Perumal Murugan: Strengthened by exile, sharpened by silence

In March 2015, two months after the accomplished Tamil writer Perumal Murugan announced his ‘death’ on Facebook, he wrote a poem titled ‘Divine Tongue’. Beginning with the grim statement, “I am angry enough/ to sing a song of curses at all of you,” the poem evoked the distraught mental state of a quiet man who found himself in a crucible while also having to wear a crown.

The controversy around Murugan’s novel Madhorubhagan , published in English as One Part Woman , put him in a precarious position. Accused of insulting the sentiments of the residents of Tiruchengode, Murugan faced threats to life and limb from extremist right-wing caste groups that demanded a ban on the book. In equal measure, he had to endure the mantle of the fabled writer who spoke truth to power, a mantle thrust on him by outraging intellectuals, concerned readers, and anyone looking for a hero. But the grandeur of ideas such as heroes and miracles pales against the bitter price they exact. Murugan chose to survive instead.

In the preface to his latest novel, Poonachi , orThe Story of a Black Goat , he admits he is “fearful of writing about humans; even more fearful of writing about gods.” But with the pragmatism of a survivor and the infinite tenderness of a poet, Murugan has crafted a sharp political novel that questions the wisdom of the lessons we learn in adversity, when we are unable to move beyond the adversity itself. At a crucial juncture in the book, a character asks helplessly, “What do we gain from such understanding?”

Poonachi Or The Story of a Black Goat;Perumal Murugan;Translated by N Kalyan Raman;Westland/Context;Fiction

Poonachi is Murugan’s first novel since his self-imposed exile. On the surface, it is a profoundly moving tale of a black goat raised by a poor farmer and his wife. Set in a nameless village that is similar to the semi-arid landscapes of his previous novels, the story begins with an old farmer who wishes to add one more goat to his small herd. Almost as if in response, he is presented with a tiny goat kid by a stranger, who informs him that she is a miracle, a label for which she would be both loved and reviled at different points in her life.

The old man’s wife, surprised by the arrival of the kitten-sized goat, names her Poonachi in the memory of a cat she once had. Poonachi becomes a part of the household, enjoying a greater degree of autonomy and attention than the other goats. The plot follows her through critical moments in her childhood and adulthood; from her daily struggle to feed from does unwilling to suckle orphans, to discovering the delirious freedom that comes with straying from the herd and being lost, to the insurmountable pain of losing love to reasons she cannot fathom. The narrative voice shifts between the old man, his wife, and Poonachi to reveal gradients of power and powerlessness in lives circumscribed by an unyielding climate and an equally severe political regime.

Goats are recurring characters in Murugan’s fiction. He explains in the preface that he chose to write about goats since they are “problem-free, harmless, energetic.” In Seasons of the Palm , his masterful novel about young goatherds belonging to the untouchable Chakkili caste, the cheerful abandon of the animals provided a perfect foil for the beleaguered children, who were weighed down by everyday caste brutalities and a rapidly vanishing childhood. In Poonachi , only the goats are referred to by their names; the humans, the places, and the regime are unnamed and unspecified, but nevertheless described in meticulous detail. The resulting narrative is, therefore, culturally and temporally portable. For instance, the section where the villagers discuss why they have to stand in queue outside a government office under the ruthless midday sun, provides valuable commentary on contemporary events such as demonetisation and the moral exercise of waiting in line meekly because soldiers were defending our borders elsewhere.

Even if one wanted to read the story just for what it is, it is still hard not to read the author’s anguish in Poonachi . The book is informed by anger at the ineradicable violence in the systems by which we make sense of our place in the world, as is evidenced in the line “He thought furiously about the things he had to do for continued survival.” Yet, the anger cannot prevail over the tenderness with which Murugan handles his subjects.

Poonachi marks the return of a formidable voice, strengthened by exile, sharpened by silence. Things that are forged in fires do not wilt under the sun. Perumal Murugan is here to remain.

Rihan Najib is a Delhi-based writer