DharmaKuthanur

Attempts to ban a book always backfire and end up making the writer and their works more popular. That’s certainly the case with Perumal Murugan, the brilliant Tamil writer whose books have only recently been translated into English, published in the West and as a result expanded his readership well beyond his devoted Tamil readership base. Most of this followed the controversy about his book “One Part Woman” (“Maadhorubaagan” in Tamil). And that’s how I discovered Perumal Murugan, for which I am eternally grateful. The critical success of “One Part Woman” was followed soon by the publication in the west of “The Story of a Goat” and most recently “Pyre”.

On the surface, these three books explore very different themes, but the essence of all these books is the same – the challenge of breaking free of social strictures and how difficult it is to do in closed societies bound by age old traditions – based on caste and gender – and where opportunities to break free and even ways to Imagine an alternate way of existence are non-existent. In “One Part Woman”, it’s about a childless couple who love each other passionately and are blissfully happy in each other’s company, but are tormented by social norms and expectations around bearing children and driven to extreme measures and driven apart from each other as a result. The deceptively simple and subversive “The Story of a Goat” can be interpreted as a social satire about the complete lack of control that women (especially in, but not only limited to, rural India) have over the course of their lives while being expected to constantly give and get nothing in return. And “Pyre”, probably the darkest of his books, partly because it’s set in near contemporary times, is the same old story of forbidden love across caste boundaries that’s been told in countless Indian movies and stories. But Murugan’s telling is uniquely powerful and deeply moving – both because of the sublime way in which he captures the love the couple have for each other and the utter inability and refusal of society and family to even afford a hint of recognition of that love, let alone acceptance.

Murugan’s depiction of true love between a married couple is perhaps the most tender I have come across on a printed page – the ways in which he captures their thoughts and emotions while vesting each of them with agency (to the extent they can exercise it), his description of physical intimacy in a rural setting, about unwavering love coexisting with second thoughts about alternate paths their lives could have taken, while being true to their background and circumstances. In Murugan’s world, it’s not education or class that’s sets the protagonists apart and makes them question traditional ways. It’s just their innate human urge to be themselves and chart independent paths that ever so slightly depart from social expectations. The protagonists in these stories are not revolutionaries. They don’t even make any conscious attempts to fight against the social strictures that constrain them. They do that by being themselves and wanting society, often naively, to accept them as they are – and that’s what makes the stories such powerful indictments of traditional societies and their rigid hierarchies. As Saroja, the female protagonist, says to herself in “Pyre”: “At first glance, this village looked like it was made of a few houses surrounded by a large expanse of land, and that anything could easily enter and get around. But that was an illusion. In truth, not even the wind from elsewhere could enter this space. The air in these parts had circulated within the confines of this space and had turned poisonous.” Closed societies, closed minds – even the smallest expression of independence from social norms is a threat to the established order that must be stamped out of existence.

Even a small town, just down the road from the village in “Pyre”, seems to offer a refuge from the poisonous air of the village. Hearts and minds open up with some separation from the suffocating embrace of caste and community. Saroja yearns for a life away from the village but Kumaresan isn’t ready, naively hoping for acceptance from family and community. In “One Part Woman”, Kali’s free-spirited uncle, Nallayan, provides the contrast. Nallayan doesn’t see the point of getting married and having kids, and leads a carefree life dismissive of social expectations. Kali admires him and wishes he could be like him but isn’t able to muster the courage to go all the way and emulate him.

While both “Pyre” and “One Part Woman” have a loving couple in the center of the stories, Murugan leaves no doubt as to who bears the brunt of the social ostracization and emotional cruelty – it’s the women. In “One Part Woman”, Ponna is socially ostracized and blamed for all sorts of problems for the “sin” of being a barren woman. In “Pyre”, Saroja is subject to ridicule using the age-old tropes of a witch or whore (or both) who ensnared the good local boy.

Murugan beautifully captures the rhythms, language patterns and the landscapes of rural Tamilian life. His writing lays bare his intimacy and deep-rooted connection with the land, the people and their ways of life. The conversations are simple and direct, whether it’s describing tender feelings or directing venom and innuendo at someone. But don’t come to these pages expecting idyllic depictions of the beauty and simplicity of village life. Murugan is unsparing in his depiction of the cruelty of these closed societies bound by tradition and superstition and intolerant of even the smallest transgression. Not for him any sentimental nods to a sudden social awakening and transformation; he intends to describe things the way they are, and not what he wishes them to be. And he is equally unsparing in describing the harshness and scarcity of the land and the daily struggle to stay alive for many. The description of the slow descent into famine-like conditions in “The Story of a Goat” and how both people and animals try to adapt to it is profoundly moving, even if it’s all described through the eyes of the goat.

Finally a note about the superb translations by Aniruddhan Vasudevan (“One Part Woman” and “Pyre”) and N.Kalyan Raman (“The Story of a Goat”). Even through the English translations, the pages come alive and one can vividly conjure images of the characters involved, their emotional states and the physical setting. I am sure some of Murugan’s works have been translated into English even before the controversy around “One Part Woman”. But almost certainly it’s the raised profile thanks to the controversy that has led to publication of his books in the west, providing this deeply insightful window into rural Tamil society and culture, and the broader human condition for all of us. I wonder how many more such works of profound wisdom remain hidden from those of us who depend on English translations to get access to them.