{"product_id":"a-kitchen-in-the-corner-of-the-house-isbn-9781939810441","title":"A Kitchen in the Corner of the House","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Kitchen in the Corner of the House\u003c\/i\u003e collects twenty-five gem-like stories on motherhood, sexuality, and the body from the innovative and perceptive Tamil writer Ambai.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn \u003ci\u003eA Kitchen in the Corner of the House\u003c\/i\u003e, Ambai's narrators are daring and courageous, stretching and reinventing their homes, marriages, and worlds. With each story, her expansive voice confronts the construction of gender in Tamil literature. Piecing together letters, journal entries, and notes, Ambai weaves themes of both self-liberation and confinement into her writing. Her transfixing stories often meditate on motherhood, sexuality, and the liberating, and at times inhibiting, contours of the body.“Women and the seemingly infinite variety of restrictions they labor under are the focus of this wide-ranging story collection by the feminist Tamil writer Ambai. While the details are specific to India, particularly the south, the themes are universal — pregnancy, motherhood, domestic labor, politics, playing second fiddle to men, even (as in the title story) inconvenient architecture.” \u003cb\u003e— Alison McCulloch, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmbai \"evokes in sensuous, vibrant prose the colors, flavors, and sounds of Indian life in a collection of 21 stories translated by Holmström. . . Fresh, graceful stories create a palpable world.\" \u003cb\u003e- \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I am astonished and moved by the deep wisdom of these stories, the clear-eyed tenderness and humor. Ambai is an explicitly feminist author, concerned with the lives of women, yet her expansive stories never feel didactic, just true.\" \u003cb\u003e— Shruti Swamy, \u003ci\u003eElectric Literature\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ambai's stories explore the nuances of personal relationships, complex networks of emotions, and mingle themselves insightfully.\"\u003cb\u003e - \u003ci\u003eThe Telegraph\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eA Kitchen in the Corner of the House\u003c\/i\u003e, translated by Lakshmi Holmström, by Ambai — pen-name of the Tamil author-activist C.S. Lakshmi — introduced me to a South Indian Alice Munro or Katherine Mansfield.\" — \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSpectator\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ambai's stories...are boldly experimental, pointing to the real source of the best Indian fiction in the vernacular languages. She makes use of polyphony, fragmentation, and multiple persepctives, and her translator succeeds in capturing her technical virtuosity.\" \u003cb\u003e- \u003ci\u003eTimes Literary Supplement\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Unglossed and unrepentant, (Ambai's stories) range over \u003ci\u003erakshasis\u003c\/i\u003e and the \u003ci\u003eRamayana\u003c\/i\u003e, over the film music of S.D. Burman and the Hindi songs of Pankaj Mullick; they dip into the intricacies of Carnatic singing ... Ambai’s style is efficient and fluid, with a quick poetry about it that gracefully lays the world down ... \u003ci\u003eA Kitchen in the Corner of the House\u003c\/i\u003e bodies forth a full roster of psychologically rich characters, glittering and wearied souls that breathe upon the page like the last flickering light of a candle. At the end of the collection, you’re left with the impression that Ambai is a dreamer of imperfect dreams, and a writer of perfect sorrows.\" \u003cb\u003e— \u003ci\u003e3AM\u003c\/i\u003e Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ambai has created an inspiring collection of female characters who study and have sex. Some wish to be mothers, some do not. These women do not merely long for existence beyond their husbands and brothers and fathers; they achieve that freedom. Holmström’s translation emphasizes the energy Ambai must have included in the original Tamil, and she also manages to bring the sounds of Tamil to an English-speaking reader.\"\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e — The London Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ambai's short stories place experiences in a shared space and invite us to evaluate life as we know it...They shatter the narrow confines of a perceiving mind that makes everything its own and instead spread toward a wide horizon. \" \u003cb\u003e— Perumal Murugan\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ambai brings to bear upon her tales the weight of her knowledge of the mythic, literary, and Puranic...A felicity of language and the easy flow of words make the translation a pleasure to read.\"\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e- The Hindu\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ambai excels in making physical movements parallel the progression in her stories...Lakshmi Holmstrom has been able to settle down so comfortably with the psyche of Ambai, that her translations of the latter's Tamil writings have the easy flow of the original.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e- Deccan Herald\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eAmbai's   short stories place experiences in a shared space and invite us to evaluate   life as we know it... They shatter the narrow confines of a perceiving mind   that makes everything its own and instead spread towards a wide horizon. That   is precisely why Ambai's stories are at once the unique and distinctive voice   of modern Tamil literature as well as the common voice of a shared   world.\u003cbr\u003e — Perumal Murugan\u003cbr\u003e We might consider Ambai's short stories as the first expressions of female   anger. They depict a world of womanhood that experiences sadness at the   recognition that life's sufferings are also uniquely its own. Ambai writes   with nuance and a keen sense of aesthetics.\u003cbr\u003e — Sundara RamaswamyC.S. Lakshmi, writing under the pseudonym of Ambai, is a feminist Tamil writer. She was born in 1944 in Tamil Nadu, and grew up in Bangalore and Mumbai. Her works include \u003ci\u003eIn a Forest, A Deer\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eFish in a Dwindling Lake\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eA Meeting on the Andheri Overbridge\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Purple Sea\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eA Night with a Black Spider\u003c\/i\u003e. Her short stories portray the reality of women's lives, communicating their silence through words. She has worked on research projects such as: \u003ci\u003eThe Face Behind the Mask: Women in Tamil Literature\u003c\/i\u003e. In 1988, Lakshmi founded SPARROW (Sound and Picture Archives for Research on Women) a non-governmental organization for documenting and archiving the work of female writers and artists.\u003cb\u003e About the translator: \u003c\/b\u003eLakshmi Holmström translated short stories, novels, and poetry by the major contemporary writers in Tamil. Her most recent books are \u003ci\u003eFish in a Dwindling Lake\u003c\/i\u003e by Ambai (2012); \u003ci\u003eA Second Sunrise\u003c\/i\u003e, poems by Cheran; \u003ci\u003eWild Girls, Wicked Words\u003c\/i\u003e, a translation of poems by four Tamil women (2012\u003ci\u003e).\u003c\/i\u003e In 2007 she shared the Crossword-Hutch Award for her translation of Ambai's short stories, \u003ci\u003eIn a Forest, a Deer\u003c\/i\u003e; and she received the Iyal Award from the Tamil Literary Garden, Canada, in 2008.In a Forest, a Deer\u003cbr\u003e It is difficult to forget those nights. Nights when we listened to all\u003cbr\u003e those stories. Thangam Athai, it was, who told them to us. They\u003cbr\u003e were not tales of the fox and the crow, nor of the hare and the tortoise.\u003cbr\u003e No, these were stories she herself had made up. Some were\u003cbr\u003e like fragments of poetry. Others were like songs which would never\u003cbr\u003e end. Stories which developed in all sorts of ways, without beginning,\u003cbr\u003e middle, or end. At times, at night, she would create many images in\u003cbr\u003e our minds. Even the gods and demons would alter in her stories. She\u003cbr\u003e would speak most movingly about Mandara. Surpanaka, Tadaka,\u003cbr\u003e and the rest would no longer remain as rakshasis, female demons,\u003cbr\u003e but be transformed into real people with impulses and feelings. She\u003cbr\u003e brought into the light characters which had seemed only to cling\u003cbr\u003e to the pages of the epics. As if she were stroking a bird with broken\u003cbr\u003e wings, with such gentleness she would portray them in words. I\u003cbr\u003e don’t know what it was about them – the night-time, or the central\u003cbr\u003e hall of that old house where we lay, or the nearness of all the cousins\u003cbr\u003e – but those stories still keep circling and sounding somewhere in my\u003cbr\u003e mind, like the buzzing of bees.\u003cbr\u003e In that house with its old pillars and central hall, I see Thangam\u003cbr\u003e Athai in several frames. Leaning against the heavy wooden door.\u003cbr\u003e Carrying a small lamp which she has shaded with the end of her\u003cbr\u003e sari; placing it within its niche. Serving a meal to her husband,\u003cbr\u003e Ekambaram. Pulling on a rope, one foot firmly placed upon the\u003cbr\u003e small parapet surrounding the well. Feeding the plants with manure.\u003cbr\u003e Thangam Athai had beautiful dark skin. A face without a single\u003cbr\u003e wrinkle, as if it had been ironed smooth. Plenty of silver in her hair.\u003cbr\u003e There was an old-fashioned harmonium in Athai’s house, worked\u003cbr\u003e by pressing a pedal. Athai used to play it. She would play different\u003cbr\u003e tunes, from the tevaram “Vadaname chandrabimbamo” to the popular\u003cbr\u003e “Vannaan vandaana,” singing softly at the same time. Her long\u003cbr\u003e fingers which looked like the dark beaks of birds would fly over the\u003cbr\u003e keys of the harmonium as if they were black butterflies.\u003cbr\u003e A shell of mystery surrounded Thangam Athai. There seemed to\u003cbr\u003e be a deep pity for her in the way the others looked at her with tenderness,\u003cbr\u003e or stroked her gently; it was there in the compassion flowing\u003cbr\u003e from their eyes. Ekambaram Maama had another wife. He always\u003cbr\u003e treated Athai as if she were a flower. Nobody had overheard him\u003cbr\u003e address her as “di.” He would always call her Thangamma. All the\u003cbr\u003e same, Athai seemed, somehow, as if she stood a long distance away,\u003cbr\u003e behind a smokescreen. It was Muthu Maama’s daughter, Valli, who\u003cbr\u003e pierced the mystery. What she found out was both comprehensible\u003cbr\u003e to us, and yet totally incomprehensible. According to Valli’s mother,\u003cbr\u003e Athai had never “blossomed.”\u003cbr\u003e “What does that mean?” several of us wanted to know.\u003cbr\u003e Valli was old enough to wear a half-sari. “Well, it means that she\u003cbr\u003e never came of age.”\u003cbr\u003e “But her hair is all white, isn’t it?”\u003cbr\u003e “That’s different.”\u003cbr\u003e After that we watched Athai’s body carefully. We discussed\u003cbr\u003e among ourselves how a body that hadn’t “blossomed” would be. We\u003cbr\u003e couldn’t understand in what way her body wasn’t complete. Athai\u003cbr\u003e looked just like everyone else when she appeared in her wet clothes,\u003cbr\u003e after her bath. When she stood there in her knotted red choli and her\u003cbr\u003e green sari, she didn’t look at all unusual. Valli’s mother had said to\u003cbr\u003e Valli, “It’s just a hollow body.” We couldn’t make out where the gap\u003cbr\u003e could be. We wondered if it was like the broken wing of a sparrow,\u003cbr\u003e a hollow that wasn’t overtly discernible.\u003cbr\u003e One evening they cut down a huge tree in the garden, which had\u003cbr\u003e died. At the last blow of the hatchet, it suddenly slid down to the\u003cbr\u003e ground amidst a rustling of leaves. When it was split across, there\u003cbr\u003e was a mere hole within. Valli nudged me at the waist and said,\u003cbr\u003e “That’s it, that’s hollow.” But it was impossible to compare Athai’s\u003cbr\u003e shining dark form with this tree, lying there facing the sky, exposing\u003cbr\u003e itself utterly, nothing inside.\u003cbr\u003e What secret did that form hide? In what way was her body so\u003cbr\u003e different? In the hot summer afternoons, Athai would remove her\u003cbr\u003e tight choli and lie down in the store-room. When we went and snuggled\u003cbr\u003e close to her, laying our heads against her breast, freed now from\u003cbr\u003e its confining choli, she would gather us up in a light embrace. Held\u003cbr\u003e within the protection of her breast, her waist, her arms, it was difficult\u003cbr\u003e to perceive any hollow. Hers was a temperately warm body.\u003cbr\u003e She seemed like one steeped in feelings and emotions. Like a ripe\u003cbr\u003e fruit full of juice, a life-spring flowed through her body. And often\u003cbr\u003e those vitalizing drops fell upon our own selves. Through her touch,\u003cbr\u003e through her caress, through the firm pressure with which she massaged\u003cbr\u003e us with oil, a life-force sprang towards us from her body, like\u003cbr\u003e a river breaking past its own banks. It was at the touch of her hands\u003cbr\u003e that cows would yield their milk. The seeds that she planted always\u003cbr\u003e sprouted. My mother always said she had an auspicious hand.\u003cbr\u003e Athai was there when my little sister was born. “Akka, stay by\u003cbr\u003e my side. Keep holding on to me. Only then will I not feel any pain,”\u003cbr\u003e Amma muttered, as we children were being swept out of the room.\u003cbr\u003e When we came to the threshold and looked back from the doorway,\u003cbr\u003e Thangam Athai was softly stroking Amma’s swollen belly.\u003cbr\u003e “Nothing will happen. Don’t be frightened,” she said quietly.\u003cbr\u003e “Oh, Akka, if only you too could . . .,” my mother sobbed, unable\u003cbr\u003e to finish what she began.\u003cbr\u003e “What do I need? I’m like a queen. My house is full of children,”\u003cbr\u003e said Athai. Ekambaram Maama’s younger wife had seven children.\u003cbr\u003e “Your body has not opened . . .,” Amma wept the louder.\u003cbr\u003e “Why, what’s wrong with my body? Don’t I feel hungry at the\u003cbr\u003e right times? Don’t I sleep well? The same properties that all bodies\u003cbr\u003e have, this one has, too. It feels pain when it is hurt. Its blood clots. If\u003cbr\u003e its wounds go septic, it gathers pus. It digests the food it eats. What\u003cbr\u003e more do you want?” asked Athai.\u003cbr\u003e Amma took her hand and laid it against her cheek.\u003cbr\u003e “They turned your body into a bloody battlefield . . .,” she moaned,\u003cbr\u003e holding that hand tight.","brand":"Archipelago","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299794145509,"sku":"NP9781939810441","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781939810441.jpg?v=1767720582","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/a-kitchen-in-the-corner-of-the-house-isbn-9781939810441","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}