LITR 115 - AFRO-ASIAN LITERATURE – STUDY MATERIAL AND NOTES, AUGUST

2018
by: Vivian M. Galicia

The Hands of the Blacks by Luis Bernardo Honwana

I don’t remember now how we got on to the subject, but one day, Teacher said that
the palms of the Blacks’ hands were much lighter than the rest of their bodies. This
is because only a few centuries ago, they walked around with them like wild animals,
so their palms weren’t exposed to the sun, which made the rest of their bodies
darker. I thought of this when Father Christiano told us after catechism that we were
absolutely hopeless, and that even the pygmies were better than us, and he went
back to this thing about their hands being lighter, and said it was like that because
they always went about with their hands folded together, praying in secret. I thought
this was so funny, this thing of the Blacks’ hands being lighter, that you should just
see me now. I do not let go of anyone, whoever they are, until they tell me why they
think that the palms of the Blacks’ hands are lighter. Doña Dores, for instance, told
me that God made Blacks’ hands lighter so they would not dirty the food they made
for their masters, or anything else they were ordered to do that had to be kept clean.

Señor Antunes, the Coca-Cola man, who only comes to the village now and again
when all the Cokes in the cantinas have been sold, said it was a lot of baloney. Of
course, I do not know if it was really such, but he assured me, it was. After that I said,
“All right, it was baloney,” and then he told me what he knew about this thing of the
Blacks’ hands. It was like this: “Long ago, many years ago, God the Father, Jesus
Christ, the Virgin Mary, St. Peter, many other saints, all the angels that were in
Heaven, and some of the people who had died and gone to Heaven—they all had a
meeting and decided to create the Blacks. Do you know how? They got hold of some
clay and pressed it into some second-hand molds and baked the clay of creatures,
which they took from the heavenly kilns. Because they were in a hurry and there was
no room next to the fire, they hung them in the chimneys. Smoke, smoke, smoke—
and there you have them, black as coals. And now, do you want to know why their
hands stayed white? Well, didn’t they have to hold on while their clay baked?

When he told me this, Señor Antunes and the other men who were around us were
very pleased and they all burst out laughing. That very same day, Señor Frias told me
that everything I had heard from them there had been just one big pack of lies. Really
and truly, what he knew about the Blacks’ hands was right—that God finished men
and told them to bathe in a lake in Heaven. After bathing, the people were nice and
white. The Blacks, well. They were made very early in the morning and at this hour,
the water in the lake was very cold, so they only wet the palms of their hands and the
soles of their feet before dressing and coming to the world.

But I read in a book that happened to mention the story, that the Blacks have hands
lighter like this because they spent their lives bent over, gathering the white cotton of
Virginia and I don’t know where else. Of course, Doña Estefania did not agree when I

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told her this. According to her, it is only because their hands became bleached with
all that washing.

Well, I do not know what to think about all this but the truth is that however calloused
and cracked they may be, Black hands are always lighter than the rest of him. And
that’s that!

My mother is the only one who must be right about this question of a Black’s hands
being lighter than the rest of his body. On the day that we were talking about it, I was
telling her what I already knew about the question, and she could not stop laughing.
When I was talking, she did not tell me at once what she thought about all this and
she only talked when she was sure that I wouldn’t get tired of bothering her about it.
And even then, she was crying and clutching herself around the stomach like
someone who had laughed so much that it was quite unbearable. What she said was
more or less this:

“God made Blacks because they had to be. They had to be, my son. He thought they
really had to be. Afterwards, He regretted having made them because other men
laughed at them and took away their homes and put them to serve as slaves and not
much better. But because He couldn’t make them all white, for those who were used
to seeing them black would complain, He made it so that the palms of their hands
would be exactly like the palms of the hands of other men. And do you know why
that was? Well, listen: it was to show that what men do is only the work of men... that
what men do is done by hands that are the same—hands of people. How, if they had
any sense, would know that before anything else they are men. He must have been
thinking of this when He made the hands of those men who thank God they are not
black!”

After telling me all this, my mother kissed my hands. As I ran off to the yard to play
ball, I thought that I had never seen a person cry so much as my mother did then.

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 THE STORY OF THE AGED MOTHER (A Japanese Folktale)

Long, long ago there lived at the foot of the mountain a poor farmer and his aged,
widowed mother. They owned a bit of land which supplied them with food, and their
humble were peaceful and happy.

Shinano was governed by a despotic leader who though a warrior, had a great and
cowardly shrinking from anything suggestive of failing health and strength. This
caused him to send out a cruel proclamation. The entire province was given strict
orders to immediately put to death all aged people. Those were barbarous days, and
the custom of abandoning old people to die was not common. The poor farmer loved
his aged mother with tender reverence, and the order filled his heart with sorrow. But
no one ever thought a second time about obeying the mandate of the governor, so
with many deep hopeless sighs, the youth prepared for what at that time was
considered the kindest mode of death.

Just at sundown, when his day’s work was ended, he took a quantity of unwhitened
rice which is principal food for poor, cooked and dried it, and tying it in a square
cloth, swung and bundle around his neck along with a gourd filled with cool, sweet
water. Then he lifted his helpless old mother to his back and stated on his painful
journey up the mountain. The road was long and steep; the narrowed road was
crossed and recrossed by many paths made by the hunters and woodcutters. In
some place, they mingled in a confused puzzled, but he gave no heed. One path or
another, it mattered not. On he went, climbing blindly upward – ever upward towards
the high bare summit of what is known as Obatsuyama, the mountain of the
“abandoning of aged”.

The eyes of the old mother were not so dim but that they noted the reckless
hastening from one path to another, and her loving heart grew anxious. Her son did
not know the mountain’s many paths and his return might be one of danger, so she
stretched forth her hand and snapping the twigs from brushes as they passed, she
quietly dropped a handful every few steps of the way so that they climbed, the
narrow path behind them was dotted at frequently intervals with tiny piles of twigs.
At last the summit was reached. Weary and heartsick, the youth gently released his
burden and silently prepared a place of comfort as his last duty to the loved one.
Gathering fallen pine needle, he made a soft cushion and tenderly lifting his old
mother therein, he wrapped her padded coat more closely about the stooping
shoulders and with tearful eyes and an aching heart said farewell.

The trembling mother’s voice was full of unselfish love as she gave her last
injunction. “Let not thine eyes be blinded, my son.” She said. “The mountain road is
full of dangers. LOOK carefully and follow the path which holds the piles of twigs.
They will guide you to the familiar way farther down”. The son’s surprised eyes
looked back over the path, then at the poor old, shriveled hands all scratched and
soiled by their work of love. His heart smote him and bowing to the grounds, he cried
aloud: “oh, Honorable mother, thy kindness thrusts my heart! I will not leave thee.
Together we will follow the path of twigs, and together we will die!”

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Once more he shouldered his burden (how light it seemed no) and hastened down
the path, through the shadows and the moonlight, to the little hut in the valley.
Beneath the kitchen floor was a walled closet for food, which was covered and
hidden from view. There the son his mother, supplying her with everything needful
and continually watching and fearing. Time passed, and he was beginning to feel
safe when again the governor sent forth heralds bearing an unreasonable order,
seemingly as a boast of his power. His demand was that his subject should present
him with a rope of ashes. The entire province trembled with dread. The order must
be obeyed yet who in all Shinano could make a rope of ashes?

One night, in great distress, the son whispered the news to his hidden mother. “Wait!”
she said. “I will think. I will think” On the second day she told him what to do. “Make
rope twisted straw,” she said. “Then stretch it upon a row of flat stones and burn it
there on the windless night.” He called the people together and did as she said and
when the blaze and died, behold upon the stones with every twist and fiber showing
perfectly. Lay a rope of whitehead ashes. The governor was pleased at the wit of the
youth and praised greatly, but he demanded to know where he had? Obtained his
wisdom. “Alas! Alas!” cried the farmer, “the truth must be told!” and with deep bows
he related his story. The governor listened and then meditated in silence. Finally he
lifted his head. “Shinano needs more than strength of youth,” he said gravely. “Ah,
that I should have forgotten the well-known saying, “with the crown of snow, there
cometh a wisdom!” That very hour the cruel law was abolished, and custom drifted
into as far a past that only legends remains.

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 THE RAMAYANA STORY

Dasharatha was the King of Ayodhya and had three wives and four sons. Rama was
the eldest and his mother was Kaushalya. Bharata was the son of Dasharatha’s
second and favorite wife, Queen Kaikeyi. The other two were twins, Lakshmana and
Shatrughna whose mother was Sumithra. In the neighboring city the ruler’s daughter
was named Sita. When it was time for Sita to choose her bridegroom (at a ceremony
called a swayamvara) princes from all over the land were asked to string a giant bow
which no one could lift. However, as Rama picked it up, he not only strung the bow,
he broke it. Seeing this, Sita indicated that she had chosen Rama as her husband by
putting a garland around his neck. Their love became a model for the entire kingdom
as they looked over the kingdom under the watchful eye of his father the king.

A few years later, King Dasharatha decided it was time to give his throne to his eldest
son Rama and retire to the forest. Everyone seemed pleased, save Queen Kaikeyi
since she wanted her son Bharata to rule. Because of an oath Dasharatha had made
to her years before, she got the king to agree to banish Rama for fourteen years and
to crown Bharata, even though the king pleaded with her not to demand such a
request. The devastated King could not face Rama and it was Queen Kaikeyi who
told Rama the King’s decree. Rama, always obedient, was content to go into
banishment in the forest. Sita and Lakshmana accompanied him on his exile.

One day Rama and Lakshmana wounded a rakshasas (demon) princess who tried to
seduce Rama. She returned to her brother Ravana, the ten-headed ruler of Lanka. In
retaliation, Ravana devised a plan to abduct Sita after hearing about her
incomparable beauty. He sent one of his demons disguised as a magical golden deer
to entice Sita. To please her, Rama and Lakshmana went to hunt the deer down.
Before they did though, they drew a protective circle around Sita and told her that she
would be safe for as long as she did not step outside the circle. After Rama and
Lakshmana left, Ravana appeared as a holy man begging alms. The moment Sita
stepped outside the circle to give him food, Ravana grabbed her and carried her to
his kingdom in Lanka.

Rama then sought the help of a band of monkeys offer to help him find Sita.
Hanuman, the general of the monkey band can fly since his father is the wind. He
flew to Lanka and, finding Sita in the grove, comforted her and told her Rama would
come to save her soon. Ravana’s men captured Hanuman, and Ravana ordered them
to wrap Hanuman's tail in cloth and to set it on fire. With his tail burning, Hanuman
escaped and hopped from house-top to house-top, setting Lanka on fire. He then
flew back to Rama to tell him where Sita was.

Rama, Lakshmana and the monkey army built a causeway from the tip of India to
Lanka and crossed over to Lanka where a cosmic battle ensued. Rama killed several
of Ravana’s brothers and eventually confronted the ten-headed Ravana. He killed
Ravana, freed Sita and after Sita proved here purity, they returned to Ayodhya where
Bharata returned the crown to him.

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 MAKATO AND THE COWRIE SHELL

Once upon a time there was a boy named Makato. He was an orphan, and had no
friends or family to take care of him. Because he had to make his own living, he did
all kinds of odd jobs: chopping wood, feeding pigs, clearing and cleaning. He didn't
mind to work hard, and despite his small wages he was satisfied with his life.

He was only 4 when his mother passed away, but he remembered some stories she
had told about the kind-hearted king of Sukhotai. Ever since he was small he wanted
to meet this king. One day, when helping a friend to find food for elephants, he found
so many branches that the friend offered him a job to become the assistant of the
King's mahout. He worked hard cleaning elephant’s sheds and finding food. One fine
morning Makato's patience and hard work got rewarded: he was to accompany the
King's elephant on a parade. As the king mounted the beast, in his splendid, shiny
costume, he dropped a tiny cowrie shell. Makato picked it up and held it out to the
king, who told him to keep it.

At the time the people of Sukhotai used cowrie shells as money, and although one
little cowrie had little value, he wanted to use it wisely. He went to the market to buy
seeds, yet quickly realized he could not even buy the smallest bag of seeds, while he
noticed a lettuce seed stall.

"Lady, if I dip my finger into this pile of seeds, can I take those that stick to my finger
for one cowrie?", he asked. "Well why not", replied the sales lady, amused by his
suggestion. Makato carefully scraped the seeds from his finger and planted them,
watering the tiny sprouts daily, until the garden was covered in fresh, green lettuce.
Proud as he was, he offered to king his first produce.

"Where did you get these, my boy?" the king asked surprised, and Makato told him
the story. He king was impressed by so much intelligence and industry that he
offered him a fixed position at the palace.

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 Elements of a short story

A short story is a short work of fiction. Fiction, as you know, is a prose writing about
imagined events and characters. Prose writing differs from poetry in that it does not
depend on verses, meters or rhymes for its organization and presentation.

Novels are another example of fictional prose and are much longer than short
stories. Some short stories, however, can be quite long. If a short story is a lone one,
say fifty to one hundred pages, we call it a novella.

American literature contains some of the world’s best examples of the short story.
Readers around the world enjoy the finely crafted stories of American writers such
as O. Henry, Stephen Crane, Jack London, Mark Twain and Edgar Allan Poe.

What makes these authors such remarkable short story writers? They are true
masters at combining the five key elements that go into every great short story:
character, setting, conflict, plot and theme.

The ELLSA web-site uses one of these five key elements as the focus of each of the
five on-line lessons in the Classics of American Literature section. In each lesson,
you will explore a single American short story from the USIA Ladder Series and
discover how the author uses a certain element.

Character
A character is a person, or sometimes even an animal, who takes part in the action
of a short story or other literary work.

Setting
The setting of a short story is the time and place in which it happens. Authors often
use descriptions of landscape, scenery, buildings, seasons or whether to provide a
strong sense of setting.

Plot
A plot is a series of events and character’s actions that relate to the central conflict.

Conflict
The conflict is a struggle between two people or things in a short story. The main
character is usually on one side of the central conflict.

On the other side, the main character may struggle against another important
character, against the forces of nature, against society, or even against something
inside himself or herself (feelings, emotions, illness).

Theme
The theme is the central idea or belief in a short story.

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 Techniques and Devices Used by Authors in Writing a Story

Flashback
An interruption in the story so that the author can relate an event from the past
(often used to fill in background information about plot or character) -- flash forward
and flash sideways are also part of this technique.

Foreshadowing
A technique authors use to give the reader early clues about what will happen later in
a piece of fiction -- not noticed until after the fact by the reader, deliberately planned
by the writer.

Figurative Language
Literary devices that communicate ideas beyond the ordinary, literal meaning of
words.

Allusion
A brief reference by the author, direct or indirect, to a person, place or event, or to
another literary work or passage. the reader or hearer makes the connection on his
or her own -- inside joke or reference because you can still participate and 'not get it'
but adds depth if you do.

Irony
A device where there is a contradiction between the literal (or expected) and the
underlying meaning.

Simile
A direct comparison of 2 unalike things using like or as.

Metaphor
Indirect comparison of 2 unalike things often in verbs or adjectives.

Personification
When an author gives an inanimate object human characteristics.

Verbal Irony
A contradiction -- what's said vs what's meant -- words are used.

Dramatic Irony
A contradiction -- what a character knows vs what the audience knows.

Situational Irony
A contradiction -- what's expected vs what happens.

Story within a Story

The placement of one tale that's put in another -- narrative technique.