NCERT Textbook: Drama: Broken Images | Class 12 English Kaleidoscope - Humanities/Arts PDF Download

 Page 1


224/KALEIDOSCOPE
Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images
Girish Karnad is a contemporary writer,
playwright, actor and movie director. He is a
recipient of the Padma Shri (1974), Padma
Bhushan (1992) and the Jnanpith Award
(1998). He writes in both Kannada and English.
His plays generally use history and mythology
to focus on contemporary issues. He is also
active in the world of Indian cinema.
This play, too, can be looked at from multiple
levels—the focus on values, both personal and
academic, and the issue of bilingualism in
today’s world.
...for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter,...
     T. S. ELIOT
THE WASTE LAND
The interior of a television studio. A big plasma screen hangs on
one side, big enough for a close-up on it to be seen clearly by the
audience. On the other side of the stage, a chair and a typically
‘telly’ table—strong, wide, semi-circular. At the back of the stage
are several television sets, with screens of varying sizes.
A small red bulb glows above the table, high enough not
to appear on the television screen.
Manjula Nayak walks in. She is in her mid-thirties/
forties, and has a confident stride. She is wearing a lapel
mike. It is immediately evident that she is at home in
broadcasting studios. She looks around.
Girish Karnad
Born 1938
2 2
2 2 2
2024-25
Page 2


224/KALEIDOSCOPE
Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images
Girish Karnad is a contemporary writer,
playwright, actor and movie director. He is a
recipient of the Padma Shri (1974), Padma
Bhushan (1992) and the Jnanpith Award
(1998). He writes in both Kannada and English.
His plays generally use history and mythology
to focus on contemporary issues. He is also
active in the world of Indian cinema.
This play, too, can be looked at from multiple
levels—the focus on values, both personal and
academic, and the issue of bilingualism in
today’s world.
...for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter,...
     T. S. ELIOT
THE WASTE LAND
The interior of a television studio. A big plasma screen hangs on
one side, big enough for a close-up on it to be seen clearly by the
audience. On the other side of the stage, a chair and a typically
‘telly’ table—strong, wide, semi-circular. At the back of the stage
are several television sets, with screens of varying sizes.
A small red bulb glows above the table, high enough not
to appear on the television screen.
Manjula Nayak walks in. She is in her mid-thirties/
forties, and has a confident stride. She is wearing a lapel
mike. It is immediately evident that she is at home in
broadcasting studios. She looks around.
Girish Karnad
Born 1938
2 2
2 2 2
2024-25
225/BROKEN IMAGES
MANJULA: Nice, very nice. Neat!
(She goes and sits on the chair. Adjusts the earpiece.)
But where is the camera?
(Listens to the reply.)
Ah! I see. New technology. Isn’t it scary? The rate of
obsolescence? (Listens.) Of course I have. In London.
And in Toronto. But when you think of Indian television
studios, you always imagine them cluttered. Lots of
men and women scurrying about, shouting orders.
Elephantine lights. Headphones. Cameras. You know
what I mean. But here... I mean, it’s all so spartan... I
know. But a bit lonely too. Like a sound studio... All
right. All right... No camera. I just look ahead and
speak to an invisible audience in front of me... Direct.
Fine. Fine... I can hear you. Clearly. Voice test?...
‘Testing, Testing, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Hello,
Hello!’ Shall I tap on the mike?
(Laughs.)
My speech will last exactly ten minutes. I have timed
it... No, I won’t read. ‘Look ahead and speak!’ Good...
But that may take a little longer. A couple of minutes...
if I don’t fumble too much.
(Giggles.)
The yellow light?... Okay, okay, ready, fine!
(She mouths ‘Ten’ to ‘Zero’ silently, emphasising each
count with her forefinger. At the stroke of ten, the light
turns yellow. The Announcer appears on the big plasma
screen. The other screens remain blank till the last few
minutes of the play.)
ANNOUNCER: Good evening. This is a proud evening for
the Shree-TV channel. For tonight we bring to you Ms
Manjula Nayak. Many of you will know her as a
renowned Kannada short-story writer. Until a year ago,
she was a lecturer in English in Bangalore. But she
had been writing in Kannada. Not unusual, as you
know. It’s amazing how many of our Kannada writers
are lecturers in English: from the earliest days. B. M.
Shree, Gokak, Adiga.
2024-25
Page 3


224/KALEIDOSCOPE
Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images
Girish Karnad is a contemporary writer,
playwright, actor and movie director. He is a
recipient of the Padma Shri (1974), Padma
Bhushan (1992) and the Jnanpith Award
(1998). He writes in both Kannada and English.
His plays generally use history and mythology
to focus on contemporary issues. He is also
active in the world of Indian cinema.
This play, too, can be looked at from multiple
levels—the focus on values, both personal and
academic, and the issue of bilingualism in
today’s world.
...for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter,...
     T. S. ELIOT
THE WASTE LAND
The interior of a television studio. A big plasma screen hangs on
one side, big enough for a close-up on it to be seen clearly by the
audience. On the other side of the stage, a chair and a typically
‘telly’ table—strong, wide, semi-circular. At the back of the stage
are several television sets, with screens of varying sizes.
A small red bulb glows above the table, high enough not
to appear on the television screen.
Manjula Nayak walks in. She is in her mid-thirties/
forties, and has a confident stride. She is wearing a lapel
mike. It is immediately evident that she is at home in
broadcasting studios. She looks around.
Girish Karnad
Born 1938
2 2
2 2 2
2024-25
225/BROKEN IMAGES
MANJULA: Nice, very nice. Neat!
(She goes and sits on the chair. Adjusts the earpiece.)
But where is the camera?
(Listens to the reply.)
Ah! I see. New technology. Isn’t it scary? The rate of
obsolescence? (Listens.) Of course I have. In London.
And in Toronto. But when you think of Indian television
studios, you always imagine them cluttered. Lots of
men and women scurrying about, shouting orders.
Elephantine lights. Headphones. Cameras. You know
what I mean. But here... I mean, it’s all so spartan... I
know. But a bit lonely too. Like a sound studio... All
right. All right... No camera. I just look ahead and
speak to an invisible audience in front of me... Direct.
Fine. Fine... I can hear you. Clearly. Voice test?...
‘Testing, Testing, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Hello,
Hello!’ Shall I tap on the mike?
(Laughs.)
My speech will last exactly ten minutes. I have timed
it... No, I won’t read. ‘Look ahead and speak!’ Good...
But that may take a little longer. A couple of minutes...
if I don’t fumble too much.
(Giggles.)
The yellow light?... Okay, okay, ready, fine!
(She mouths ‘Ten’ to ‘Zero’ silently, emphasising each
count with her forefinger. At the stroke of ten, the light
turns yellow. The Announcer appears on the big plasma
screen. The other screens remain blank till the last few
minutes of the play.)
ANNOUNCER: Good evening. This is a proud evening for
the Shree-TV channel. For tonight we bring to you Ms
Manjula Nayak. Many of you will know her as a
renowned Kannada short-story writer. Until a year ago,
she was a lecturer in English in Bangalore. But she
had been writing in Kannada. Not unusual, as you
know. It’s amazing how many of our Kannada writers
are lecturers in English: from the earliest days. B. M.
Shree, Gokak, Adiga.
2024-25
226/KALEIDOSCOPE
Even modern ones. Lankesh, Shantinath, Anantha
Murthy. And of course there is A. K. Ramanujan, who
was equally at home in both languages. But last year
Mrs Nayak stunned the world—yes, I mean, the world—
by writing a novel. Her first novel. In English! The
River Has No Memories. The advance she received from
her British publishers made headlines, here and in
the West. And then the novel turned out to be a
bestseller all over the world. Our heartiest
congratulations to Mrs Nayak.
This evening we broadcast a Kannada telefilm based
on this remarkable novel. The film will begin in exactly
ten minutes. And we have with us in the studio Ms
Nayak herself, who has graciously agreed to address
our viewers about her work. Ladies and gentlemen,
welcome the Literary Phenomenon of the Decade, Mrs
Manjula Nayak.
(Applause on the sound track. The light turns green. The
Announcer disappears and Manjula’s image appears in
his place. She speaks.)
MANJULA: Namaskara. I am Manjula Nayak. 1 must
mention that officially I am Mrs Manjula Murty, but
my creative self continues to be Manjula Nayak. There
are some areas in which we must not let marriage
intrude too much.
(Laughter.)
Talking about one’s work is a very difficult task. So let
me find an easy way out. Let me just take up two
questions I constantly come across. They seem to
bother everyone—here, abroad. I’ll answer them to
the best of my ability within the short time at my
disposal and shut up. Actually, that’s what a writer
should do, shouldn’t she?—Write and shut up!
(Laughs.)
The first question—you have probably guessed it already.
After having written in Kannada all your life, why did
you choose—suddenly—to write in English? Do you see
yourself as a Kannada writer or an English writer? What
audience do you write for? And variations on that theme.
2024-25
Page 4


224/KALEIDOSCOPE
Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images
Girish Karnad is a contemporary writer,
playwright, actor and movie director. He is a
recipient of the Padma Shri (1974), Padma
Bhushan (1992) and the Jnanpith Award
(1998). He writes in both Kannada and English.
His plays generally use history and mythology
to focus on contemporary issues. He is also
active in the world of Indian cinema.
This play, too, can be looked at from multiple
levels—the focus on values, both personal and
academic, and the issue of bilingualism in
today’s world.
...for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter,...
     T. S. ELIOT
THE WASTE LAND
The interior of a television studio. A big plasma screen hangs on
one side, big enough for a close-up on it to be seen clearly by the
audience. On the other side of the stage, a chair and a typically
‘telly’ table—strong, wide, semi-circular. At the back of the stage
are several television sets, with screens of varying sizes.
A small red bulb glows above the table, high enough not
to appear on the television screen.
Manjula Nayak walks in. She is in her mid-thirties/
forties, and has a confident stride. She is wearing a lapel
mike. It is immediately evident that she is at home in
broadcasting studios. She looks around.
Girish Karnad
Born 1938
2 2
2 2 2
2024-25
225/BROKEN IMAGES
MANJULA: Nice, very nice. Neat!
(She goes and sits on the chair. Adjusts the earpiece.)
But where is the camera?
(Listens to the reply.)
Ah! I see. New technology. Isn’t it scary? The rate of
obsolescence? (Listens.) Of course I have. In London.
And in Toronto. But when you think of Indian television
studios, you always imagine them cluttered. Lots of
men and women scurrying about, shouting orders.
Elephantine lights. Headphones. Cameras. You know
what I mean. But here... I mean, it’s all so spartan... I
know. But a bit lonely too. Like a sound studio... All
right. All right... No camera. I just look ahead and
speak to an invisible audience in front of me... Direct.
Fine. Fine... I can hear you. Clearly. Voice test?...
‘Testing, Testing, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Hello,
Hello!’ Shall I tap on the mike?
(Laughs.)
My speech will last exactly ten minutes. I have timed
it... No, I won’t read. ‘Look ahead and speak!’ Good...
But that may take a little longer. A couple of minutes...
if I don’t fumble too much.
(Giggles.)
The yellow light?... Okay, okay, ready, fine!
(She mouths ‘Ten’ to ‘Zero’ silently, emphasising each
count with her forefinger. At the stroke of ten, the light
turns yellow. The Announcer appears on the big plasma
screen. The other screens remain blank till the last few
minutes of the play.)
ANNOUNCER: Good evening. This is a proud evening for
the Shree-TV channel. For tonight we bring to you Ms
Manjula Nayak. Many of you will know her as a
renowned Kannada short-story writer. Until a year ago,
she was a lecturer in English in Bangalore. But she
had been writing in Kannada. Not unusual, as you
know. It’s amazing how many of our Kannada writers
are lecturers in English: from the earliest days. B. M.
Shree, Gokak, Adiga.
2024-25
226/KALEIDOSCOPE
Even modern ones. Lankesh, Shantinath, Anantha
Murthy. And of course there is A. K. Ramanujan, who
was equally at home in both languages. But last year
Mrs Nayak stunned the world—yes, I mean, the world—
by writing a novel. Her first novel. In English! The
River Has No Memories. The advance she received from
her British publishers made headlines, here and in
the West. And then the novel turned out to be a
bestseller all over the world. Our heartiest
congratulations to Mrs Nayak.
This evening we broadcast a Kannada telefilm based
on this remarkable novel. The film will begin in exactly
ten minutes. And we have with us in the studio Ms
Nayak herself, who has graciously agreed to address
our viewers about her work. Ladies and gentlemen,
welcome the Literary Phenomenon of the Decade, Mrs
Manjula Nayak.
(Applause on the sound track. The light turns green. The
Announcer disappears and Manjula’s image appears in
his place. She speaks.)
MANJULA: Namaskara. I am Manjula Nayak. 1 must
mention that officially I am Mrs Manjula Murty, but
my creative self continues to be Manjula Nayak. There
are some areas in which we must not let marriage
intrude too much.
(Laughter.)
Talking about one’s work is a very difficult task. So let
me find an easy way out. Let me just take up two
questions I constantly come across. They seem to
bother everyone—here, abroad. I’ll answer them to
the best of my ability within the short time at my
disposal and shut up. Actually, that’s what a writer
should do, shouldn’t she?—Write and shut up!
(Laughs.)
The first question—you have probably guessed it already.
After having written in Kannada all your life, why did
you choose—suddenly—to write in English? Do you see
yourself as a Kannada writer or an English writer? What
audience do you write for? And variations on that theme.
2024-25
227/BROKEN IMAGES
Actually, let me confess. If I had foreseen how many
people I would upset by writing in English—I really
would not have committed that folly.
Intellectuals whom I respected, writers who were gurus
to me, friends who I thought would pat me on my back
and share my delight—they are all suddenly breathing
fire. How dare I write in English and betray Kannada!
(Laughs.)
Betray! The answer is simple; if there was betrayal, it
was not a matter of conscious choice. I wrote the novel
in English because it burst out in English. It surprised
even me. I couldn’t understand why it was all coming
out in English. But it did. That’s all. There is no other
explanation.
What baffles me—actually, let me confess, hurts me—
is why our intellectuals can’t grasp this simple fact! I
have been accused of writing for foreign readers.
Accused! As though I had committed a crime. A writer
seeks audiences where she or he can find them! My
British publishers said to me: ‘We like your book
because it’s so Indian. We receive any number of
manuscripts from India but they are all written with
the western reader in view. Your novel has the genuine
Indian feel!’
(Laughs.)
But who listens here? A pundit for instance has stated
that no Indian writer can express herself—or himself—
honestly in English. ‘For Indian writers, English is a
medium of dishonesty.’ Of course, one could also ask
how many Kannada writers are honest in what they
write—in Kannada. But if you did that, you would be
immediately condemned as a traitor. You can’t win!
Recently the President of the Central Sahitya
Akademi—the National Academy of the Letters— (who
shall remain nameless) declared that Indians who write
in English do so in order to make money. That by
writing in English they confess their complicity in the
global consumer market economy. He of course spoke
in English. Speaking in English, as you know, gives
2024-25
Page 5


224/KALEIDOSCOPE
Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images Broken Images
Girish Karnad is a contemporary writer,
playwright, actor and movie director. He is a
recipient of the Padma Shri (1974), Padma
Bhushan (1992) and the Jnanpith Award
(1998). He writes in both Kannada and English.
His plays generally use history and mythology
to focus on contemporary issues. He is also
active in the world of Indian cinema.
This play, too, can be looked at from multiple
levels—the focus on values, both personal and
academic, and the issue of bilingualism in
today’s world.
...for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter,...
     T. S. ELIOT
THE WASTE LAND
The interior of a television studio. A big plasma screen hangs on
one side, big enough for a close-up on it to be seen clearly by the
audience. On the other side of the stage, a chair and a typically
‘telly’ table—strong, wide, semi-circular. At the back of the stage
are several television sets, with screens of varying sizes.
A small red bulb glows above the table, high enough not
to appear on the television screen.
Manjula Nayak walks in. She is in her mid-thirties/
forties, and has a confident stride. She is wearing a lapel
mike. It is immediately evident that she is at home in
broadcasting studios. She looks around.
Girish Karnad
Born 1938
2 2
2 2 2
2024-25
225/BROKEN IMAGES
MANJULA: Nice, very nice. Neat!
(She goes and sits on the chair. Adjusts the earpiece.)
But where is the camera?
(Listens to the reply.)
Ah! I see. New technology. Isn’t it scary? The rate of
obsolescence? (Listens.) Of course I have. In London.
And in Toronto. But when you think of Indian television
studios, you always imagine them cluttered. Lots of
men and women scurrying about, shouting orders.
Elephantine lights. Headphones. Cameras. You know
what I mean. But here... I mean, it’s all so spartan... I
know. But a bit lonely too. Like a sound studio... All
right. All right... No camera. I just look ahead and
speak to an invisible audience in front of me... Direct.
Fine. Fine... I can hear you. Clearly. Voice test?...
‘Testing, Testing, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Hello,
Hello!’ Shall I tap on the mike?
(Laughs.)
My speech will last exactly ten minutes. I have timed
it... No, I won’t read. ‘Look ahead and speak!’ Good...
But that may take a little longer. A couple of minutes...
if I don’t fumble too much.
(Giggles.)
The yellow light?... Okay, okay, ready, fine!
(She mouths ‘Ten’ to ‘Zero’ silently, emphasising each
count with her forefinger. At the stroke of ten, the light
turns yellow. The Announcer appears on the big plasma
screen. The other screens remain blank till the last few
minutes of the play.)
ANNOUNCER: Good evening. This is a proud evening for
the Shree-TV channel. For tonight we bring to you Ms
Manjula Nayak. Many of you will know her as a
renowned Kannada short-story writer. Until a year ago,
she was a lecturer in English in Bangalore. But she
had been writing in Kannada. Not unusual, as you
know. It’s amazing how many of our Kannada writers
are lecturers in English: from the earliest days. B. M.
Shree, Gokak, Adiga.
2024-25
226/KALEIDOSCOPE
Even modern ones. Lankesh, Shantinath, Anantha
Murthy. And of course there is A. K. Ramanujan, who
was equally at home in both languages. But last year
Mrs Nayak stunned the world—yes, I mean, the world—
by writing a novel. Her first novel. In English! The
River Has No Memories. The advance she received from
her British publishers made headlines, here and in
the West. And then the novel turned out to be a
bestseller all over the world. Our heartiest
congratulations to Mrs Nayak.
This evening we broadcast a Kannada telefilm based
on this remarkable novel. The film will begin in exactly
ten minutes. And we have with us in the studio Ms
Nayak herself, who has graciously agreed to address
our viewers about her work. Ladies and gentlemen,
welcome the Literary Phenomenon of the Decade, Mrs
Manjula Nayak.
(Applause on the sound track. The light turns green. The
Announcer disappears and Manjula’s image appears in
his place. She speaks.)
MANJULA: Namaskara. I am Manjula Nayak. 1 must
mention that officially I am Mrs Manjula Murty, but
my creative self continues to be Manjula Nayak. There
are some areas in which we must not let marriage
intrude too much.
(Laughter.)
Talking about one’s work is a very difficult task. So let
me find an easy way out. Let me just take up two
questions I constantly come across. They seem to
bother everyone—here, abroad. I’ll answer them to
the best of my ability within the short time at my
disposal and shut up. Actually, that’s what a writer
should do, shouldn’t she?—Write and shut up!
(Laughs.)
The first question—you have probably guessed it already.
After having written in Kannada all your life, why did
you choose—suddenly—to write in English? Do you see
yourself as a Kannada writer or an English writer? What
audience do you write for? And variations on that theme.
2024-25
227/BROKEN IMAGES
Actually, let me confess. If I had foreseen how many
people I would upset by writing in English—I really
would not have committed that folly.
Intellectuals whom I respected, writers who were gurus
to me, friends who I thought would pat me on my back
and share my delight—they are all suddenly breathing
fire. How dare I write in English and betray Kannada!
(Laughs.)
Betray! The answer is simple; if there was betrayal, it
was not a matter of conscious choice. I wrote the novel
in English because it burst out in English. It surprised
even me. I couldn’t understand why it was all coming
out in English. But it did. That’s all. There is no other
explanation.
What baffles me—actually, let me confess, hurts me—
is why our intellectuals can’t grasp this simple fact! I
have been accused of writing for foreign readers.
Accused! As though I had committed a crime. A writer
seeks audiences where she or he can find them! My
British publishers said to me: ‘We like your book
because it’s so Indian. We receive any number of
manuscripts from India but they are all written with
the western reader in view. Your novel has the genuine
Indian feel!’
(Laughs.)
But who listens here? A pundit for instance has stated
that no Indian writer can express herself—or himself—
honestly in English. ‘For Indian writers, English is a
medium of dishonesty.’ Of course, one could also ask
how many Kannada writers are honest in what they
write—in Kannada. But if you did that, you would be
immediately condemned as a traitor. You can’t win!
Recently the President of the Central Sahitya
Akademi—the National Academy of the Letters— (who
shall remain nameless) declared that Indians who write
in English do so in order to make money. That by
writing in English they confess their complicity in the
global consumer market economy. He of course spoke
in English. Speaking in English, as you know, gives
2024-25
228/KALEIDOSCOPE
you the authority to make oracular pronouncements
on Indian literatures and languages. But my response
to the charge that I write in English for money would
be: Why not? Isn’t that a good enough reason? Would
you like to see what royalties I earned when I wrote in
Kannada?
(Pause.)
Yet the accusation hides—or perhaps reveals—a grim
anxiety. As is clear from the dictum of the President of
the Akademi, what is at issue is not Creativity but
Money. What hits everyone in the eye is the money a
writer in English can earn. The advance I received for
my novel—the advance only, mind you—helped me
resign my job and concentrate on writing. Of course it
is a cause for jealousy. Having struggled in Kannada,
I can understand that. A Kannada proverb says: ‘A
response is good. But a meaningful response is better.’
Meaningful: Arthapoorna. The Kannada word for
Meaning is Artha—which also means money! And of
course, fame, publicity, glamour...power.
(Laughs.)
Let me leave it at that.
The second question everyone asks is about the book
itself: thank God! How could you—you seem so strong
and active—I was a long jump athlete in college, though
of course no Anju Bobby George—how could you so
vividly recreate the inner life of a person confined to
bed all her life? How can a healthy, outdoor woman be
so empathetic to the emotional world of a disabled
person? Well, it is sad, but I owe that to my younger
sister, Malini.
She was physically challenged. Suffered from what is
technically called, meningomyelocele—the upper part
of her body was perfectly normal; below the waist, the
nervous system was damaged. Completely
dysfunctional. A series of operations, which started
soon after her birth, reduced her existence to misery—
she spent her entire life confined to the wheel-chair.
Six years ago my parents died. She came to stay with
2024-25