literature, and Bible stories—even though
it began in the heart of Europe. The 1992 Innsbruck meeting of
the International Society for Folk Narrative Research was devoted to “Folk
Narrative and Worldview.” Many women felt keenly the absence of gender
as an analytical category, and so a small group of about ten women devel-
oped an agenda for the next scheduled meeting of the ISFNR, to be held
in Mysore in southern India in 1995. It must—the women concluded—in-
clude gender as a significant component.
I suppose I spoke most ardently, or perhaps simply loudest, because
I ended up in the organizational seat. I sifted through European and
American proposals, and in India Lalita Handoo handled the Indian side.
Together we set up the sessions. What emerged was a vibrant program of
papers that explored everything from gripping South Slavic songs about
immured women to female figures in Jataka stories, including Lalita’s own
paper about son-in-law stories, Lakshmi Narasamamba’s Muslim women
storytellers, Kanaka Durga’s Rajamma, and Saraswathi Venugopal’s Tamil
storytellers and listeners.
At the conference the rooms were jammed with spellbound listeners.
Discussion was intense. Gender had struck a chord that resonated power-
fully with everyone there, men as well as women. And each day more and
more people came to the gender sessions.
After the conference, Lalita Handoo and I edited the papers for publi-
cation by Zooni Publications in Mysore. Her name on the title page reflects
her contribution at that important point. This extraordinary body of material
141
could not be made available for readers in the West because Zooni had no for-
mal distribution arrangements outside India. However, the situation turned
out to be providential because it allowed for a significantly revised presenta-
tion of fieldwork material in this volume and gave the authors the opportu-
nity to substantially update their essays in the light of their own newer
fieldwork and broader scholarship. Given the enormous difficulties of access-
ing the necessary library resources and the challenges of cross-continent com-
munication when e-mail access was still not dependable, Leela Prasad’s role
became vital in facilitating this revision process. Organizing, editing, and
bringing these essays to publication has been a complex and complicated proj-
ect. Nancy Ellegate at State University of New York Press has encouraged the
project over the several years it has taken to bring it about; the Press’s out-
side readers have provided invaluable guidance. To them and to Leela Prasad,
without whom this book would not have been possible, I extend warm and
heartfelt thanks.
Contributors
Ruth B. Bottigheimer, formerly Professor in Comparative Cultural and

Literary Studies at the State University of New York at Stony Brook, has
studied brief narratives in many forms. She has written extensively on chil-
dren’s literature, Biblical stories in historical and social contexts, narrative
aspects of illustrations, and above all on the history and theory of Euro-
pean fairy tales. Her books include Fairy Tales and Society: Illusion, Allu-
sion, and Paradigm (University of Pennsylvania Press 1986), Grimms’ Bad
Girls and Bold Boys (Yale University Press 1987), The Bible for Children
from the Age of Gutenberg to the Present (Yale University Press 1996), and
Fairy Godfather: Straparola, Venice, and the Fairy Tale Tradition (Univer-
sity of Pennsylvania Press 2002). She is currently completing a history of
European fairy tales. Professor Bottigheimer has taught courses on the Eu-
ropean fairy tale at Stony Brook, as well as at other American, Asian, and
European colleges and universities.
P. S. Kanaka Durga comes from the Guntur District of Andhra Pradesh

in South India. She obtained master’s degrees in history, archaeology, and
education from Nagarjuna University, Guntur. She has a doctoral degree
in the medieval history of Andhra. She taught in the School of History,
Culture, and Archaeology at Telugu University and now teaches in the
Centre for Folk Culture Studies, School of Social Sciences at the Central
University of Hyderabad.
Kanaka Durga has published articles in national and international jour-
nals, as well as books and anthologies. She has participated in workshops on
folkloristics in the United States and Finland. Her current areas of interest in-
clude oral history, gender studies, feminism and folklore, rites of passage and
ritual process, personal narratives, sacred complexes and cult centers, sectari-
anism and folk religious beliefs, social mobility, proverbs, and folk songs.
143
144 Contributors
Lalita Handoo, from Srinagar, Kashmir, received degrees in language and

literature from the universities of Kashmir and Kurukshetra University be-
fore completing a Ph.D. in folkloristics from the University of Mysore. She
taught in various institutions in Kashmir, Jammu, and Kurukshetra before
joining the Central Institute of Indian Languages at Mysore as Associate
Professor of Lexicography and Folklore in 1972.
Dr. Handoo has lectured in India and abroad, has organized training
programs in lexicography and folklore in India, and has published widely
on linguistics and folk narrative. Her books include Folklore and Gender
(with Ruth B. Bottigheimer), Mysore: Zooni Publications, 1999. Other
books by Dr. Handoo are Kashiir ti Kaashur Tahziib (2002) [Kashmir and
Kashmiri Culture] (with O. N. Koul), Folk and Myth: An Introduction
(1998), Structural Analysis of Kashmiri Folktales (1994), Malto-English-
Hindi Dictionary (with B. Mahapatra and Rekha Sharma) (1987), and
Hindi-Kashmiri Common Vocabulary (with Jawaharlal Handoo) (1973),
all published with the Central Institute of Indian Languages in Mysore.
K. V. S. Lakshmi Narasamamba is from Andhra Pradesh in South India.

She has taught for over twenty years at a select high school, while also con-
ducting research as a professionally trained folklorist. Her doctoral thesis,
“Oral Narratives of Muslim Women in East Godavari District” won a gold
medal from Telugu University in Hyderabad. In 1996 she was a visiting
scholar at the Centre for Resarch in Women’s Studies and Gender Rela-
tions at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. Her many arti-
cles—in both Telugu and English—explore the darghas of women saints in
East Godavari District and Muslim women’s songs in Andhra Pradesh, as
well as many aspects of Muslim women’s domestic life and folklore in
schools. Turning toward popular culture, she recently cocompiled and
contributed to “Godavari Tales” for Vivalok Comics.
Leela Prasad is Assistant Professor of Ethics and Indian Religions at Duke

University. She received her M.A. in English from the University of
Hyderabad and then from Kansas State University, and her Ph.D. in Folk-
lore and Folklife from the University of Pennsylvania. Her interests include
Hindu ethics and its expressive dimensions, colonial and postcolonial an-
thropology of India, folklore, narrative, gender, and the Indian American
diaspora. Her ethnography, Poetics of Conduct: Oral Narrative and Moral
Being in a South Indian Town (forthcoming, Columbia University Press,
2006), explores relationships between oral narrative, moral identity, and
Contributors 145
the poetics of everyday language in Sringeri, Karnataka. In-progress is her

book, Annotating Pastimes: Folktale Collection, Taxonomy, and Quotidian
Imaginations in Colonial India, in which she uncovers the remarkable
contributions of Indian folklore collectors who have remained eclipsed for
nearly a century in the historiography of South Asian anthropology. Her
book considers linkages between nineteenth-century folklore collecting,
the colonial publishing marketplace, and anthropological discourse about
India. Her articles have been published in journals like Cultural Dynam-
ics, Journal of Religious Ethics, and Numen. She guest-curated an exhibi-
tion on Indian American life in Philadelphia (1999), editing and writing
for its catalog ‘Live Like the Banyan Tree’: Images of the Indian American
Experience, and co-directed an accompany video documentary called Back
and Forth: Two Generations of Indian Americans at Home. As a John Hope
Franklin Fellow at Duke University (2005–06), she is exploring how no-
tions of time create, reflect, and mediate images of “ethnicity” and “dias-
pora” in the public imaginary. Leela is fluent in Telugu, Kannada, Marathi,
and Hindi.
Saraswathi Venugopal was born in Sattur, then a small town in the Ram-
nad district in the southern part of Tamilnadu, India. Professor Venugopal
received her M.A. in Tamil studies in 1960 at Annamalai University and
her Ph.D. in 1979 from Madurai Kamaraj University with a dissertation
titled “Caste Variations in Lullabies and Lamentations.” Now retired, she
taught at Madurai Kamaraj University and led its School of Tamil Studies.
Prominent in the Tamilnadu Folklore Research Association (vice presi-
dent), the Indian Folklore Congress Association (as general secretary), and
the Center for Tamil Folklore Research funded by the Ford Foundation
(director). Professor Venugopal has published numerous books and arti-
cles in Tamil on Tamil folklore, with her study of Tamil mythology recog-
nized as one of the best books of the year by the Tamilnadu government
in 1997, and has edited volumes devoted to the national poet Mahakavi
Bharathiyar as well as to women’s freedom. In English she has published
articles in the following areas: perceptions of Deity in folk songs of Tamil-
nadu, medicine as reflected in folk songs, Tamil folk ballads in their rela-
tionship to the Mahabharata, Ramayana episodes as found in South Indian
languages, narrative techniques, and female voices in Tamil oral literature.
Index
Abu-Lughod, Lila, 22, 83 Madurai, 2, 4, 15, 55–65

adultery, 100, 108, 116 Mysore, 37
Afghan, 20 Nagari, 102
Andhra Pradesh, 2 New Delhi, 24
anklet, 4 Pondicherry, 2, 38
audience, 23, 38, 55–56, 59, 64, 72, Rajamundry, 70
81, 83 Sringeri, 5, 6
effect on narration, 19, 20–21, 62, 90 Tulunad, 9
response, 15, 20, 21, 61–65, 105 Varanasi, 18, 28n17
Virudhunagar, 58
Bauman, Richard, 64 Claus, Peter, 9
bawdy humor, 18. See also obscene “convergence,” 15, 110–11, 113,
songs 115–18
Ben-Amos, Dan, 64–65 Cormac, Margaret, 64
bõ–bõ–. See saint “countersystem,” 37, 69
Bottigheimer, Ruth, vii, 5, 141–42, cradle song, 1–2, 24–26
143 crying song, 116, 137n15
caste, 2, 15, 55, 58, 59 dargah, 16, 19, 82

Golla, 2, 16, 89, 92 daughter, 1–3, 19, 21
Mudaliar, 100 Day, L. B., 10
Nadar, 58 Dhar, Asha, 75
Yadava, 56 districts
Christian, 10 Chikmagalur, 6
Cilappat. ikaram, 4 Chittoor, 2, 16, 89
cities and towns. See also villages Godovari, 2, 15, 67–84
Chennai. See Madras Simla, 10
Goa, 10, 38 Tirunelveli, 2, 15, 55
Hassan, 5, 6 Doshi, B. V., 80–81
Hyderabad, 2, 21, 24, 75, 79 Dracott, Alice E., 10
Kashi, 18. See also Varanasi Dube, Leela, 12
Madras (Chennai), 100, 102, 112 Dundes, Alan, 62
147
148 Index
education, 56, 58, 59 Frere, Mary, 10

funeral, 97, 106–7
false accusation, 100, 103, 108,
116 gender, 141
family relationships: and criticism, 12
brother-brother, 108 and cultural meaning, 11
brother-in-law, 18–19, 116 and content, 79
brother-sister, 6–9, 72–73, 74–75, and interpretation, 13, 61–65
106, 107, 108–10 and narration, 15, 77–78, 83, 87
concubine, 37 and narrative shift, 72, 75, 79, 119
co-sister(s), 3 and politics, 21–22
daughter-in-law, 19, 37, 57–58, and protest, 63–64
101–4, 112 and religion, 80
father-daughter, 23, 37, 72–73, 93, and response, 55–65
96 and secondary literature, 12
father-son, 8 Gold, Ann, 9
grandmother-grandchild, 63, 89 Grima, Benedicte, 115
husband-wife, 93, 95, 103
in-laws, 65 Handoo, Lalita, vii, 12, 13, 14–15, 18,
mother-daughter, 1–3, 10, 37, 63, 27n2, 141, 144
72–73, 89, 101, 113 Handoo, Jawaharlal L., vii
mother-in-law, 19, 37, 39, 57–58, headbath, 100, 106, 107, 112, 136n7
103, 106, 112 helper, 74
mother-son, 76, 77, 103, 106 heroine (intelligent), 71, 75
natal vs. conjugal, 3, 6–9, 17, 19, Hindu, 13, 22, 56, 59, 67–68, 71
37, 59–60, 63, 74 Honko, Lauri, 91
parents-daughter, 71–72
sister-in-law, 95, 103, 106, 108, incest, 17, 109, 117
116 Indian Fairy Tales, 10–11
son-in-law, 4, 14–15, 18, 101 International Society for Folk Narra-
stepmother, 70 tive Research, vii, 141
wife, 39, 56–57 Iran, 75, 83
f aqõ–r, 81, 83 isolation, 8
Fatima, Bõ– bõ– , 16, 82 itinerant narratives, 5–6
feminist analysis, 22
festival(s), 9 Kakar, Sudhir, 63, 64
film (“The Hero Pharmacy”), 22 Kanaka Durga, vii, 9, 13–14, 16, 17,
Firth, Raymond, 55 23, 143
Flueckiger, Joyce, 15, 28n15, 76 Kannaki, 4
Folklore of Southern India, 11 karma (includes punarjanma), 19, 112
folktale (includes kahanõ–, mauj ude, Kennedy, John M., 56
kathalu), 11, 69, 81, 82, 89) Koran. See Qur’an
food, 42–47, 52n5, 57, 60, 65n1, Ko– valan, 4
78–79, 112, 135n1, 137n9,
137n10, 137n11 Lakshadweep Islands, 12
forgiveness, 77–78 Laksmõ–, 3
Index 149
languages “A Mother-in-law and Her Daugh-

Bengali, 10 ter-in-law,” 57–58, 62
Hindi, 38 “On a Mother-in-law and Her
Kannada, 5, 18, 27n9, 36 Daughter,” 60
Kashmiri, 36, 38 a person who was always in prayer,
Punjabi, 38 78–79
Sanskrit, 36 “The Princess in the Golden Cow,”
Tamil, 4, 20, 55, 56 72–73
Telugu, 2, 21, 68, 90, 91 silent son-in-law, 47–48
Urdu, 68, 69 son-in-law and bamboo-door curry,
lullaby. See cradle song 45–47
Lyons, John, 55 son-in-law and butter, puppy, sweet,
48–49
marriage, 8, 17, 93–96, 97 son-in-law doesn’t eat peacock,
Mills, Margaret, 12, 13, 20, 84 41–44
miracle story (maujude). See folktale son-in-law sits high and talks heavy,
Muhammad, 76–78 39–40
murder, 109 son-in-law’s kad . abu / budaka, 44
Muslim(s), 2, 13, 15–16, 67, 81 “A Story in Search of an Audience,”
women’s narratives, 67–84 21
vs. Hindu, 13, 67–68 “The Story of a Couple,” 80
“The Story of the Princess in the
Narasamamba, Lakshmi, vii, 9, 12, 13, Golden Cow,” 19
15–16, 17, 19, 23, 144 “The Story of a Son,” 75–76
Narayan, Kirin, 16, 23 stupid groom drowns his bride, 49
narrative, 21 “The Tale of the Adulterous Sister-
and culture, 11 in-law,” 108, 116, 126–28
and dreaming, 81 “The Tale of Bõ– bõ– Segat,” 81
and life history, 11, 16, 88, 90, 98, “The Tale of De–vanamma,” 9,
99–101, 105, 110–19 109–10, 117, 118, 130–35
narrative source. See storytellers “The Tale of the Eight Storks,” 60
narrative style, 68, 111–12 “The Tale of Kantha and Kama,”
narratives (includes narrative songs) 106–7, 117, 118, 120–24
“The Badshah’s Daughter,” 17, “Tale of a Man with Two Wives,” 61
70–71 “The Tale of Sister’s Sacrifice for the
bees protect Fatima Bõ– bõ– ’s dargah, River Goddess,” 9, 107, 117,
82 118, 124–26
bride saves groom from predicted “The Tale of a Sister Who Drives
death at fourteen, 79 Away the Doves,” 108–9, 116,
a brother-and-sister tale, 74 117, 128–30
“A Chettiyar with Two Wives,” “Thirumalai Nayakkar’s Wife,”
56–57 59–60, 62–63
illiterate son-in-law, 40–41 “The Wife and Her Husband,” 70
“Lyela in the Lamp Stand,” 75 See also numskull tales
molasses and cotton make a hero, narrators, 68–69, 70, 72, 75–76, 79,
50–51 83, 88, 89–104, 113–16
150 Index
natal home song(s), 5–8. See also Safa, Kaveh, 83

tavaru mane saint (female), 19, 81–83
“native,” 13 Santal, 49
narrative forms. See kahanõ–, maujude Sarkar, Tanika, 22
numskull tales, 35–39, 51–52 Sastri, Pandit S. M. Natesa, 11
sat õ–, 21
obscene songs, 89, 90, 99 Segat Bõ– bõ– , 81–82
O’Flaherty, Wendy, 88 sexual violence, 17
Old Deccan Days, 10 shrine. See dargah
Oldenburg, Veena, 19 Simla Folk Tales, 10
otherness, 13, 14, 22, 36 Sõ– ta, 3
song(s), 1–2, 5–8, 15, 22, 37, 89
paddana,
. 9 “Anklets on the Pyal,” 1–2, 24–26
Parthasarathy, R., 4 “Our brother-in-law went to Kashi,”
patriarchy: comment on, 9 18–19, 26
Patwardhan, Anand, 22 “Please go to my Natal Home,” 5,
performance, 13, 14, 23, 68, 70, 88, 6–7, 25–26
90–91, 98–99, 111–12, 115, 119 See also narratives, cradle song,
analysis, 19–20, 27n13 paddana,
. tavaru mane
performer. See storyteller Souza, Anna Liberata de, 10
Persia. See Iran Spain, 20
Prasad, Leela, vii, 2, 142, 144–45 states
prayer, 78–79, 80 Andhra Pradesh, 2, 3, 9, 15, 16, 36,
Proppian analysis, 39, 50, 51 67–84, 88–89
punishment, 76 Assam, 38, 44, 51
pyal, 3–4, 97 Bengal, 38
Bihar, 36, 38, 44, 48, 49
qisse, 69. See also folktale Chattisgarh, 15, 28n15
quest, 71, 75 Goa, 36, 40, 44
Qur’an, 68, 70, 81 Himachal Pradesh, 16
Karnataka, 2, 5, 6, 9, 14, 27n2, 36,
Raheja, Gloria, 9 37, 38, 44, 49
Rama, 3 Kashmir, 14, 27n2, 36, 37, 40
Ramanujan, A. K., 5, 11, 21, 69, 115 Kerala, 2, 36, 40
Ramayana, 3 Maharashtra, 36, 44
Rao, K. V., 84 Madhya Pradesh, 38, 48, 49
Ravana, 3 Rajasthan, 9, 38
rebirth, 23–24 Tamilnadu, 2, 15, 36, 44, 55–65
refrain, 104, 105 Uttar Pradesh, 9, 15, 28n15, 36,
region 38, 44, 48, 51
Kangra, 16, 23 Stokes, Mary, 11
Konkan, 2 Stokes, Maive, 10–11
religion, 13, 22, 59, 68–69, 78–70, storytellers (includes narrators and
81–83 performers)
Ricoeur, Paul, 91 Abba, 75–76, 78–79
rural vs. urban, 15, 55–65 Amma, 80
Index 151
ayahs (Dunkni and Muniya), 10–11 towns. See cities and towns
barber, 10 translation, 90–91
brahman men, 10 Trawick, Margaret, 111
companion, 10 Tunisia, 75
Deivamanni, Dr., 58, 59–60
“female sources,” 11 urban context, 56
girl, 15, 70, 80
grandmother, 11, 58, 59, 63 Venn diagram, 13
husband, 11 Venugopal, Saraswathi, vii, 12, 15,
Katyayani, K., 21 19–20, 21
Krishnan, 56–58 village, 55–56, 58
Lalita, 25 villages
Mangai, 56 Bhogaon, 36
men, 56, 63, 69 Calicut, 10
mother, 2 Chavarambakam, 2, 16, 89, 94,
Nagarajan, Mrs. S., 24 100, 101
Radakrishnan, 56 Katheru, 70
Rajamma, 23, 106–10 Melambakam, 102
Raju, 56 “Pedagaon,” 36
servant (Khidmatgar), 11 “Tsotalahoom,” 36
Shankar, Vijaya, 24 Uttumalai, 2, 15, 55–65
stepmother, 11
Urmilaji, 23 Webber, Sabra, 75
ustadbi, 15, 68 wedding, 37, 93–94
women, 10, 11, 33, 39–51, 56, 69, widowhood, 27n7, 97
71, 72, 74, 76–77, 81, 82 wife’s merit saves husband, 79
street-singing, 6 wives (multiple), 20, 61, 92
Strobel, Margaret, 84 woman-centered narrative, 5, 88, 105,
suicide, 107, 109, 117 118
summary, 14 work, 80, 92–93, 96, 97, 98, 102,
105, 113
Taggart, James, 20
tavaru mane, 5, 6–8 Zooni Publications, vii, 141
ASIAN STUDIES / LITERATURE
Gender and Story

in South India
Leela Prasad, Ruth B. Bottigheimer, and Lalita Handoo, editors
Gender and Story in South India presents exciting ethnographic research by Indian
women scholars on Hindu and Muslim women-centered oral narratives. The book is
unique for its geographic and linguistic focus on South India, for its inclusion of urban and
rural locales of narration, and for its exploration of shared Hindu and Muslim female
space. Drawing on the worldviews of South Indian female narrators in both everyday and
performative settings, the contributors lead readers away from customary and comfortable
assumptions about gender distinctions in India to experience a more dialogical, poetically
ordered moral universe that is sensitive to women’s material and spiritual lives.
“Women’s expressive traditions remain understudied even after decades of feminist

influence; this is partly because of the greater difficulties of research and translation they
may pose. This book, with its offerings from South Asian female folklorists, makes a
particular and significant contribution in this area.”
— Ann Grodzins Gold, coauthor of Listen to the Heron’s Words:
Reimagining Gender and Kinship in North India
LEELA PRASAD is Assistant Professor of Ethics and Indian Religions at Duke

University. RUTH B. BOTTIGHEIMER teaches Comparative Literature at Stony
Brook University, State University of New York, and is the author of several books,
including Fairy Godfather: Straparola, Venice, and the Fairy Tale Tradition. LALITA
HANDOO is Associate Professor of Lexicography and Folklore at the Central Institute
of Indian Languages in Mysore, India, and is the author of several books, including
Structural Analysis of Kashmiri Folktales.
A volume in the SUNY series in Hindu Studies

Wendy Doniger, editor
State University of New York Press

www.sunypress.edu

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Gender

Wendy Doniger, editor

State University of New York Press

© 2006 State University of New York

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever

For information, address State University of New York Press,

Production by Judith Block

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Gender and story in South India / edited by Leela Prasad, Ruth B.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7914-6871-5 (alk. paper)

1. Anklets on the Pyal: Women Present Women’s Stories from 1

2. The Son-in-law Story: Gender and Genre 35

3. The Role of Gender in Tale-Telling Events 55

4. Voiced Worlds: Heroines and Healers in Muslim Women’s 67

5. Transformation of Gender Roles: Converging Identities in 87

SOURCE: Office of the Registrar General, India

Essays by P. S. Kanaka Durga, Lakshmi Narasamamba, Lalita Handoo, and

A girl is born, a swan is born

Do not weep, do not weep, my silly little girl

Do not weep, do not weep, my silly little girl

Let it be milk instead that flows from your golden eyes

Bogeyman, come here, weaving your baskets

Hayamma, Bayamma, sisters

Cinnarõ–, Ponnarõ–, come little Srõ– Laksmõ–

Sri Rama, victorious Rama, beautiful Rama

Has the little girl out at play come back?

T comes to mind as I write the introductory chapter of this volume.

A PRELUDE FROM HASSAN, KARNATAKA

The label on my audiocassette reads: Lalitamba, Singer from Hassan,

After sending me away from my natal home8

Never having seen a mother or father

Who can I call “mother,” annaiyya?

Who can I call “mother,” annaiyya?

In this life, don’t weep on my account, annaiyya

Being a muttaida9—in this life, that is enough for me

After sending me away from my natal home

When I was a baby, you rocked me in the cradle

Getting me married to a blind man

After sending me away from my natal home

The husband who tied my tha.li,10 he is god, annaiyya

The money we scrape together is enough for us to eat and sleep

What can I give you in this life, annaiyya?

Lalitamba’s song highlights the emphases of the essays in this vol-

Ethnographically situated folktale collections began to emerge as a

Muniya, and by Karim, a Khidmatgar [servant, orderly]” (Stokes 1880: v).

those deep intersecting, overlapping, tumbling, and changing ways in

The temptation to read this assessment as unproblematized othering by

in a Muslim community in Eastern Godavari district in Andhra Pradesh.

A repertoire is a choice selection, assembled by chance, by occasions

Candid conversations between Kanaka Durga and Rajamma, a sixty-year-

Natal and conjugal homes loom large in women-narrated stories, but

Our brother-in-law went to Kashi17

O! At the pleasure of meeting

Our brother-in-law went to Kashi

O! The boat struck a rock and split open

Very grateful to have saved his mustache

Gender-specific roles, as allocated by patriarchal worldviews, are re-