I don't know politics but I know
the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I am Indian, very brown, born in Malabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don't write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, half Indian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don't
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
When I asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother's trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreler with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don't sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don't play pretending games.
Don't play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don't cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans' tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I am Indian, very brown, born in Malabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don't write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, half Indian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don't
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
When I asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother's trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreler with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don't sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don't play pretending games.
Don't play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don't cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans' tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.
Summary and Analysis of the Poem An Introduction by Kamala Das
Introduction to An
Introduction by Kamala Das
The poem An Introduction is an autobiographical verse of
Kamala Das that throws light on the life of a woman in the patriarchal society.
I have divided the poem into five parts for better understanding. I
have tried to first give a brief explanation of the lines and then provide
a comprehensive analysis. Hope you may go through the poem and understand its
central idea.
Men as the Rulers of Country
I
don’t know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
The poet starts explaining by saying that she doesn’t know
the politics yet she is well aware of the politicians of her country from Nehru
to the ones of her own times. And as the politics of India has always remained
in fewer hands (of males) she has memorized the names of all the politicians
like the days of the week or the names of the month.
The lines depict how the males have been
ruling the country without giving this right to the women. Moreover, the rulers
are fewer in numbers because democracy exists only in words. In reality, the
rule of the country remains in the hands of some people only who have assumed
themselves to be the permanent rulers.
Women are Individuals As Well
I
am Indian, very brown, born in Malabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Now the poet comes towards her own life experience. She says that
she is an Indian and brown in color (as compared to the British). She is born
in Malabar. She can speak three languages, write in two and dreams in one of
the dreams have a universal language. In these lines, she explains her
Indianness.
Like most of the citizens of India, she is also capable of
speaking three languages and writing in two probably the English and her native
language. She says that she dreams in one because the world of dreams is common
to all. In this world, every individual, male or female, uses the same
universal language.
In my opinion, these lines can be interpreted
in another way as well. The poet perhaps tries to show her ability in the
educational sphere which is no access to most of the women. She says that she
speaks three languages and is also capable of writing in two. In addition, is
also dreams of any man of the world. She probably compares herself to the man
of the world trying to show that she is no lesser than him.
She possesses all those qualities and abilities that make him
superior. Hence, though she is a woman, she is no lesser than him in terms of
ability, passion, and creativeness. Moreover, in the world of dreams, she
is equally an individual as the man is and so she wants this status in the real
world as well.
Poet’s Struggle for Freedom
Don’t
write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like?
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like?
Being well familiar with the English she uses this language in her
writings. However, this habit of her is not liked by her friends, relatives,
and critics. They all condemn her for writing in English as according to them,
English is the language of the colonists. She asks them why they criticise her.
Why she is not given liberty to write in whatever language she desires.
In these lines, she exposes the jealous nature of her nears and
dears who cannot endure her skills. This makes them criticise her. Having no
logical reason to put restrictions on her writing in English, they try to tell
her that the language she writes in, is the language of Colonists and thus she
should avoid using it. However, she asks them how a language can be owned by a
particular community. It belongs to every person who uses it and thus she
should not be stopped from using it.
The
language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, half Indian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don’t
You see?
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, half Indian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don’t
You see?
The language in which she writes is her own
along with all its imperfections and strangeness. The language is, though not
fully English yet she considers it to be honest because like her as her
language is also imperfect like her which a quite normal thing is.
In these lines, she shows her ownership of the English and also
the freedom of using it. She is imperfect but this makes her a human. Thus she
should not be scolded for her mistakes or shortcoming. But she wonders why the
society ignores the mistakes or even blunders of men and questions the mistakes
of women although the fact is that every person in the world is imperfect.
It
voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre.
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre.
The language expresses her joys, grief, and hopes. For he, it is
like cawing is to crows and roaring is to lions i.e. it is an integral part of
her expression. She further says that her speech (in English) is the speech of
humans that minds can understand and not strange and queer like the sound of
trees in the storms or of monsoon clouds or of rain or of dead as these voices
cannot be understood.
Her Miserable Married Life
I
was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
When I asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
When I asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door
She moves towards her married life. She was a child although the
size of her body grew up i.e. she entered the stage of puberty yet her soul was
immature. As she was still a child (after marriage) she asked for love.
However, her husband quenched his own lust on the bed. The poet here not only
describes her married life but tries to narrate the story of every woman in her
country. Her grieves and sorrows are the grieves and sorrows of every woman of
her country.
The young girls of her country are forced to marry old men without
having their consent. They are so young at the time of their marriage that they
cannot accept that they have grown up. However as their body parts including
the genitals grow up, they have to accept that they are mature now and thus
have bind into the nuptial alliance. They girl after being married desire that
her husband should show compassion to her and love her. But instead, she is
drawn to the bed and made to endure the pains of sex that she is not willing to
do.
He
did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
She says that she was not beaten by him yet her womanly body felt
to be beaten and wounded and thus she got tired of it (her body). He genitals
seemed to her as some burden that has crushed her. She started hating her
female body because it is her body that has given her so much pain.
Then
… I wore a shirt and my
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love …
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love …
To avoid its load, she tried to become a
tomboy by adopting the attire of males. But it was not led by her in-laws. They
started taunting her. She was commanded to dress in sarees, be a girl,
wife, embroiderer, cook, quarreller with servants etc. She was asked not to
hide her real self. Her in-laws even commanded to remain silent and endure her
unachieved love.
The lines expose the condition of a woman in the house of her
in-laws. She is forced to give up her frankness and attain the nature of a
daughter-in-law. She is forced to do everything that her in-laws desire her to
do. She has to accomplish all the tasks though she is not willing to do so.
Still, she is taunted, scolded as well as abused. She is even advised not
express her grief if she is troubled y her married life.
Her Struggle for the Status of
‘I’
I
met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat.
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat.
She meets a man (whose name she does not mention). The man is,
according to her, the everyman who desires a woman (to quench his lust) as a
woman desires love from a man. When she asks him about his identity, his answer
is ‘I’.
This ‘I’ or the ‘male-ego’ gives him liberty to do whatever he
likes. He can drink at midnight, laugh, and satisfy his lust. However, he feels
ashamed after losing a woman due to his own shortcomings and also this ego of
‘I’ dies when the person dies and thus his end is no different than the end of
the woman.
I
am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.
Hence
like him, she can also attribute the title of ‘I’ to herself. Like men, she is
also sinner and saint, beloved and betrayed. Her joys and pains are no
different than those of men. Hence she emancipates herself to the level of ‘I’.
Kamala Surayya, popularly known
by her one-time pen name Madhavikutty and Kamala Das, was an Indian English
poet as well as a leading Malayalam author from Kerala.
Awards: Kerala State Film Award for Best
Story, Muttathu
Varkey Award, Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award for
Story
She converted to Islam on December 11, 1999, at the age of
65 and assumed the name Kamala Surayya
Her open and honest treatment of female sexuality, free from
any sense of guilt, infused her writing with power and she got hope after
freedom- father a managing editor of the widely circulated newspaper-mother
writer-three sons-wrote poems-short stories one novel-Short stories- A Doll for
the Child Prostitute- Padmavati the Harlot-Novel -Alphabet of Lust-Poetry-: Summer
in Calcutta-My Mother At Sixty-six- The Descendants
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