The Sponge and the Pawn: Marginalization, Power, and the "Little People" in Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

This blog task is assigned by Prof. Dilip Barad on comparing and deeply anaysing Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead with the study of Culture and socia heirarchy. This bog is based on his worksheet.

Introduction: Two Courtiers, One Question

In Act 4, Scene 2 of William Shakespeare's Hamlet, the prince turns to his old school friends and asks a question that cuts to the bone of the play's political machinery:

"Take you me for a sponge, my lord?"
"Ay, sir, that soaks up the king's countenance, his rewards, his authorities... When he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again."
(Shakespeare 4.2.12–20)

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have no answer. They are the sponge. They soak up the king's favor and are wrung dry the moment their usefulness ends. Four centuries later, Tom Stoppard gave these two minor figures their own play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (1967), and asked a question Shakespeare only implied: what does it feel like to be a sponge? What is the inner life of a person who exists only to be used, discarded, and forgotten?

This blog responds to a worksheet assigned by Prof. Dilip Barad on marginalization in Shakespeare's Hamlet and Stoppard's reimagining. It engages with the theoretical frameworks of Althusser, Foucault, Gramsci, Greenblatt, and Said, and connects the fate of two Elizabethan courtiers to the experience of workers in a modern corporate hierarchy. As the worksheet's framing text from Guerin et al. puts it, this is "Cultural Studies in Practice: Two Characters in Hamlet: Marginalization with a Vengeance" (Guerin et al. 305–11).

"When he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again." — Stage depiction of the marginalized courtiers.

Section 1: Marginalization in Hamlet

Who Are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are minor characters in Hamlet—childhood friends of the prince, summoned by King Claudius to spy on him. They have no independent subplot. They are given no soliloquies. They do not appear in the final scene's body count. Their function in the play is purely instrumental: they are hired to observe Hamlet, report on his madness, and eventually escort him to England with a sealed letter requesting his execution.

They are, in a word, expendable.

The Sponge Metaphor

Hamlet's "sponge" speech is one of the most damning images in the play. A sponge absorbs liquid; it has no shape of its own. It can be squeezed dry and discarded. The king "keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw, first mouthed, to be last swallowed" (Shakespeare 4.2.17–18).

This image accomplishes three things at once:

• It reveals the nature of court power: the king does not value Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as people. He values their usefulness as instruments.
• It humiliates them: they are not told they are sponges. Hamlet tells us, while they stand there. They become objects of ridicule in their own scene.
• It foreshadows their fate: they are, quite literally, squeezed dry. When Hamlet rewrites the letter, they carry their own death warrants to England and are executed without trial.

Theoretical Reading: Althusser and the Interpellated Subject

Louis Althusser's theory of ideology offers a way to understand what happens to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Althusser argues that ideology "interpellates" individuals—it hails them, calls them into being as subjects of a particular system. The "Ideological State Apparatuses" (education, family, church, media) produce subjects who internalize the values of the dominant order without coercion (Althusser 127–86).

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are interpellated by the court. They do not question why the king wants them to spy on their friend. They do not ask what will happen to Hamlet. They simply obey. Their compliance is not the result of fear—it is the result of having been raised to believe that serving power is natural.

Foucault: Power as a Dispersed Network

Michel Foucault's work on power challenges the idea that power is something one person "has" and another lacks. Power, Foucault argues, is dispersed, relational, and productive. It circulates through networks and produces the subjects who inhabit them (Foucault 98).

In Hamlet, power does not simply belong to Claudius. It circulates through the court, through the language of diplomacy, through the expectations of loyalty. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are not oppressed by a tyrant; they are shaped by a system. Their marginalization is not an accident of the plot. It is the structural condition of their existence.

Gramsci: Hegemony and the "Little People"

Antonio Gramsci's concept of cultural hegemony explains why Rosencrantz and Guildenstern never rebel. Hegemony is the process by which a dominant class secures consent rather than coercion. The subordinate classes accept the existing order because it appears natural and inevitable (Gramsci 5–23).

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern accept their marginality. They do not see themselves as victims. They see themselves as servants of the king, doing their duty. Gramsci calls this "consent"—and it is more effective than force, because it does not require the constant exercise of violence.

New Historicism: Greenblatt and Self-Fashioning

Stephen Greenblatt's Renaissance Self-Fashioning argues that in the Renaissance, identity was not a private possession but a public performance—shaped by the demands of power. To "fashion" a self was to negotiate between one's desires and the constraints of the social order (Greenblatt 1–9).

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have no self to fashion. They are pure surface, pure function. They exist only in relation to the king. When the king no longer needs them, they cease to exist.

Section 2: Modern Parallels to Corporate Power

The Sponge and the Employee

The worksheet asks us to consider how Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's fate mirrors the displacement experienced by workers in a globalized economy. The parallel is uncomfortable because it is so precise.

Consider the language of modern corporate management. Employees are called "human resources"—a phrase that reduces people to a pool of assets to be deployed and liquidated. They are "onboarded" and "offboarded." They are "rightsized" and "restructured." The vocabulary is designed to make the human cost invisible.

The sponge metaphor is not a metaphor anymore. It is a business model.

Elizabethan Court Hierarchy

• The King (Claudius)
• Lords & Advisors (Polonius)
• The Sponges (R & G)

Modern Corporate Hierarchy

• CEO & Shareholders
• Executive Management
• The "Human Resources"

Infographic: The Structural parallels between absolute monarchy and late-stage corporate capitalism. The base tier is designed for expendability.

Corporate Downsizing as Modern Marginalization

In 2023 and 2024, major technology companies—Google, Meta, Amazon, Microsoft, and others—laid off hundreds of thousands of workers. These layoffs were often announced in mass emails, delivered in brief video calls, and executed within hours. Employees who had spent years building products and systems were locked out of their accounts before they could say goodbye to colleagues.

This is the fate of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in contemporary form. The worker who is "squeezed dry" and "discarded" is not a literary device. It is a lived experience.

Real-world example

In January 2023, Google's parent company Alphabet announced 12,000 layoffs. Employees learned their fate through a system that flagged their accounts for deactivation. Some discovered they had lost their jobs when they could no longer access the company's internal directory. The sponge had been squeezed.

Globalization and Displacement

The worksheet's passage compares Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to "workers impacted by corporate downsizing and globalization." The connection is not merely metaphorical.

When multinational corporations relocate production to countries with lower labor costs, they leave behind communities that depended on those jobs. The workers are "displaced"—they become surplus, unnecessary, discardable. The corporation, like Claudius, moves on. The sponge is thrown away.

Real-world example

The closure of textile factories in North Carolina, the collapse of Detroit's auto industry, the outsourcing of call centers to India and the Philippines—these are not isolated events. They are the structural logic of global capitalism. The worker is valued only insofar as they generate profit. When they no longer do, they are discarded.

Theoretical Reading: Raymond Williams and Base/Superstructure

Raymond Williams's essay "Base and Superstructure in Marxist Cultural Theory" complicates the simple economic determinism that might reduce Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to mere products of capitalism. Williams argues that culture is not a mere reflection of the economic base; it is a site of struggle, where dominant, residual, and emergent meanings compete (Williams 3–16).

This means that the marginalization of the "little people" is not automatic. It must be reproduced—through ideology, through language, through institutions. The sponge must be taught that it is a sponge. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern must be taught that they are not heroes.

Section 3: Existential Questions in Stoppard's Reinterpretation

The iconic opening coin-toss scene from the 1990 film adaptation, establishing the characters' absurdist, powerless reality.

Giving Voice to the Voiceless

Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead does something Shakespeare does not: it gives the two courtiers their own story. But it does not make them heroes. It makes them waiters.

The play opens with the two men flipping coins. The coin lands heads 92 times in a row. This is statistically impossible—but it happens anyway. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern do not question it. They simply note it and move on. The universe is not governed by probability. It is governed by something else—something they cannot see.

The Search for Meaning in an Indifferent World

Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern spend the entire play trying to figure out what is happening to them. They do not know why they were summoned. They do not know what they are supposed to do. They do not even know who they are.

At one point, Guildenstern says:

"We're nobody special."

Later, he asks:

"Do you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it?"

These are existential questions. They are the questions of a person who has been stripped of agency, purpose, and identity. They are the questions of the sponge.

"You don't understand the humiliation of it—to be tricked out of the single assumption which makes our existence viable—that somebody is watching."

— The Player, Act 2

Why Stoppard Emphasizes Their Search for Meaning

Stoppard emphasizes their search for meaning because meaning is what power denies them. The king does not see them as people. Hamlet does not see them as people. Even the audience does not see them as people—until Stoppard forces us to.

By giving them consciousness, Stoppard makes their marginalization visible. We see them thinking, doubting, fearing, hoping. And we see all of it come to nothing. They die offstage, in a scene described only in a report. Their deaths are a footnote.

Parallel to Corporate Powerlessness

This is the experience of the modern corporate worker. You are told what to do, but not why. You are given tasks, but not context. You are evaluated on metrics you did not design. You are asked to be "passionate" about work you did not choose.

The worksheet asks: "How does this mirror the feeling of powerlessness in today's corporate environments?" The answer is: completely. The modern worker is Rosencrantz. They are Guildenstern. They are waiting for a message that will tell them what their life means, and the message never comes.

Real-World Example

The phenomenon of "quiet quitting"—employees doing the minimum required and refusing to go "above and beyond"—is a contemporary expression of Stoppard's existential theme. Quiet quitters are not lazy. They are refusing to invest meaning in a system that does not invest meaning in them. They are saying: if you treat me as a sponge, I will act like one.

Section 4: Cultural and Economic Power Structures

Shakespeare's Critique vs. Stoppard's

Shakespeare's Hamlet is a play about power. It shows how power corrupts, how it destroys, and how it uses people as instruments. But Shakespeare's critique is structural—it shows us the machinery. Stoppard's critique is existential—it shows us what it feels like to be caught in the machinery.

In Shakespeare, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are plot devices. They exist to advance the action. Their deaths are necessary for Hamlet's story. We are not invited to mourn them.

In Stoppard, they are protagonists. Their confusion, their fear, and their deaths are the story. We are forced to see them as people.

This difference matters. It is the difference between observing marginalization and experiencing it.

Theoretical Reading: Edward Said and Culture and Imperialism

Edward Said's Culture and Imperialism argues that cultural texts are not innocent. They are shaped by, and in turn shape, the power structures of empire (Said xii–xxiii). Hamlet is not about colonialism in the modern sense, but it is about the exercise of power over distant territories—England, Norway, Poland. The court of Elsinore is a site of imperial ambition, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are its functionaries.

Said's work reminds us that the marginalization of the "little people" is not incidental. It is the necessary condition of imperial power. Someone must do the dirty work. Someone must be expendable.

Stoppard and Contemporary Job Insecurity

Stoppard's play was written in 1967, but its themes are more relevant than ever. Today's workers face gig economy precarity, zero-hours contracts, and algorithmic management. They are surveilled, evaluated, and discarded by systems they do not understand.

The worksheet asks: "How might Stoppard's existential take resonate with contemporary issues of job insecurity and corporate control?" The answer is that Stoppard gives us a language for the experience of precarity. His characters are confused, anxious, and uncertain of their place in the world. So are we.

Real-World Example

In Amazon's fulfillment centers, workers are tracked by algorithms that monitor their every movement. They are given targets—"picks per hour"—that are enforced by automated systems. If they fail to meet the target, they are disciplined. If they are injured, they are replaced. These workers are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. They are given orders they do not understand, evaluated by systems they cannot see, and discarded when they are no longer useful.

Section 5: Personal Reflection

The Experience of Being a Dispensable Asset

The worksheet asks how the marginalization of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern relates to the modern experience of being seen as a dispensable "asset." I want to answer this honestly.

In modern corporate culture, we are encouraged to think of ourselves as "assets." We build "personal brands." We "add value." We "optimize" ourselves. The language is designed to make us feel empowered. But the underlying reality is different. An asset is something that can be bought, sold, and written off. An asset has value only insofar as it produces returns.

To be an asset is to be a sponge. It is to be useful, and therefore to be disposable. The moment you are no longer useful, you are squeezed dry.

What Cultural Studies Teaches Us

Cultural Studies, as Prof. Barad's worksheet suggests, is the discipline that makes this invisible machinery visible. It asks: who benefits from this arrangement? Who is silenced? Whose stories are told, and whose are forgotten?

When I read Hamlet through the lens of Cultural Studies, I do not see a tragic prince. I see a power structure that uses people as instruments. When I read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, I do not see a comedy about two bumbling courtiers. I see a tragedy about what it feels like to be used.

This is what Cultural Studies does. It de-familiarizes the familiar. It makes us see what we have been trained not to notice.

Conclusion: The Sponge and the Pawn

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are not heroes. They are not villains. They are the "little people"—the ones who make the system work, and who are discarded when they are no longer needed.

Shakespeare gives them no inner life. Stoppard gives them one, and then takes it away. Both are doing cultural studies in their own way. Both are showing us how power operates, and what it costs.

The question for us—as students of literature, as workers, as people—is whether we will recognize the sponge when we see it. And whether we will recognize ourselves.

Creative Engagement: Comparative Analysis

Shakespeare's Hamlet and Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead are separated by nearly four centuries, but they are united by a common concern: the fate of the "little people" in systems of power. Where Shakespeare shows us the machinery of power from the outside, Stoppard shows us what it feels like from the inside.

Claudius's Plot (1600s)

• 1. Identification: Hamlet is perceived as a threat to the crown.
• 2. Utilization: R & G are summoned to extract information.
• 3. Liquidation: R & G carry their own death warrants to England.

Corporate Downsizing (2020s)

• 1. Identification: A division is deemed unprofitable by executives.
• 2. Utilization: Workers are pushed to finish quarters/projects.
• 3. Liquidation: System access is revoked; workers are terminated via email.

Diagram: The structural mechanics of instrumentalizing human lives across centuries.

The difference between the two plays is the difference between structural critique and existential critique. Shakespeare shows us how power operates. Stoppard shows us what it feels like to be caught in it. Both are necessary. Both are forms of cultural studies.

What unites them is a shared insight: power is not just something that is held by the powerful. It is something that is exercised through the marginalization of the powerless. The king needs the sponge. The system needs the pawn. Without Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Claudius could not spy on Hamlet. Without the "little people," the "big decisions" could not be made.

This is the lesson that contemporary workers know all too well. We are Rosencrantz. We are Guildenstern. We are the ones who are hired, used, and discarded. And like them, we are often the last to know what is happening to us.

Works Cited

Althusser, Louis. "Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses." Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, translated by Ben Brewster, Monthly Review Press, 1971, pp. 127–86.

Foucault, Michel. Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972–1977. Edited by Colin Gordon, Pantheon, 1980.

Gramsci, Antonio. "The Intellectuals." Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci, edited and translated by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell-Smith, International Publishers, 1971, pp. 5–23.

Greenblatt, Stephen. Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare. U of Chicago P, 1980.

Guerin, Wilfred L., et al. "Cultural Studies in Practice: Two Characters in Hamlet: Marginalization with a Vengeance." A Handbook of Critical Approaches to Literature, 5th ed., Indian ed., Oxford UP, 2007, pp. 305–11.

Said, Edward W. Culture and Imperialism. Vintage, 1993.

Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. Project Gutenberg, 1999, www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1524.

Stoppard, Tom. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Grove Press, 1967.

Storey, John. Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: An Introduction. Routledge, 2018.

Williams, Raymond. "Base and Superstructure in Marxist Cultural Theory." New Left Review, vol. 1, no. 82, 1973, pp. 3–16.

The Danger of a Single Story, Feminism, and Truth: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Three Talks as a Cultural Studies Framework

Postcolonial Discourse & Cultural Studies

Prof. Dilip Barad has assigned this task on connecting the views and insights of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Three Talks with Cultural Studies and Postcolonialism.

Introduction: Who Is Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie?

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is one of the most influential writers and public intellectuals of our time. Born in Enugu, Nigeria, in 1977, she grew up in the university town of Nsukka in southeastern Nigeria, in an Igbo family. Her father was a professor of statistics and her mother was the first female registrar of the University of Nigeria. She moved to the United States at nineteen to study, and has since earned degrees from Eastern Connecticut State University, Johns Hopkins University, and Yale University.

Adichie is the celebrated author of three novels—Purple Hibiscus (2003), Half of a Yellow Sun (2006), and Americanah (2013)—as well as a collection of short stories, The Thing Around Your Neck (2009), and a book of essays, We Should All Be Feminists (2014). Her work has been translated into more than fifty-five languages, and she has received numerous awards, including the Commonwealth Writers' Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award.

But this blog is not about her novels. It is about three talks she gave over a period of nine years, each of which has become a touchstone in postcolonial studies and cultural studies classrooms around the world. The first, "The Danger of a Single Story," was delivered at TED Global in 2009. The second, "We Should All Be Feminists," was delivered at TEDxEuston in 2012. The third was her commencement address at Harvard University in 2018.

Together, these three talks form a coherent intellectual arc. They move sequentially from the politics of narrative to the politics of gender to the politics of truth. Each builds on the last. And each offers students of cultural studies a critical set of tools for analyzing how power operates through stories, through everyday practices, and through the language we use to describe reality.

This blog explores all three talks in detail, drawing out their key ideas, their real-world examples, and their connections to postcolonial and cultural studies. It also explains why Adichie's name and her talks should appear in any student assignment dealing with similar themes.

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Part One: "The Danger of a Single Story" (2009)

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie delivering "The Danger of a Single Story" at TEDGlobal 2009.

The Story of a Seven-Year-Old Writer

Adichie begins her first talk with a deceptively gentle anecdote. When she was seven years old, she started writing stories. But her stories were not about Nigeria. They were about white children with blue eyes who played in the snow, ate apples, and talked about the weather. Adichie had never seen snow. She lived in Nigeria, where mangoes were in season and the weather was not a topic of conversation because there was nothing to say about it.

Why did she write these stories? Because she had only read books by British and American authors. She had internalized the assumption that "books, by their nature, had to have foreigners in them and had to be about things with which I could not personally identify."

This changed when she discovered pioneering African writers like Chinua Achebe and Camara Laye. Suddenly she realized that "people like me, girls with skin the color of chocolate, whose kinky hair could not form ponytails, could also exist in literature." She began to write about things she recognized.

This personal story functions as a profound allegory for colonial cultural dominance. When a child learns to write stories that have nothing to do with her own life, and believes that this is what stories must be, then colonization has reached into the deepest layer of her imagination. The empire has already won. Adichie names this phenomenon: the single story.

Fide's Family: The Single Story of Poverty

Adichie then offers a second example. When she was eight, her family employed a houseboy named Fide. Her mother would tell her that Fide's family was very poor. So when Adichie visited Fide's village, she was shocked to see a beautiful patterned basket made by Fide's brother. She had only known one thing about Fide's family: that they were poor. She had never imagined they could make anything beautiful.

That, Adichie says, is what a single story does. It reduces a person, a family, a community, a nation to a single dimension. It makes poverty the only truth about Fide's family.

Mexico: The Single Story of the Immigrant

Adichie then turns this lens on herself. She admits that she too has been guilty of creating single stories. She recounts a trip to Guadalajara, Mexico, where she saw people going about their daily lives—buying food, laughing, smoking, arguing. She felt overwhelmed with shame because she had absorbed the American media's single story of Mexico. In her mind, Mexicans were "abject immigrants." She had never considered them as people with lives as complex and ordinary as her own.

This admission is crucial. Adichie does not position herself as morally superior. She shows that everyone is vulnerable to the single story. The question is not whether we have absorbed stereotypes—we almost certainly have—but whether we are willing to recognize and challenge them.

Nkali: The Igbo Word for Power

The most important turn in the talk comes when Adichie introduces an Igbo word: nkali, which translates to "to be greater than another." She argues that stories are fundamentally defined by this principle. How stories are told, who tells them, when they are told, and how many stories are told—all of this depends strictly on power.

She quotes the Palestinian poet Mourid Barghouti:

“If you want to dispossess a people, the simplest way to do it is to tell their story and to start with 'secondly.'”

Begin with the Native American's arrow, not with the arrival of the British. Begin with the failure of an African state, not with the creation of that state by colonial powers. You get a completely different story.

This is the heart of the talk. The single story is not just a cognitive error. It is a tool of power and the mechanism through which domination is maintained. Power is the ability not just to tell the story of another person but to make that story the definitive story of that person.

Stereotypes: Incomplete, Not Untrue

Adichie offers a precise formula:

“The problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.”

This is a subtle but essential point. It would be easy to say that stereotypes are lies. But Adichie argues that they are worse than lies; they are partial truths presented as complete truths. The single story of Africa as a continent of catastrophe is not entirely false—there is poverty, conflict, and corruption. But it is only one story. There are also stories of innovation, art, joy, and ordinary life. The single story makes those other stories invisible.

The Consequences of the Single Story

Adichie argues that the single story has real, destructive consequences. It "robs people of dignity. It makes our recognition of our equal humanity difficult. It emphasizes how we are different rather than how we are similar."

She gives an example: a professor once told her that her novel Americanah was not "authentically African." The professor had a single story of Africa as a place of misery, and Adichie's novel—which was funny, which had middle-class characters, which dealt with love and ambition—did not fit that story.

This is how the single story works. It disciplines those who deviate from it. It asserts: you are not really African, you are not really a woman, you are not really poor, because you do not match the preconceived story I hold of you.

The Alternative: Many Stories

Adichie does not end with despair. She concludes with a call for many stories. "Stories matter. Many stories matter. Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign, but stories can also be used to empower and to humanize."

She also warns against the "single story of the single story"—the trap of thinking that there is only one way to tell any story, including the story of resistance. She ends with a balanced statement:

“When we reject the single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.”

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Part Two: "We Should All Be Feminists" (2012)

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie delivering "We Should All Be Feminists" at TEDxEuston 2012.

"You Are a Feminist"—and It Was Not a Compliment

Adichie's second talk, delivered at TEDxEuston, begins with a story of an insult. She was fourteen years old, arguing with her friend Okoloma. He looked at her and said, "You know, you're a feminist." Adichie recalls: "It was not a compliment. I could tell from his tone—the same tone with which you would say, 'You're a supporter of terrorism.'"

Years later, a Nigerian journalist advised her not to call herself a feminist because feminists are "women who are unhappy because they cannot find husbands." So Adichie decided to playfully call herself "a happy feminist."

This opening establishes a parallel with the first talk. The word "feminist" is itself trapped in a single story. It has been reduced to a caricature: the angry woman, the man-hater, the woman who wants to be like a man. Adichie's task is to break that single story open.

Redefining Feminism

Adichie offers her own inclusive definition:

“A feminist is a man or a woman who says, yes, there's a problem with gender as it is today and we must fix it, we must do better. All of us, women and men, must do better.”

This definition is significant because it moves feminism from being "about women" to being "about gender." It is not a movement for women against men. It is a movement against the way gender roles constrain both women and men. This is a foundational cultural studies move: the problem is not biology, but social construction.

The Socialization of Shame

The most powerful section of the talk is Adichie's analysis of how girls are taught shame. She lists compelling examples:

• We teach girls that they cannot be sexual beings "in the way that boys are." If a boy has a girlfriend, his parents do not worry. If a girl has a boyfriend, "God forbid."
• We police girls constantly: "We praise girls for virginity but we don't praise boys for virginity." Adichie adds with dry humor: "I've always wondered how this is supposed to work, because the loss of virginity is usually a process that involves two people."
• After a gang rape at a Nigerian university, many young people responded: "Yes, rape is wrong. But what is a girl doing in a room with four boys?" Adichie responds: "These Nigerians have been raised to think of women as inherently guilty. And they have been raised to expect so little of men that the idea of men as savage beings without any control is somehow acceptable."
• "We teach girls shame. 'Close your legs. Cover yourself.' We make them feel as though by being born female, they are already guilty of something."

Adichie's conclusion is sharp and illuminating: "The problem is that gender prescribes how we should be rather than recognizing how we are."

Two Families, Two Models

Adichie offers two family anecdotes to illustrate an alternative. In one family, when the son is hungry, the parents tell the daughter: "Go and cook some instant noodles for your brother." The girl does not like cooking, but she is a girl, so she must. In another family, the wife and husband have the same education and the same job, but the wife does most of the housework—and when the husband changes a diaper, the wife thanks him.

Adichie asks: "What if we raised boys and girls to cook? What if we raised children to focus on ability rather than gender, on interest rather than gender?"

This is not just a call for equality. It is a call to recognize that what we call "natural" is often just "familiar." The gendered division of labor is not natural. It is constructed, repeated, and naturalized over time. Cultural studies exists precisely to denaturalize it.

From TEDx to Beyoncé

The talk went viral. In 2013, Beyoncé sampled Adichie's words in her track "***Flawless." Adichie's voice appeared on a global pop track that reached millions of listeners, many of whom had never heard the term "feminist" used in this empowering way before.

This moment is itself a fascinating case study in cultural studies: How does a radical idea travel through popular culture? What happens to it when it is absorbed into a mainstream pop song? Does it lose its edge, or does it reach people who would never otherwise encounter it? Adichie's words reached a mass audience, but they also became part of a commercial product—illustrating the double-edged sword of cultural transmission.

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Part Three: Harvard Commencement Address (2018)

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie delivering the Harvard University Class Day Address in 2018.

"The Most Important Thing: Do Not Lie"

Adichie's third talk, the Harvard University Class Day address, is different in tone from the first two. It is more personal, more reflective, and more explicitly political. She tells the graduates that if she had to give her speech a title, it would be:

“The most important thing to do is to not lie. Or, to not lie often. Which is really to say: tell the truth.”

She explains why she intentionally uses the word "lie" rather than softer terms like "misinformation" or "falsehood": because "lie" has a bodily weight—it is an uncompromising word that carries moral force.

A Nigerian Perspective on American Truth

Adichie then makes a move that is central to her postcolonial positioning. She says she grew up in Nigeria under military dictatorship and fledgling democracy, and she always thought of America as the land of truth. "When yet another absurd political event happened, we would say: 'This can never happen in America.'"

But now, she says, American political discourse contains questions that seem imported from the "absurd country." Questions like: "Should we call a lie a lie? When is a lie a lie?"

This represents a sharp reversal of the colonial gaze. The former colony looks at the former empire and finds it lacking. The "developed" world is not the model of truth; it is actively losing its grip on truth. This is postcolonial critique in its most elegant form.

The Chimichanga Story: Intent and Context

Adichie then tells a story that seems light but carries deep meaning. At an event in London, the person introducing her mispronounced her name as "Chimichanga"—a Mexican fried burrito. The introducer had clearly practiced the name but made a "very human mistake" out of anxiety.

Someone in the audience was furious, stating, "That woman should have tried harder." But Adichie disagreed, observing that "she had tried very hard." Her foundational point was clear:

“Intent matters. Context matters.”

This serves as an indispensable lesson for the "call-out culture" that dominates contemporary discourse. It is important to call out injustice and to be angry. But it is equally vital to remember context and intent. Not every mistake is an act of malice; not every mispronunciation is an intentional act of colonialism.

This does not mean abandoning accountability. It means practicing nuance and refusing the single story of every individual as either pure victim or pure oppressor.

The Courage to Admit Ignorance

Adichie also speaks about the intellectual courage to admit what we do not know. She states:

“Have the courage to say 'I don't know'... ignorance acknowledged is an opportunity; ignorance denied is a closed door.”

This connects directly back to the first talk. The single story is often sustained by the refusal to admit ignorance. If I believe I already know everything about Africa, or about women, or about poverty, then I will never ask questions or learn. The single story is a closed door.

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Connections Between the Three Talks

These three talks are not separate. They form a single argument in three movements.

From Narrative Power to Gender Power to Truth Power

The first talk is about narrative power: who tells your story, and how that story defines you. The second talk is about gender power: how everyday practices teach us to be men and women, and how those practices naturalize inequality. The third talk is about truth power: what it means to insist on truth in a political world that has given up on it.

All three are fundamentally about power. All three are about how power becomes invisible by appearing natural. The single story appears to be common sense. Gender roles appear to be biology. Lies appear to be "alternative facts." Cultural studies exists to make these invisible power structures visible again.

Personal Experience as Theory

Adichie never begins with abstract theory. She begins with lived experience. A seven-year-old writing about snow. A friend's tone of voice when he called her a feminist. A mispronounced name at a London event. These are small, concrete, human moments.

From these moments, she builds theory. This is a deliberate methodology. It embodies what feminists call "the personal is political," and what postcolonial theorists identify as "writing back" to the empire. Instead of using European theory to explain African experience, Adichie begins with African experience and lets theory grow organically from it. This method is itself an active form of resistance that refuses the single story of what academic theory should look like.

The Refusal of the Single Story of Resistance

Adichie is careful not to create a single story of resistance. In the first talk, she warns against "the single story of the single story." In the second talk, she insists that men can be feminists too. In the third talk, she refuses to treat the mispronunciation of her name as pure victimization.

This distinction is crucial. It would be easy to make Adichie into a saint of anti-colonial resistance, and to make her opponents into pure villains. She refuses that easy binary. She insists on complexity, ambiguity, and the possibility of good intentions alongside bad outcomes. This represents the mature position of cultural studies: power is not a simple binary of oppressor and oppressed, but a field of forces in which we are all implicated.

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Why Adichie Matters for Postcolonial and Cultural Studies

If you are writing a test, an exam, a presentation, or an assignment on related topics, you should use Adichie's name and refer to her talks. Here is why:

A Vocabulary for Analyzing Power

Adichie gives us an actionable vocabulary. "Single story" is a term that can be applied to any situation where one narrative dominates and suppresses others. Nkali is a term for the power that makes this possible. This vocabulary is portable: it can be applied to analyze media representation, colonial history, gender relations, and political discourse.

A Model for Intersectional Analysis

Adichie does not separate gender from race or nationality. She demonstrates how they intersect. The single story of Africa is also a gendered story. The problem with the word "feminist" is also a problem with postcolonial identity. Her work demonstrates the importance of intersectional analysis, which is a core principle of contemporary cultural studies.

A Reminder That Theory Is Not Enough

Adichie's talks are not merely theoretical; they are calls to action. She asks her audience to tell more stories, to raise children differently, and to insist on truth. Cultural studies can sometimes become detached from the world it studies. Adichie reminds us that the point is not just to interpret the world, but to change it.

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Conclusion: "Whenever You Wake Up, That Is Your Morning"

Adichie ends her Harvard speech with an Igbo proverb: "Mgbe onye tete bu ututu ya." It translates to: "However early you wake up, that is your morning."

The proverb is about time and possibility. It does not matter when you begin; what matters is that you begin.

For students of cultural studies, this is the essential challenge. It does not matter that we have absorbed single stories, or that we have internalized gender norms, or that we have lied to ourselves about the truth. What matters is that we can begin now—to tell more stories, to question more assumptions, and to insist on a more complex and honest account of the world.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's three talks are not just speeches; they are invitations. They invite us to think differently about stories, about gender, and about truth. They invite us to become "happy feminists"—people who see the problem with gender as it is and who believe we can all do better.

And they invite us, most importantly, to refuse the single story. Because when we reject the single story, and recognize that there is never only one story about any place or any person, we regain a kind of paradise.

Works Cited

Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. "The Danger of a Single Story." TED, July 2009. YouTube, uploaded by TED, www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9Ihs241zeg.

Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. "We Should All Be Feminists." TEDxEuston, Dec. 2012. YouTube, uploaded by TEDx Talks, www.youtube.com/watch?v=hg3umXU_qWc.

Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. "Harvard University Class Day Address." Harvard University, 23 May 2018. YouTube, uploaded by Harvard University, www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrAAEMFAG9E.

Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. We Should All Be Feminists. Anchor Books, 2015.

The Inverted Classroom: Teachers, Students, and the Power of Punishment in R.K. Narayan’s “Crime and Punishment”

This bog task is assigned by Dr. Megha Trivedi to examine R.K. Narayan's short story "Crime and Punishment" with some modern day applications and the examples of the same kind from different texts.

Introduction

R.K. Narayan’s short story “Crime and Punishment” is a deceptively simple tale that unfolds in the familiar domestic spaces of Malgudi, where a tuition master arrives at the home of a wealthy family to tutor their young son. Within this ordinary setting, Narayan stages a profound comedy of errors that inverts the most fundamental relationship in education: the relationship between teacher and student. 

What begins as a routine arithmetic lesson—the teacher posing a simple math question to his pupil—spirals into a psychological power struggle when the teacher, frustrated by the boy’s deliberate wrong answers, slaps him across the cheek. In that impulsive moment, the teacher commits a “crime” for which he must pay a most unusual “punishment”: he becomes the boy’s subordinate, forced to play with train sets, tell stories on demand, and flee through the garden to avoid exposure. This blog explores the dynamic roles of teachers and students in Narayan’s story, examines its major themes, and connects them to other works that explore similar terrain.

Audio narration and summary of R.K. Narayan's "Crime and Punishment".

The Story: A Teacher’s Crime and a Child’s Punishment

The plot of “Crime and Punishment” is a masterclass in narrative economy. A young boy from a well-to-do family refuses to learn arithmetic, giving deliberately wrong answers to infuriate his tutor. The teacher, “worried about the befooling tactics of the child,” wonders how the boy could ever “obtain fifty in the class test and go up by double-promotion to the first form, as his parents fondly hoped”.

The boy’s parents, who have done their degrees in Child Psychology, believe in a gentle, non-repressive approach to parenting. They declare:

“You must never set up any sort of contrariess or repression in the child’s mind. You’ll damage him for Life.”

Their philosophy is that of the modern, progressive parent—the child is “a little angel, all dimples, smiles, and sweetness—only wings lacking,” and they have filled his nursery with expensive toys and left him “to his good sense to devour them moderately”.

When the teacher finally loses his temper and slaps the boy, the child immediately recognizes his advantage. He threatens to tell his mother, and the teacher, aware that his job depends on the parents’ goodwill, begs for mercy. From this moment forward, the roles reverse. The boy commands; the teacher obeys. The story concludes with a moment of exquisite irony: when the parents come out to inquire about their son’s progress, the teacher protects the boy by saying he is doing well—an act that is simultaneously a betrayal of his professional duty and a survival strategy.

Major Themes of the Story

The Inversion of Power and the Role Reversal

The most striking theme in “Crime and Punishment” is the complete inversion of the traditional teacher-student hierarchy. In a conventional classroom, the teacher holds authority, and the student is expected to obey. In Narayan’s story, this dynamic is turned upside down. As one critical review observes:

“The teacher and the student here plays not the usual role assigned to them where as there is role reversal. One character becomes another, their actions are different from their usual selves.”

The teacher, who should be the source of discipline and learning, becomes the boy’s playmate and storyteller. The boy, who should be receptive to instruction, becomes the master of the household, dictating the terms of his tutor’s employment.

This inversion is not merely a source of comedy; it is a penetrating social critique. The teacher’s authority is contingent on the parents’ approval, and the boy understands this intuitively. His manipulation is a kind of blackmail, but it is blackmail that the system itself makes possible. When the teacher “obeys the boy in order to keep his job,” the story exposes the precarious position of those who depend on the goodwill of the wealthy for their livelihood. The crime and punishment of the title are not fixed categories—they shift and reverse as the power dynamics shift.

The Satire on Modern Parenting

Narayan’s story is also a sharp satire on over-parenting and the misuse of child psychology. The parents are well-meaning but utterly ineffectual. They have read the books and absorbed the theories, but they have no understanding of their child’s actual character. Their “modern” approach—which they believe is scientifically sound—has produced a small tyrant who knows exactly how to exploit their principles. The story can be read as “a satire on over-parenting,” in which the parents’ refusal to set boundaries “spoils the child”.

The parents’ philosophy is presented in language that is itself ironic. They declare, “We shall be bringing up a healthy citizen,” but their son is a manipulative blackmailer who threatens his tutor over a well-deserved slap. Their theories about “not setting up any sort of contrariess” in the child’s mind have paradoxically created a child who is contrarious by nature. Narayan’s satire is gentle but incisive. He does not condemn the parents; he simply shows the absurdity of their position.

The Consequences of Impulsive Action

The teacher’s slap is the story’s primal scene—the moment from which everything else follows. Narayan focuses on the consequences of this impulsive act, exploring “the thin line between disciplining and harming a child”. The slap is not a carefully considered pedagogical decision; it is a reflex born of frustration. And yet, in the world of the story, it becomes a “crime” that demands punishment. The teacher must dance to the boy’s tune, play with his train set, tell him stories, and eventually lie to his parents about his academic progress. As one analysis puts it:

“The humour and sarcasm in the story lies in the crime that the teacher committed – hitting the boy, and the punishment – dancing to the boy’s tune to avoid the parents’ wrath.”

The story raises uncomfortable questions about corporal punishment, discipline, and the exercise of authority. Is the teacher’s slap justified? Is the boy’s blackmail justified? Is the teacher’s final lie justified? Narayan does not provide easy answers. He simply shows the tangled web of guilt, fear, and self-interest in which both characters are caught.

The Power of the Weak

The boy in “Crime and Punishment” is, by any conventional measure, powerless. He is a child. He is dependent on adults. He cannot control his circumstances. And yet, by the story’s end, he controls his tutor completely. His power derives not from strength but from knowledge: he knows that his parents will take his side, and he knows that the teacher cannot afford to lose his job. This is the power of the weak—the ability to exploit the vulnerabilities of those who depend on them.

Narayan’s portrayal of the boy is remarkably nuanced. He is not a villain; he is a child who has learned to use the tools available to him. His manipulation is a survival strategy, just as the teacher’s eventual lie is a survival strategy. Both are playing the same game, but with different stakes.

The Dynamic Roles of Teachers and Students

In “Crime and Punishment,” Narayan presents us with two characters who embody opposing models of education and authority. The teacher represents the traditional model—discipline, instruction, and the expectation of obedience. The boy represents the modern model—freedom, self-expression, and the rejection of external authority. Neither model is presented uncritically. The teacher’s discipline is impulsive and violent; the boy’s freedom is selfish and manipulative. The story suggests that neither extreme is adequate to the complexity of the teacher-student relationship.

What makes the story so compelling is that it refuses to take sides. We feel sympathy for the teacher, who is just trying to do his job and earn a living. We also feel sympathy for the boy, who is trying to protect himself from a world that seems determined to impose its will upon him. And we feel a kind of amused exasperation with the parents, who are too wrapped up in their theories to see the damage they are doing.

The teacher-student relationship, Narayan suggests, is always a negotiation. It is a relationship of power, but power is never absolute. It flows in both directions. The teacher has the power to punish; the student has the power to accuse. The teacher has the power to teach; the student has the power to refuse to learn. The dance between them is endlessly complex, and Narayan captures its intricacies with humor and compassion.

Comparative Examples from Literature, Film, and Scholarship

Films

Dead Poets Society (1989): Peter Weir’s film tells the story of John Keating, an English teacher who inspires his students to “seize the day” and challenge authority. Like Narayan’s story, the film explores the tension between institutional authority and individual freedom. Keating is a charismatic teacher who builds a deep emotional bond with his students, but his methods ultimately lead to tragedy when one of his students commits suicide. The film asks us to consider the limits of a teacher’s influence and the ethical responsibilities that come with pedagogical authority. The relationship between Keating and his students is both inspiring and dangerous, much like the relationship between Narayan’s teacher and the boy.

The iconic "O Captain! My Captain!" scene from Dead Poets Society (1989), showcasing the emotional weight of pedagogical authority.

The Browning Version (1951/1994): Terence Rattigan’s play, adapted into two films, tells the story of Andrew Crocker-Harris, a classics teacher at an English public school who is nearing the end of his career. Crocker-Harris is a strict, old-fashioned teacher, feared and mocked by his students. Yet, as the play unfolds, we discover his vulnerability and his profound love for teaching. The play highlights “the attitude of a teenage student towards his teacher,” showing how a student’s respect—or lack thereof—can shape a teacher’s entire sense of self-worth. Like Narayan’s story, The Browning Version explores the emotional stakes of the teacher-student relationship and the ways in which power can be exercised with cruelty or with kindness.

A scene from The Browning Version (1994), illustrating the complex vulnerability between a strict teacher and his students.

The Teachers’ Lounge (2023): İlker Çatak’s film is set in a German middle school and explores “uneasy power dynamics, mutual suspicion and misinformation” within the school community. When a teacher discovers that a student has been stealing from the teachers’ lounge, her attempt to uncover the truth sets off a chain of events that exposes the fragility of authority and the ethical dilemmas faced by educators. The film is a powerful reminder that the classroom is never a neutral space—it is a site of competing interests, hidden agendas, and systemic inequalities.

The Class (Entre les murs, 2008): Laurent Cantet’s film, based on a semi-autobiographical novel by François Bégaudeau, offers a “truthful” portrayal of teaching as “a chaotic, frustrating, and rewarding collaboration between teacher and student, prey to as many reversals as advances”. Set in a Paris middle school, the film follows a young teacher as he struggles to connect with his mostly immigrant students. Like Narayan’s story, The Class shows how the teacher-student relationship is shaped by forces beyond the classroom—class, race, culture, and institutional power.

Novels

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (1961) by Muriel Spark: Spark’s novel tells the story of a charismatic Scottish schoolteacher who cultivates a group of favored students, molding them in her image. Miss Brodie is a teacher of “extravagantly romantic ideas about life,” and her influence over her students is both inspiring and destructive. As one scholarly analysis notes, Miss Brodie “is shown to be not only an inadequate teacher but a morally destructive one as well because she violates the teacher-student relationship by both encouraging amour-propre among her students and using those same students primarily to satisfy her own need for power and self-aggrandizement”. Like Narayan’s story, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie explores the ways in which the teacher’s power can be misused, and the lasting consequences it can have on students.

My Dark Vanessa (2020) by Kate Elizabeth Russell: Russell’s novel is a harrowing account of a student’s long-term relationship with her teacher, exploring “patterns of grooming and sexual abuse” and the “repercussions of sexually and mentally abusive teacher-student relationship”. While the subject matter is far darker than Narayan’s comic tale, the novel shares with “Crime and Punishment” a deep interest in the power imbalance that structures the teacher-student relationship. Both works show how this imbalance can be exploited, and both trace the consequences of that exploitation over time.

Trust Exercise (2019) by Susan Choi: Choi’s novel is set in a competitive performing arts high school and explores the intense, sometimes manipulative relationships between teachers and students. As the novel unfolds, it becomes clear that the teacher’s influence over his students is not innocent, and that the events of their school years continue to shape their lives decades later. Like Narayan’s story, Trust Exercise examines how the classroom can become a site of psychological manipulation and how the roles of teacher and student can become dangerously blurred.

Short Stories

“The Use of Force” by William Carlos Williams: This short story recounts a doctor’s visit to a sick child and his ultimately violent struggle to examine her throat. Like Narayan’s story, “The Use of Force” explores the moment when professional authority crosses the line into physical coercion. The narrator’s justification for his actions—that he is acting in the child’s best interest—echoes the teacher’s justification for slapping the boy. Both stories raise uncomfortable questions about the limits of authority and the ethics of using force.

“The Veldt” by Ray Bradbury: Bradbury’s classic science fiction story tells of a family whose children have become dangerously attached to a virtual reality nursery. When the parents try to take away the nursery, the children lock them inside, leaving them to be devoured by lions. The story is a satire on permissive parenting and the consequences of raising children without boundaries. Like Narayan’s story, “The Veldt” shows how parents who refuse to exercise authority can create children who exercise it ruthlessly.

Scholarly Articles

“A Challenging Vision: The Teacher-Student Relationship in The Heartbreak Kid” by Josephine May: May’s article examines the representation of teacher-student relationships in film, focusing on The Heartbreak Kid, a story about a student who falls in love with her teacher. May argues that such relationships are inherently “challenging” because they are structured by an unequal distribution of power. Her analysis is relevant to Narayan’s story, which also depicts a relationship shaped by power imbalances.

“Questions of (Re)production and Legitimation: A Second Screening of Three Films on Teacher-Student Relations” by T. Gale and K. Densmore: This study considers three Hollywood films that take as their subject a “teacher-hero” confronted with a “problem” class. The authors argue that these films reproduce and legitimate certain ideologies about education, race, and class. Their analysis provides a useful framework for understanding how Narayan’s story, too, participates in broader cultural conversations about the purpose of education and the role of the teacher.

“R.K. Narayan’s ‘Crime and Punishment’: A Study of Ironic Humor”: Various scholarly analyses have noted Narayan’s use of irony and humor to explore serious themes. One critical study observes that the story “explores the child-adult relationship in a modern society where the parents are economically sound enough to hire the services of a private tutor at rupees thirty a month to ensure the better academic performance of their child”. This reading highlights the economic dimensions of the teacher-student relationship, showing how class and money shape the dynamics of the classroom.

Conclusion

R.K. Narayan’s “Crime and Punishment” is a small story with large implications. It shows us that the teacher-student relationship is never simple, never fixed, and never fully under anyone’s control. The teacher who slaps his student becomes the student’s servant; the student who is slapped becomes the teacher’s master. The parents who believe in gentle parenting raise a child who is anything but gentle. And the story ends not with resolution but with a kind of precarious equilibrium—a lie that protects both teacher and student, and a truth that neither can afford to speak.

The story’s enduring power lies in its refusal to moralize. Narayan does not tell us who is right or wrong. He simply shows us two people caught in a system that makes them both vulnerable. The teacher is vulnerable because he needs the job; the boy is vulnerable because he is a child. Their relationship is a negotiation, and in a negotiation, both sides must give something up. The teacher gives up his authority; the boy gives up his honesty. And the parents, wrapped in their theories, give up nothing at all—because they never even see that a struggle is taking place.

In the end, “Crime and Punishment” is a story about the comedy and tragedy of education. It reminds us that teaching is never just about transmitting knowledge; it is about managing power, negotiating boundaries, and navigating the messy, unpredictable terrain of human relationships. And it reminds us that the classroom, however small, is a mirror of the world beyond it—a place where the weak can become strong, the strong can become weak, and the line between crime and punishment is never as clear as we would like it to be.

Works Cited

Choi, Susan. Trust Exercise. Henry Holt and Co., 2019.

Gale, T., and K. Densmore. “Questions of (Re)production and Legitimation: A Second Screening of Three Films on Teacher-Student Relations.” Journal of Educational Administration and History, vol. 39, no. 2, 2007, pp. 145–162.

May, Josephine. “A Challenging Vision: The Teacher-Student Relationship in The Heartbreak Kid.” Journal of Educational Administration and History, vol. 41, no. 2, 2009, pp. 135–152.

Narayan, R.K. “Crime and Punishment.” Under the Banyan Tree and Other Stories, Indian Thought Publications, 2001, pp. 170–178.

Russell, Kate Elizabeth. My Dark Vanessa. William Morrow, 2020.

Spark, Muriel. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Macmillan, 1961.

The Browning Version. Directed by Anthony Asquith, performances by Michael Redgrave and Jean Kent, Javelin Films, 1951.

The Class. Directed by Laurent Cantet, Sony Pictures Classics, 2008.

The Teachers’ Lounge. Directed by İlker Çatak, Sony Pictures Classics, 2023.

Dead Poets Society. Directed by Peter Weir, performances by Robin Williams, Touchstone Pictures, 1989.

Worksheet: Screening of the Short Film “An Astrologer’s Day” Based on R.K. Narayan’s “An Astrologer’s Day”

Dr. Megha Trivedi has assigned this task on anaysing and comparing Narayan's short story and its cinamatic adaptation. This activity is based on this woksheet.

Introduction

R.K. Narayan’s “An Astrologer’s Day” is a masterclass in short fiction—a story that achieves in a few pages what many novels struggle to accomplish in hundreds. Published in 1947 as the titular story of Narayan’s fourth collection, it follows a day in the life of an unnamed astrologer in the fictional South Indian town of Malgudi who is not what he appears to be. The story is a thriller, a comedy of manners, and a profound meditation on guilt, fate, and the ironies of existence, all rolled into one. When Pocket Films adapted this story into a short film, directed and produced by Sushant Bhat, it brought Narayan’s words to visual life. This blog is a response to a worksheet assigned as part of our coursework, and it engages with the post-viewing questions that ask us to critically examine the relationship between the original text and its cinematic adaptation.

The worksheet asks us to consider fidelity, perception, aesthetic delight, understanding, perfect moments, and directorial choices. In what follows, I have tried to answer each question with reference to both Narayan’s prose and Bhat’s film, using MLA citations. My aim is not simply to compare the two works but to explore how each medium illuminates the other—and how the act of adaptation itself becomes a way of reading.

"An Astrologer's Day" — The acclaimed Hindi short film adaptation by Pocket Films, directed by Sushant Bhat.

1. How Faithful is the Film to the Story?

Plot and Characters Preserved

The short film adaptation by Pocket Films is, on the whole, remarkably faithful to R.K. Narayan’s original short story. It preserves the essential plot, the central characters, the setting of Malgudi’s market, and the pivotal encounter between the astrologer and Guru Nayak. The film captures the atmosphere of the story—the dimly lit marketplace with its hissing gaslights and naked flares, the astrologer’s saffron turban and his makeshift equipment, and the tense, confrontational dialogue that drives the narrative toward its revelation. The core of the story—that the astrologer is a fraud who has been running from a past crime, and that his past literally walks up to him one evening in the form of the man he thought he had killed—remains intact.

The Challenge of Ironic Narration

However, fidelity in adaptation is never a simple matter of transcription. Even when a film follows the plot of its source material closely, it inevitably makes choices that reshape the story’s meaning. The short story is a work of verbal irony, narrated by an omniscient third-person voice that constantly undercuts the astrologer’s pretensions. The narrator tells us directly that the astrologer “had not the least knowledge of the stars” and that he depended “solely on his wits” (Narayan). This ironic distance is central to the story’s effect. In the film, this irony must be conveyed through performance, cinematography, and editing rather than through a narratorial voice. The actor playing the astrologer must embody both the outward confidence of a man who appears to know the future and the inner terror of a man who knows he is a fraud. To the film’s credit, it manages this balancing act reasonably well, particularly in the close-up shots during the encounter with Guru Nayak, where the astrologer’s face registers the shock of recognition before he composes himself.

Humour and the Limits of the Medium

That said, there are moments where the film does not quite capture the layered irony of Narayan’s prose. The story’s humor—which is gentle, wry, and deeply human—is more difficult to translate to the screen. Narayan’s narrator observes the astrologer’s customers with a kind of amused compassion, noting how the astrologer “knew there were certain vague statements that would stroke the ego of any individual” (Narayan). The film, by contrast, often plays the market scenes more straightforwardly, without the narrator’s knowing wink. This is not a flaw so much as a limitation of the medium. Cinema excels at showing; it struggles to convey the kind of ironic commentary that prose can deliver effortlessly.

Compression of Backstory and Softened Themes

Another point of departure is the treatment of the astrologer’s backstory. In the story, the narrator provides a brief but crucial account of the astrologer’s youth—his refusal to become a farmer like his ancestors, his flight from his village, and the vague suggestion of a misdeed that prompted his departure. The film, working within the constraints of a short runtime, tends to show rather than tell this backstory. This is effective in its own way, but it means that some of the story’s thematic resonance—the tension between fate and free will, the idea that the astrologer is both a victim and an agent of his own destiny—is somewhat softened. The story invites us to reflect on the nature of guilt and the possibility of redemption; the film, more focused on the suspense of the encounter, leaves less room for that reflection.

Faithful to the Letter, Partial to the Spirit

In summary, the film is faithful to the letter of Narayan’s story but only partially faithful to its spirit. It preserves the plot and the characters, but the ironic, philosophical dimensions of the original are more fully realized on the page than on the screen. This is not a criticism of the filmmakers—it is simply an acknowledgment that adaptation is always a process of translation, and some things are lost in the journey from one medium to another.

2. Have Your Perceptions Changed After Watching the Film?

From Clever Thriller to Emotional Drama

Watching the short film did change my perception of the story in several subtle but significant ways. When I first read “An Astrologer’s Day,” I was struck primarily by its cleverness—the ingenious plot twist, the way Narayan withholds information until the final paragraphs, and the satisfying irony of the astrologer using his wits to escape the very past he has been fleeing. The story felt, above all, like a well-crafted piece of entertainment, a thriller in miniature.

The film, however, made me more acutely aware of the story’s emotional undercurrents. Seeing the astrologer’s face when he recognizes Guru Nayak—the flash of terror, the desperate attempt to maintain composure—brought home the psychological weight of his situation. In the story, the astrologer’s fear is described, but in the film, it is felt. The performance made me realize that this is not just a clever man who has stumbled into a dangerous situation; he is a man who has been living with guilt and dread for years. Every day at his stall, he has been performing not just for his customers but for himself, maintaining the fiction that he has escaped his past.

The Astrologer as a Sympathetic Figure

This changed my perception of the astrologer as a character. In the story, he can come across as somewhat of a rogue—a conman who exploits the gullibility of his customers for profit. The film, by giving us access to his inner turmoil through facial expressions and body language, made him more sympathetic. I began to see him as a man trapped by his own choices, someone who has built an entire life on a lie and is now forced to confront the consequences. His fraudulence is not simply a matter of opportunism; it is a survival strategy, a way of avoiding the fate he fled from.

Guru Nayak: More Than a Menace

The film also changed my perception of the encounter with Guru Nayak. In the story, this scene is tense and dramatic, but it is also somewhat abstract—we are told about the astrologer’s fear, but we do not see it. In the film, the physicality of the confrontation is palpable. Guru Nayak’s aggression, the way he grabs the astrologer, the claustrophobic framing of the shots—all of this made the scene feel more immediate and more dangerous. I found myself holding my breath, even though I knew how the story would end.

Irony Deepened, Not Diminished

One perception that did not change, however, was my appreciation for Narayan’s irony. If anything, the film deepened my awareness of how central irony is to the story. The astrologer’s profession—claiming to know the future—is itself an irony, since he cannot even predict his own. His escape from Guru Nayak is achieved not through any supernatural insight but through quick thinking and a convenient lie. The film captures this irony in its own way, particularly in the final scene where the astrologer returns home to his wife and the ordinary rhythms of domestic life. After the drama of the marketplace, the quiet of his home feels like a kind of grace—a respite, however temporary, from the fear that has defined his existence.

3. Did You Feel Aesthetic Delight While Watching the Film?

Defining Aesthetic Delight

Yes, I did feel a sense of aesthetic delight while watching the film, though it occurred at unexpected moments rather than during the dramatic climax. Aesthetic delight, as I understand it, is that feeling of pleasure and satisfaction that arises when a work of art achieves a kind of harmony—when form and content, style and substance, come together in a way that feels inevitable and right.

The Marketplace Opening

The first moment of aesthetic delight came during the opening scenes of the marketplace. The film does a beautiful job of capturing the sensory texture of Narayan’s Malgudi—the flickering gaslights, the crowded stalls, the hum of conversation, the smell of groundnuts roasting. There is a particular shot of the astrologer’s stall at dusk, with the light from a nearby flare casting long shadows across his charts and his saffron turban glowing in the semi-darkness, that felt utterly true to the spirit of the story. It was as if the film had reached into my imagination and pulled out the image I had formed when reading Narayan’s description of the “light of a flare which crackled and smoked up above the groundnut heap nearby” (Narayan). That moment of recognition—of seeing something you have only imagined made concrete and beautiful—is a form of aesthetic delight.

The Close-Up After the Prophecy

The second moment came during the encounter between the astrologer and Guru Nayak, specifically in the pause after the astrologer delivers his prophecy. There is a long, lingering close-up of the astrologer’s face as he waits to see whether his gamble has paid off. The actor’s expression is a masterclass in restraint—a flicker of hope, a trace of fear, a desperate calm. In that moment, the film achieves something that the story can only suggest: the sheer precariousness of the astrologer’s existence, the way his entire life hangs on a single performance. It is a moment of visual poetry that deepened my appreciation for the story.

The Use of Silence

There was also aesthetic delight in the film’s use of sound—or, more precisely, in its use of silence. During the tense exchange with Guru Nayak, the ambient sounds of the market fade into the background, and we are left with the two men’s voices and the heavy silence between their words. This use of silence creates a sense of intimacy and danger that is difficult to achieve in prose. It made the scene feel more like a stage play than a film, in the best possible sense.

Minor Shortcomings

That said, there were also moments where the film did not quite achieve aesthetic delight. Some of the transitions between scenes felt abrupt, and the pacing in the middle section dragged slightly. But these are minor quibbles. On the whole, the film is a sensitive and visually evocative adaptation that captures much of what makes Narayan’s story so enduring.

4. Does the Film Help You Better Understand the Story?

Making Malgudi Tangible

Yes, screening the film did help me better understand the short story, though not always in the ways I expected. Reading a story and watching a film adaptation are two very different experiences, and each can illuminate aspects of the other that might otherwise remain hidden. The most significant way the film helped me understand the story was by making the setting tangible. Narayan’s Malgudi is vividly described in the story, but it is still an imagined place—a product of the reader’s imagination guided by the author’s words. The film gave me a concrete visual reference for that setting: the narrow streets, the crowded market, the makeshift stalls, the quality of light at dusk. This visual grounding helped me appreciate the story’s atmosphere more fully. When I re-read the story after watching the film, I found that the descriptions felt richer and more immediate because I now had images to attach to them.

Humanizing Guru Nayak

The film also helped me understand the characters better, particularly Guru Nayak. In the story, Guru Nayak is described as a “stranger” who is “clearly aggressive and rude” (Narayan). But he remains somewhat of a cipher—we learn about his past with the astrologer only through the astrologer’s own account, which is itself unreliable. The film, by giving Guru Nayak a face and a voice, made him more of a presence. I could see his anger, his desperation, his stubborn determination to find the man who had wronged him. This made the encounter more emotionally complex. It is not simply a confrontation between a conman and a victim; it is a meeting between two men who are both, in their own ways, trapped by the past.

Revealing Narrative Economy

Finally, the film helped me appreciate the story’s structure more fully. Narayan’s story is a masterclass in narrative economy—every detail, every line of dialogue, serves a purpose. The film, by necessity, has to expand certain scenes and compress others, and this process of adaptation made me more aware of the choices Narayan made. Why does the story begin with the description of the marketplace rather than with the astrologer’s backstory? Why does the encounter with Guru Nayak take place at the end of the day, when the astrologer is tired and ready to go home? These structural decisions, which I might have taken for granted when reading the story, became more visible to me through the film’s adaptation.

The Film as Companion, Not Substitute

That said, the film cannot replace the story. There are dimensions of Narayan’s prose—its irony, its narrative voice, its philosophical reflections—that cannot be fully captured on screen. The film is a companion to the story, not a substitute. It illuminates certain aspects of the text while leaving others in shadow. The ideal experience, I think, is to engage with both: to read the story, watch the film, and then return to the story with new eyes.

5. Was Any Scene or Moment Perfect?

The Recognition Scene in the Story

If I had to identify a single moment that was perfect—in the sense of achieving a kind of artistic completeness that leaves nothing to be desired—it would be the moment of recognition between the astrologer and Guru Nayak. In the story, this moment is rendered with extraordinary economy:

“The astrologer felt very uncomfortable. ‘Here, take your money back. I won’t tell you anything. I am not in the humor for it,’ he said, and tried to rise. But the other caught him by the wrist and said, ‘You must not go. You must stay here. I have come to you after a long search. You are the only person who can help me.’” (Narayan)

Why Compression Works

This passage is perfect in its simplicity. The astrologer’s discomfort, his desperate attempt to escape, Guru Nayak’s physical restraint—all of it is conveyed in a few lines. Narayan does not need to explain what the astrologer is feeling; we can infer it from his actions. And Guru Nayak’s line—“I have come to you after a long search”—is laden with dramatic irony, because we do not yet know that the search is for the astrologer himself.

The Recognition Scene in the Film

In the film, this moment is also handled beautifully. The actor playing the astrologer conveys the shock of recognition with a subtle widening of the eyes, a slight stiffening of the body. It is a moment of pure cinema—emotion expressed through gesture rather than dialogue. The camera holds on his face for a beat longer than is comfortable, allowing us to feel his fear. What makes this scene perfect, in both the story and the film, is its compression. Everything that the story has been building toward—the astrologer’s hidden past, his fear of being discovered, the irony of his profession—converges in this single moment. It is a testament to Narayan’s skill as a storyteller that he can achieve so much with so little.

The Ending: A Study in Contrast

Another moment that I found perfect, particularly in the film, was the ending. In the story, after the encounter with Guru Nayak, the astrologer returns home to his wife. The final paragraph is a small masterpiece of understated emotion. The film adds a moment of domestic tenderness that is not in the story. This change works well on screen, but it slightly alters the tone. The story’s ending is more ambiguous, more ironic. The film’s ending is warmer, more comforting. Both are effective in their own way, but the story’s ending feels more true to Narayan’s vision.

6. What Changes Would You Make as Director?

If I were directing a remake of “An Astrologer’s Day,” I would approach the adaptation with a deep respect for Narayan’s text while also recognizing that cinema is a different medium with its own possibilities. My goal would be to create a film that is not merely a faithful transcription of the story but a genuine interpretation—a work that captures the spirit of Narayan’s vision while using the tools of cinema to explore new dimensions of the narrative.

Narrative Structure

The first change I would make concerns the narrative structure. Narayan’s story is told in a linear fashion, with the narrator providing exposition about the astrologer’s past at strategic moments. In a film, this kind of exposition can feel heavy-handed. I would instead use visual storytelling to convey the astrologer’s backstory—perhaps through brief, impressionistic flashbacks that are woven into the present-day narrative. A quick shot of a young man fleeing a village, a knife glinting in the dark, a body falling—these images could convey the essential information without slowing down the pace.

The Astrologer’s Wife

I would also expand the role of the astrologer’s wife. In the story, she appears only at the end, and she functions primarily as a device to reveal the astrologer’s thoughts. In the film, I would give her more presence—perhaps showing her at home, waiting, worrying, wondering about the man she married. This would add emotional depth to the story and make the ending more resonant. The astrologer’s secret would then be not just his own burden but a shadow that hangs over their entire household.

Guru Nayak

Another change I would make concerns the character of Guru Nayak. In the story, he is a menacing figure, but he is also somewhat one-dimensional. He wants revenge, and that is all we know about him. In the film, I would give him more complexity. I would show glimpses of his life before the encounter—perhaps his own struggles, his own losses, the way his obsession with revenge has consumed him. This would make the confrontation more morally ambiguous. Who is the villain here, and who is the victim? Narayan’s story resists easy answers, and the film should do the same.

Visual Style

Visually, I would want to create a film that feels both timeless and specific. Narayan’s Malgudi is a place out of time—it could be any small town in India, in any era. But it is also deeply rooted in the culture and geography of South India. I would work with a cinematographer to create a visual style that evokes the heat, the dust, the colors, and the textures of that world. I would use natural light wherever possible, and I would avoid the temptation to make the film look “cinematic” in a glossy, artificial way. The story’s power comes from its ordinariness, and the film should reflect that.

Sound Design

I would also pay careful attention to sound design. Narayan’s story is full of sounds—the hissing of gaslights, the crackling of flares, the hum of the marketplace, the silence between words. These sounds are not just background; they are part of the story’s texture. In the film, I would use sound to create a sense of place and to heighten the tension during the encounter with Guru Nayak. The moment when the ambient noise fades and we are left with just the two men’s voices—that is the moment the audience should feel the gravity of the situation.

The Ending

Finally, I would resist the urge to resolve the story’s ambiguities. Narayan’s story ends with a lie that may or may not be discovered, a guilt that may or may not be redeemed, a future that remains uncertain. A lesser filmmaker might be tempted to tie up these loose ends, to give the audience a clear resolution. I would do the opposite. I would leave the ending open, allowing the audience to sit with the discomfort of not knowing. That discomfort is the story’s gift, and the film should honor it.

Conclusion

R.K. Narayan’s “An Astrologer’s Day” is a story that rewards repeated engagement. Each reading reveals new layers of irony, new depths of feeling. The short film adaptation by Pocket Films is a worthy companion to the story—not a replacement, but an interpretation that brings its own insights and pleasures. Together, the story and the film illuminate each other, allowing us to see Narayan’s masterpiece from multiple angles.

The worksheet questions have guided me through a process of reflection that has deepened my appreciation for both the text and the adaptation. I have come to see that fidelity in adaptation is not a simple matter of matching the source material scene for scene. It is, rather, a matter of capturing the spirit of the original—its tone, its themes, its emotional truths—while also embracing the possibilities of the new medium. The Pocket Films adaptation does this admirably, even if it does not achieve perfection. It is a film that respects its source, engages with it creatively, and invites us to return to the story with fresh eyes.

A complete literary breakdown and thematic analysis of R.K. Narayan's classic short story.

In the end, what makes “An Astrologer’s Day” so enduring is its universality. The story is set in a specific place and time, but its themes—guilt, fear, the desire for redemption, the ironies of fate—are timeless and universal. Whether we encounter the astrologer on the page or on the screen, we recognize something of ourselves in his predicament. We are all, in our own ways, performing identities, hiding secrets, hoping that the past will not catch up with us. And we are all, in our own ways, searching for a moment of grace—a moment when the burden of our secrets is lifted, and we can go home.

Works Cited

Narayan, R.K. “An Astrologer’s Day.” Malgudi Days, Penguin Books, 1984, pp. 1–8.

“An Astrologer’s Day.” Directed by Sushant Bhat, Pocket Films, 2018. YouTube. Accessed 14 Sept. 2026.