Instrumentos de Análisis: Atlas.ti y Matriz de Recogida de datos ACD

in 1991, Deena Padayachee, a South african indian doctor, won the first nadine Gordimer short story competition.²⁷ Written mostly during the apartheid years but published in 1992, during the transition period, Padayachee’s short fiction reflects the same public aspirations as reddy’s and Sam’s, including those of “teaching” other South africans about indian culture, asserting indian claims to South african citizenry, tracing the africanization of indian identity and emphasizing collectivity by asserting racial solidarity as well as by writing in black and Coloured voices. Paday-achee also expresses an ominous disquiet about indian internalization of apartheid-era racial hierarchies. J. U. Jacobs’s comments on nadine Gordimer’s short story collection Jump (1991)—whose publication date is close to that of What’s Love Got to Do with It?—aptly describe the mood of Padayachee’s collection: “The stories are set in the late 1980s where many of the apartheid laws had been abolished but not yet the state that created them. South africans were intensely aware of living on the thresh-old of a future into which they projected their hopes or fears” (198).

hope and fear provide a steady counterpoint in Padayachee’s fiction.

While his stories celebrate racial solidarity, they inject a tone of forebod-ing, more consistently than either Sam or reddy, in noting the persis-tence of racial boundaries despite external gestures of community and commonality. yet the collection’s title, evoking Tina Turner’s famous song (like reddy’s echo of the film Imitation of Life in the story “Friends”) links itself not only to black african culture but also to international black culture. This gesture of racial affiliation takes on a global dimension of solidarity rather than a merely local one. it also demonstrates that South

Indians in Short 

african indian writing is not produced in a literary vacuum; instead, it is intimately conditioned not only by postcolonial discourse but also by developments in other minority cultures. Paying homage to a worldwide black culture further functions as a distancing device that separates the authors from the prejudicial views of their characters.

The opening story, “The visitor,” reflects the collection’s structuring theme of ethnic (dis)harmony. Padayachee explores the consciousness of a black man raiding the indian section of a township that includes Phoenix ashram, a commune built by Gandhi during his twenty-one-year stay in South africa. Overhearing the mention of the mahatma, the narrator says,

“Of course we had not learned about him [Gandhi] in school. i knew very little about him at that time” (14). The vertiginous impulses of apartheid traced here neglected to inform black africans not only of their own his-tory, but also of the other communities that constitute South africa. The narrator then encounters the ghost of Gandhi: an old man with “horn-rimmed spectacles, skinny body and bald pate” (15). before he leaves,

“Gandhi” tells the narrator to take care of the debris plundered from the ashram: ‘“look after these things,’ he said in his gentle, squeaky voice,

‘they are of Africa’” (17; emphasis added).

South african indian fiction constantly calls upon Gandhi for inspira-tion in a way that no other indian diaspora can. Writer after writer evokes Gandhi and Gandhi’s contribution to South africa, not only to claim citi-zenry but also to emphasize the abiding relationship between india and South africa through the prismatic figure of the mahatma. among the items in the wreckage is Gandhi’s autobiography. That this canonical work in the Gandhi oeuvre is also said to be “of africa” suggests that Gandhi himself is of africa. by making the “Father of the indian nation”—the man who symbolizes india—South african, Padayachee asserts the South africanness of all indians. The memorialization of Gandhi against the pil-laging of Phoenix ashram also resurrects his forgotten message of nonvio-lence. The didactic agenda that characterizes South african indian short fiction in general is established from the very first story itself.

if african-indian relationships are depicted through images of plun-der and looting in “The visitor,” the story entitled “a Different Kind of Standard Four” asserts the interracial harmony that characterizes much of apartheid-era fiction. after having built a school for the indian community, the narrator’s father claims, “[i]f we had not been able to work with the african people, there would have been little that we could’ve done” (23).

The father then asks his son: “‘i’ve heard you speaking of the Great Trek and the Greeks and the romans, but have you learned anything about the

african peoples? Of the Zulu Culture and the history of mozambique?’”

(26). Only after interrogating his son’s knowledge of african history does the father question his son’s awareness of india. “‘i took the trouble to learn a little about our ancient culture and something of our intellectual heritage’” (27; emphasis added), claims the father. The articulation of an expansive “our” as well as its double repetition loops back to the antiapart-heid imperative. by placing african culture first in the list of educational imperatives, the father suggests that indians are africans first and indians only in the last analysis. This brings to mind Sam’s strategic placement of the two stories that deal exclusively with indian identity at the very end of her collection and only after she has repeatedly highlighted the afri-canization of indianness. Padayachee thus participates in a larger rhetoric of apartheid-era identification where indianness occupies a prominent place, but one that is always subservient to africanization. The relegation of indianness to secondary status is a key difference from other diasporas where identity construction usually involves the negotiation and fusion of two competing states of being into a hybrid, harmonious whole.²⁸

if the antiapartheid imperative dictated that literature needed to be propagandist, and therefore clearly articulated, writers like Padayachee often found a way to circumvent that restrictive agenda by putting liter-ary form into play. andries Oliphant characterizes Padayachee’s writing as

“conventional realist . . . [that] . . . rearticulate well-worn sociopolitical themes in thinly fictionalized narratives of life under apartheid” (“Fic-tions”). however, Padayachee uses the spaciousness of the short story collection to explore its inventive possibilities to the fullest extent. Osten-sibly about subterranean vermin seeking to sow discontent amongst the various above-the-ground communities and so initiate a takeover, “a Pesti-lence in the land” also focuses on the professional struggles of Dr. Pillay.

Padayachee neatly splits his story into two: in the part about the vermin occupation, he plays with metaphor and symbolism in a lighthearted but allegorical way. When the story moves to discussing the “real world,” the narrative is shadowed by a grimness that mirrors the political circum-stances of South africa. in bifurcating his aesthetic approach, Padayachee expands the antiapartheid imperative to include generic innovation with-out necessarily subverting its revolutionary potential.²⁹

“The Guests” similarly bursts the boundaries of grimly realist fictional convention by deploying the ghost story genre to highlight political issues such as the Group areas act and the forceful relocation of indians under its auspices. Darrell, a white boy, has recently moved into a house from which an indian family has been rehabilitated. The story revolves around

Indians in Short 

his relationship with the ghost of vimla, an indian girl, who meets him every night and narrates the hidden history of the house. South african indian fiction often uses metaphors of burial, hiding, and ghostly pres-ences. The ruined temple in reddy’s “On the Fringe of Dreamtime,” the secret indian shrine in Sam’s story “high heels,” and the spirit of Gandhi in Padayachee’s “The visitor” suggest that indians are a ghostly, secret, hidden presence that needs to acquire actualization in the eyes of the majority population.

Significantly, the house is full of shadows, whispers, and the sounds of indians crying. The haunted house serves as a powerful metaphor for the erasure of indians in South africa and their refusal to allow their pres-ence to be negated. homi bhabha’s comments on being homeless versus being unhomed are appropriate here: the latter is ‘“taking the measure of your dwelling in a state of incredulous terror” (quoted in Jacobs 200).

even though indians are homeless, as the restless wandering embodied by the spirit of vimla suggests, they refuse to be unhomed. in their work on

“Ghosts and Shadows” in the eritrean diaspora in Canada, atsuko mat-suoka and John Sorenson state that the “concept of ‘ghosts and shadows’

. . . show(s) how the past is not forgotten, but is vitally alive in the present and shapes the experience of exiles today and in the future. The ghostly and shadowy past haunts the present of those in the diaspora as they cre-ate new identities on the basis of imagined homelands and play a role in shaping them” (153). in diaspora, ghosts become a symbol of home and the homeland that exercise a powerful hold on the migratory conscious-ness. While asserting the same nostalgia for place and rootedness, Paday-achee uses the ghost to configure home as house, a literal dwelling place not situated in a mythic india but in the reality of South africa.

in extending the “hidden histories” motif, indian recipes are found in a secret compartment. While highlighting the pedagogical method (recipes, after all, direct, guide, and teach), recipes also suggest the systematic following of instructions in order to arrive at something complete. The appearance of recipes suggests that the indian presence is a viable, albeit hidden, aspect of South african life. The raw materials are there. They just need to be methodically brought together so that the indian presence can realize its fullness and complexity and cease to be a ghostly, shadowy presence. The images of recipes, ghosts, secret shrines, blackened ruins, and the recurring presence of the child suggest that South african indian identity is simultaneously fetal, shadowy, incomplete, and unrealized.

Padayachee’s fiction also thematizes the trope of “personal culpability,”

a motif recurring in reddy and Sam’s work. “The Finishing Touch,” for

example, reflects the anxiety that indians will participate in the struc-tures of apartheid rather than dismantle them. The protagonist, an indian man named muthusamy Coopoosamy, wants to change his name to a european one: michael Cooper. Padayachee refuses to invest this gesture with any kind of serious meaning, suggesting that the transformation from muthusamy Coopoosamy renders michael Cooper into a figure of fun:

“it was becoming the vogue for indians to have shortened english names like ‘Pat’ for Pathmanandan or ‘Terence’ for Thenageran” (34). bringing to mind reddy’s story “Friends,” this story warns us that indians’ affiliat-ing with the white population—the infiltrators and the colonizers—will only detract from indian claims to South african nationality and defuse the potency of the antiapartheid imperative. “The Finishing Touch” ends with the transformed michael Cooper giving “his friend a benign look of self-assured superiority much like that he had so often seen the whites give the nonwhites” (43). nomenclature is not accidental here. rather it shows us how indians resist their africanization by europeanizing them-selves, an identity change that also results in an attitude change from sympathy to superiority.

Unlike some of the later writers who hold black africans as culpable as indians for deteriorating race relationships, Padayachee, like reddy, places the blames mostly on indians, although occasional ruptures in the narrative suggest that black africans themselves are also responsible for maintaining racial boundaries. The title story in this collection, “What’s love Got to Do with it?” is set in “the only black medical school in the country” and depicts a plural educational structure where people of dif-ferent races, religions, and creeds not only interact with each other but are also intimate with each other (153). almost. Ostensibly about the love affair between two muslim indians, Shenaz and riaz, who are from dif-ferent sects, the story confronts the racialism of supposedly open-minded indians who are ready to befriend africans but not allow them to enter their lives in any sort of personal way.

in the usual blurring of the private and the public that character-izes South african fiction, the inter-sect romance is set against a highly charged political background: The government arbitrarily decrees that the africans be removed to a separate medical college.³⁰ “The response of the coloured, african, and indian students was immediate and predict-able—they went on ‘indefinite’ boycott and wrote to every medical body in the land, to UneSCO, and the World medical association” (165).

The fraternity between indians, blacks, and Coloured South africans is emphasized here. The story ends with the government giving in and

allow-Indians in Short 

ing the university to remain one of the few multiracial campuses in the country. in a move that deftly allegorizes the political, Shenaz and riaz marry without the parental opposition they previously feared.

Teboho, a black african who is secretly in love with Shenaz, says: ‘“if a goddam memon [muslim] from a community different from Shenaz’s could have married her, i shouldn’t have been put off by these coolie clowns!’” (170). The comradeship articulated above is instantly under-mined. Teboho is incensed that Shenaz can defy cultural prescriptions only so much. The idea of marrying a black man never enters her mind, even though she joins the boycott against separate education for blacks and indians. Padayachee demonstrates how a confederation unable to invade one’s intimate relationships and based solely on political oppres-sion will only live as long as the oppresoppres-sion itself. but in having a black african describe indians in racist terms (“coolie clowns”), Padayachee demonstrates also how blacks contributed to racial disharmony, a rupture of solidarity that South african indian writers emphasize in the postapart-heid period.

Thus Padayachee documents the limits of afrindian identities; indeed, of their superficiality that precludes any intimate contact. his celebration of the africanization of indian identity is always aware, painfully aware, of the limits of its own ability to transgress. even as apartheid-era writing reflects racial solidarity, it also reveals the tenuous nature of afrindian identity, poised to withdraw into itself after the removal of the external structures of apartheid. What’s Love Got To Do with It? foregrounds the imminence of racial antagonism that characterizes the postapartheid period. While Sam and reddy focus more on the need for political comity, Padayachee, writing close to the end of apartheid, offers an anticipatory vision that reflects a different tension: the fear that the end of political oppression means the end of political collectivity. The end of collectivity means the dominance of specificity. ethnic particularity existing without the corrective of collectivity implies the resurrection of the segregationist rhetoric of the apartheid past.

Gathering the tropes of collectivity and specificity in South african indian short story collections enables us to examine the unique concerns and anxieties of indians in South africa. if collectivity runs the risk of reestablishing reductive binaries of us versus them, black versus white, the interjection of specificity infuses collectivity with a necessary internal diversity, reminding us that South africa is composed not only of blacks and whites but also of indians. Collectivity allows indians to seek citizen-ship by participating in resistance politics and by affiliating with black

africans. Specificity, however, expands the definition of citizenship to include indians not only as blacks but also as indians. but specificity has its own share of hazards that often end up consolidating the boundaries of apartheid. The recollection of collectivity, then, defuses the segrega-tionist impact of specificity. Genre thus forcefully determines the preva-lence of theme. The multiple consciousnesses underpinning these texts is reflected through the medium of the short story collection, which enables the authors to, as the word suggests, collect their various perspectives in one forum without being accused of being contradictory.

The tropes of collectivity and specificity also permit a reconsidera-tion of diasporic discourse. The asserreconsidera-tion of collectivity—with its strident claims to blackness—is a rejection of the unbelonging associated with diaspora. instead, the articulation of a common blackness bestows not only citizenry but also indigenity on indians. yet the recurring representa-tion of indians in terms of incompleteness—as ghosts, children, recipes, hidden shrines, and the keepers of secrets—suggests that the indian pres-ence in South africa is still a shadowy, insubstantial one, but will accrue the substantiality of indigenity and citizenry through its affiliation with black africans. reddy, Sam, and Padayachee also anticipate the shift in South african indian writing in the postapartheid period, where belonging is affirmed by foregrounding the indianization of South africa rather than emphasizing the South africanness of indians. yet indians are only allowed to be indian in the postapartheid period because they have demonstrated their South africanness in the apartheid era. lest the staging of afrindian identity in this fiction seem too celebratory, it is important to underline that it is hardly uncritical. afrindian identity is often determined by class, with upwardly mobile indians aligning themselves with whites. indian identity is also limited in terms of the extent of its africanization, where racial attachment may mean public solidarity but not private intimacy.

all three writers reveal the plural ways in which africanization occurs, a multiplicity that can be appropriately recorded through the possibilities of the short story collection.