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The Gypsy Goddess
When women take to protest, there is no looking back. Sometimes it is over working conditions, other times, perhaps, a strike for higher wages. And so, in a hungry, back-broken community of villages in Tamil Nadu, a group of rural workers begin to defy their landlords. The landlords, in turn, vow to violently crush them. But these punishments only serve to strengthen the villagers' resistance - after all, when starvation is the only option, what else is there to lose...?
281 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2014
77 people are currently reading
1858 people want to read
About the author
Meena Kandasamy
32 books810 followersDR MEENA KANDASAMY is a poet-activist with over 200,000 followers. She has been translated into more than 20 languages. Her previous novel, When I Hit You, was shortlisted for the Women's Prize. Her viral poetry collection, Ms Militancy, is a symbol of feminist rebellion across India. In 2022, Meena was awarded the PEN Germany Prize for being a "fearless fighter for human rights.” She has two sons.
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March 11, 2018
In a small village called Kilvenmani, in the Nagapattinam district in Tamil Nadu, on 25th December 1968, 44 men, women and children, or should we say 42 (+2 silent), were brutally massacred, burnt, hacked, call it what you may, annihilated for asking their rights. They threw stones in their defense. They didn't have guns. They didn't even have enough food. Or clothes. They were just looking for basic rights with some respect. But because they couldn't defend themselves against their powerful masters, a holocaust happened.
Meena Kandasamy's pen doesn't wear a veil of decorum. She doesn't have time for it. She has to tell a story. She doesn't shy away from quoting the exact details of the wounds found on the bodies of all 42 (+2 silent) corpses. The pen sometimes assumes a screeching staccato, like shards and heartbeats, and sometimes spirals into long sentences, winding, convoluting, lost like some people in the story.
This fatal flaw in her prose follows her faithfully
She puts dramatics where necessary (or not). But she doesn't strive hard for authenticity. She gives clichéd dialogs to her characters,
If you can't be men, wear bangles
Because life is effing clichéd, isn’t it? And then she suddenly breaks the monotony and thunders ragingly.
Carrying the tales of their cunts and their cuntrees and their cuntenants, women cross all hurdles, talk in circles, burst into tears, break into cheers, teach a few others, take new lovers, become earth mothers, question big brothers, breathe state secrets, fuck all etiquette and turn themselves into the truth-or-dare pamphleteer who will interfere at the frontier. And in these rao-as-trap times, they perceive the dawn of the day and they start saying their permitted say.
So, when there is an old landowner who is a bad money-lender, they don't sit still, they start the gossip mill. And it is the holy writ: women don't crib on shit, 'cause they don't ask for it. The logic is clear: he looked for trouble, now they'll burst his bubble. They bitch without a hitch; speak non-stop like monsoon frogs. Then they plot their foolproof plan, they make their effigy man.
This is how the season of protest began.
Meena Kandasamy's writing is a force to reckon with. It holds power of its own. It hits you where it has to. It is haphazard so you have no idea where and when and how it’d hit you next. Sometimes you want to sit her down and shake her up and tell us why, why this? But then she answers it, almost methodically. She is not our traditional storyteller. The story she wants to tell is not an ordinary story even if it is now hidden behind the curtains of a not-so-long-ago history. Everyone has almost forgotten everything about it. Some ignorant fools like me didn't even know about it until 'The Gypsy Goddess' happened.
We, as a human race, are a terrible disappointment.
Now wait for some optimists to come and tell me, how we are not so horrible, how we have invented some beautiful things around, how we are so intelligent and full of sentiments, and then allow me to thrust this book in their hands and ask them how many lives do they think we trampled over while glossing about everything that looks so beautiful in their eyes. How many lives has this 'caste monster' devoured to come to a point where one feels almost proud about atrocities? Hah. We can be sickening.
Meena divides the book in four parts. Background, Breeding Ground, Battleground and Burial Ground. She uses different formats for different chapters. Sometimes it is a memorandum submitted to the CM of Madras by the head of the landlords, Mr. Gopalakrishna Naidu, some other time it is in the form of a Marxist Party Pamphlet, other times in the form of interviews of the victims involved, and some more times as a stream of consciousness narrative as she enters into the head of Maayi, the wife of the slain village witch-doctor, and the only person who can hear the dead and the silent living walking corpses.
In a particular chapter Meena becomes the interviewee and the interviewer.
Why can't you fucking follow the chronology?
She asks it to herself what readers are prone to ask her when they read this piece of writing.
I can. If you observe carefully, you will not fail to note that everyone gets fucked in due course of time
In this non-linear narrative that doesn't follow the prosaic predictability of a typical story, Meena humors different forms of writing. She sings a song, raps away to some imaginary beats; she dangles words from a rope and loosens the grip for a free fall, and then tries to gurgle and spit them out.
Remember, dear reader, I write from a land where people wrap up newborn babies in clumsy rags and deck the dead in incredible finery.
She asks some really tough questions without batting any metaphorical eyelids and mostly with a smile on her lips. The story is so dark it is almost laughable.
We want him to ask the prosecution what prompted these forty-two (plus two silent) to commit collective suicide? We want him to ask the prosecutor why did the police come to know about the deaths only the morning after? We want him to ask these easy questions. He does not ask these questions. He breaks into poetry and calls this incident heart-rending. He slips into mathematics and wonders how all the dead could have fitted into such a tiny space. He scrubs his conscience clean. He is clearly not in the mood to ask our questions. He is the one who can ask them, not any of us. You see, even if the hen knows it is day, it is the cock that must crow.
In a morbid moment, she throws the naive readers into the clutches of the engulfing flames as they try to make sense of what’s happening, and theatrically assume the role of the thin little half-naked kid, trying to count the stones he is throwing from outside through a hiding, to douse the fire.
We knew that everyone came to our village because of death. We knew this because they never came when we struggled or when we starved or when we silently waited for death. The death was the climax. The death was like the moment in the movies that no one wanted to miss and where everyone cried. In the movies, everyone soon goes back to whistling. We don’t know what happened after they came here and cried. We never found out.
It is beyond the means of the living to try and make meaning out of the randomness of death.
If death is so random, how will a book telling us about it follow a predefined narrative?
the firewood is not sufficient and, in the final act of defiance, the bodies refuse to burn.
The Gypsy Goddess is whimsical. But she makes sense in almost every sentence that takes the form of this book. She makes sense out of the almost absurd. She pretends to be futile but ends up becoming a “mighty thunderclap” of a slap on the pretentious caste and ‘varna’ pride. There are places where the author’s biases creep in, but the author never pretended to be unbiased. How can one afford to remain unbiased when it’s death they are narrating about?
Meena Kandasamy's pen doesn't wear a veil of decorum. She doesn't have time for it. She has to tell a story. She doesn't shy away from quoting the exact details of the wounds found on the bodies of all 42 (+2 silent) corpses. The pen sometimes assumes a screeching staccato, like shards and heartbeats, and sometimes spirals into long sentences, winding, convoluting, lost like some people in the story.
This fatal flaw in her prose follows her faithfully
She puts dramatics where necessary (or not). But she doesn't strive hard for authenticity. She gives clichéd dialogs to her characters,
If you can't be men, wear bangles
Because life is effing clichéd, isn’t it? And then she suddenly breaks the monotony and thunders ragingly.
Carrying the tales of their cunts and their cuntrees and their cuntenants, women cross all hurdles, talk in circles, burst into tears, break into cheers, teach a few others, take new lovers, become earth mothers, question big brothers, breathe state secrets, fuck all etiquette and turn themselves into the truth-or-dare pamphleteer who will interfere at the frontier. And in these rao-as-trap times, they perceive the dawn of the day and they start saying their permitted say.
So, when there is an old landowner who is a bad money-lender, they don't sit still, they start the gossip mill. And it is the holy writ: women don't crib on shit, 'cause they don't ask for it. The logic is clear: he looked for trouble, now they'll burst his bubble. They bitch without a hitch; speak non-stop like monsoon frogs. Then they plot their foolproof plan, they make their effigy man.
This is how the season of protest began.
Meena Kandasamy's writing is a force to reckon with. It holds power of its own. It hits you where it has to. It is haphazard so you have no idea where and when and how it’d hit you next. Sometimes you want to sit her down and shake her up and tell us why, why this? But then she answers it, almost methodically. She is not our traditional storyteller. The story she wants to tell is not an ordinary story even if it is now hidden behind the curtains of a not-so-long-ago history. Everyone has almost forgotten everything about it. Some ignorant fools like me didn't even know about it until 'The Gypsy Goddess' happened.
We, as a human race, are a terrible disappointment.
Now wait for some optimists to come and tell me, how we are not so horrible, how we have invented some beautiful things around, how we are so intelligent and full of sentiments, and then allow me to thrust this book in their hands and ask them how many lives do they think we trampled over while glossing about everything that looks so beautiful in their eyes. How many lives has this 'caste monster' devoured to come to a point where one feels almost proud about atrocities? Hah. We can be sickening.
Meena divides the book in four parts. Background, Breeding Ground, Battleground and Burial Ground. She uses different formats for different chapters. Sometimes it is a memorandum submitted to the CM of Madras by the head of the landlords, Mr. Gopalakrishna Naidu, some other time it is in the form of a Marxist Party Pamphlet, other times in the form of interviews of the victims involved, and some more times as a stream of consciousness narrative as she enters into the head of Maayi, the wife of the slain village witch-doctor, and the only person who can hear the dead and the silent living walking corpses.
In a particular chapter Meena becomes the interviewee and the interviewer.
Why can't you fucking follow the chronology?
She asks it to herself what readers are prone to ask her when they read this piece of writing.
I can. If you observe carefully, you will not fail to note that everyone gets fucked in due course of time
In this non-linear narrative that doesn't follow the prosaic predictability of a typical story, Meena humors different forms of writing. She sings a song, raps away to some imaginary beats; she dangles words from a rope and loosens the grip for a free fall, and then tries to gurgle and spit them out.
Remember, dear reader, I write from a land where people wrap up newborn babies in clumsy rags and deck the dead in incredible finery.
She asks some really tough questions without batting any metaphorical eyelids and mostly with a smile on her lips. The story is so dark it is almost laughable.
We want him to ask the prosecution what prompted these forty-two (plus two silent) to commit collective suicide? We want him to ask the prosecutor why did the police come to know about the deaths only the morning after? We want him to ask these easy questions. He does not ask these questions. He breaks into poetry and calls this incident heart-rending. He slips into mathematics and wonders how all the dead could have fitted into such a tiny space. He scrubs his conscience clean. He is clearly not in the mood to ask our questions. He is the one who can ask them, not any of us. You see, even if the hen knows it is day, it is the cock that must crow.
In a morbid moment, she throws the naive readers into the clutches of the engulfing flames as they try to make sense of what’s happening, and theatrically assume the role of the thin little half-naked kid, trying to count the stones he is throwing from outside through a hiding, to douse the fire.
We knew that everyone came to our village because of death. We knew this because they never came when we struggled or when we starved or when we silently waited for death. The death was the climax. The death was like the moment in the movies that no one wanted to miss and where everyone cried. In the movies, everyone soon goes back to whistling. We don’t know what happened after they came here and cried. We never found out.
It is beyond the means of the living to try and make meaning out of the randomness of death.
If death is so random, how will a book telling us about it follow a predefined narrative?
the firewood is not sufficient and, in the final act of defiance, the bodies refuse to burn.
The Gypsy Goddess is whimsical. But she makes sense in almost every sentence that takes the form of this book. She makes sense out of the almost absurd. She pretends to be futile but ends up becoming a “mighty thunderclap” of a slap on the pretentious caste and ‘varna’ pride. There are places where the author’s biases creep in, but the author never pretended to be unbiased. How can one afford to remain unbiased when it’s death they are narrating about?
October 23, 2014
She is a tease. A big one, for, at least, the first portion of the novel.
The novel opens to a petition from a certain landlord to the government. Following this is the author who explains to us, apologetic sometimes, sometimes not, about the unconventional route of the storytelling. Whether this is so or not, we will see in due time. Nevertheless, the first fifty pages of metafiction is the author-narrator grappling with the elements of the story, while showing us her failed attempts of conventional methods to say the same story (p.33).
She talks about Zizek, Derrida (Schmerrida), Marx, she talks about the various cultural idiosyncrasies of the Tamil people, she talks about her previous poems and how they were burnt, she talks about not wanting this book to be burnt.
Finally, the story starts, but the author-narrator keeps pulling me, the reader, from the depths of the story and reminds me of her presence, which I felt irritating and counter-productive to the reader's enjoyment. Note on a bottle of concentrated metafiction: use sparingly, do not apply to private parts.
There is even a question-and-answer section right in the middle of the book in which Meena defends her jerky narrative. This part was enjoyable and innovative, and I am unable to find any precendents (p.67).
Before I go on to the listing of many different narrative styles in this book, I must confirm that after a point the author-narrator disappears for good. She gradually goes away as the story gathers momentum. There is no climatic twist, but then as A. Roy says, "the best stories are one's with known endings and yet we choose to listen."
A blow out of the many different narratives:
The juicy, fleshy part of the novel is that the author is ever fresh when it comes to shifting tracks in narratives, and this is the most enjoyable part of reading this novel (and for plagiarizing to use in your own work.)
Listing the NOTS: with this, the author tells us what is NOT happening, but in this way, we are told what else COULD happen. p.52,101.
Unnamed characters: throughout the novel, there is a lack of clear matching between names and characters. There are a lot of characters and lot of names, and this conjures an image of piling up of bodies even before this happens literally in the novel.
Saramago: the latter part of the novel is sarcastic and tragic, a style markedly similar to Saramago's in Raised from the Ground, which was also about peasants and their struggle. I enjoyed this coincidence (?).
Enumerating the dead: the body count is portrayed in an innovative manner of seemingly impersonal tone of just listing them out, while the list and the little details in it are aimed at affecting the reader in its realism and absence of explicit emotional outbursts (similar to Bolaño,2666) (pg.150).
Raw narrative footage: after the Tragedy, a character talks about it to the author-narrator. The entire chapter (p.167) is characteristic of the many Tamil news anchors who interview such tragedies, in which interviewee goes on a breathless, visually evocative, unfiltered recollection of What Happened. (p.167)
Second person narrative: the epilogue (p.259) takes you through the aftermath of the anticlimax of the justice. This part is particularly well-done for its social commentary of forgetfulness and exploitation of tragedy that is all too common in today's journalistic world. (p.259)
There are many more such gems of narrative wisdom all through the book that one could hunt by reading again and again. It is, in a lot of ways, similar to Midnight's Children and The God of Small Things, in that it has a marked irreverence to known narrative forms (and it has more than fifty annotations in my copy.) This much the author-narrator herself admits: "...what happened to the rules of a novel? They are hanging on my clothesline over there." (pg.128)
The novel opens to a petition from a certain landlord to the government. Following this is the author who explains to us, apologetic sometimes, sometimes not, about the unconventional route of the storytelling. Whether this is so or not, we will see in due time. Nevertheless, the first fifty pages of metafiction is the author-narrator grappling with the elements of the story, while showing us her failed attempts of conventional methods to say the same story (p.33).
She talks about Zizek, Derrida (Schmerrida), Marx, she talks about the various cultural idiosyncrasies of the Tamil people, she talks about her previous poems and how they were burnt, she talks about not wanting this book to be burnt.
Finally, the story starts, but the author-narrator keeps pulling me, the reader, from the depths of the story and reminds me of her presence, which I felt irritating and counter-productive to the reader's enjoyment. Note on a bottle of concentrated metafiction: use sparingly, do not apply to private parts.
There is even a question-and-answer section right in the middle of the book in which Meena defends her jerky narrative. This part was enjoyable and innovative, and I am unable to find any precendents (p.67).
Before I go on to the listing of many different narrative styles in this book, I must confirm that after a point the author-narrator disappears for good. She gradually goes away as the story gathers momentum. There is no climatic twist, but then as A. Roy says, "the best stories are one's with known endings and yet we choose to listen."
A blow out of the many different narratives:
The juicy, fleshy part of the novel is that the author is ever fresh when it comes to shifting tracks in narratives, and this is the most enjoyable part of reading this novel (and for plagiarizing to use in your own work.)
Listing the NOTS: with this, the author tells us what is NOT happening, but in this way, we are told what else COULD happen. p.52,101.
Unnamed characters: throughout the novel, there is a lack of clear matching between names and characters. There are a lot of characters and lot of names, and this conjures an image of piling up of bodies even before this happens literally in the novel.
Saramago: the latter part of the novel is sarcastic and tragic, a style markedly similar to Saramago's in Raised from the Ground, which was also about peasants and their struggle. I enjoyed this coincidence (?).
Enumerating the dead: the body count is portrayed in an innovative manner of seemingly impersonal tone of just listing them out, while the list and the little details in it are aimed at affecting the reader in its realism and absence of explicit emotional outbursts (similar to Bolaño,2666) (pg.150).
Raw narrative footage: after the Tragedy, a character talks about it to the author-narrator. The entire chapter (p.167) is characteristic of the many Tamil news anchors who interview such tragedies, in which interviewee goes on a breathless, visually evocative, unfiltered recollection of What Happened. (p.167)
Second person narrative: the epilogue (p.259) takes you through the aftermath of the anticlimax of the justice. This part is particularly well-done for its social commentary of forgetfulness and exploitation of tragedy that is all too common in today's journalistic world. (p.259)
There are many more such gems of narrative wisdom all through the book that one could hunt by reading again and again. It is, in a lot of ways, similar to Midnight's Children and The God of Small Things, in that it has a marked irreverence to known narrative forms (and it has more than fifty annotations in my copy.) This much the author-narrator herself admits: "...what happened to the rules of a novel? They are hanging on my clothesline over there." (pg.128)
March 25, 2015
Novel set in Tamil Nadu (“lyrical, stunning and shocking…”)
If it is possible for a book to be too clever for its own good, then this is it.
Kandasamy sets about giving us a fictionalised version of the massacre that took place in the village of Kilvenmani on Christmas Day 1968 when 44 Dalit agricultural labourers, including women and children, were locked in a hut by a group of landowners and burnt alive. Or rather, she doesn’t give us this – at least not for ages. The opening chapters of the novel both dazzle with wit and frustrate with lengthy digressions, false starts and editorial intrusion. In a sense Kandasamy plays with the reader, much as a cat might play with a mouse. She gives us hope that she is, after all, going to tell us the story. “Do you rue the fact that modernism and postmodernism have killed our story-telling traditions?” she asks us. And when the poor frustrated reader answers in the affirmative, she slams her writers’s paw back down on us and gives us yet more clever word play and gimmicky asides. There are, to be fair, wonderful witty gems amongst all this. “It is common knowledge,” she tells us, “that no land would ever be found interesting until a white man arrived, befriended some locals, tried the regional cuisine, asked a lot of impertinent questions, took copious notes in his Moleskine notebook…” And Kandasamy’s roots as a poet show clearly in the section of Nicky Minaj-like rap. So clever. But still, it doesn’t compensate for the frustration.
It’s a shame too, because, once she finally gets to the story, Kandasamy produces an incredibly moving account. In this third section of the book, she isn’t yet finished with postmodern devices, but here they are used to great effect. The account of the victims’ bodies she gives to Inspector Rajavel and the bald, factual details of the report contrast powerfully with the more personal accounts of witnesses that follow. These accounts are lyrical, stunning and shocking in their brutal detail. One chapter takes the form of an unstoppable sentence describing the fire eating all in its path “and now the fire spreads with fondness and familiarity and the old men and the women and the children are bathed in blisters making touch their greatest trauma and long ago tattoos of loved ones’ names show up on their arms…” Unlike most novels, the novel doesn’t offer us the inner thoughts of characters or even possess an actual protagonist but this is, I think, deliberate. Kundasamy has told us from the first that she doesn’t intend to offer us a traditional story.
All in all, it’s probably worth ploughing through the literary tricks at the beginning to get to the real heart of the book, that is, if you haven’t already abandoned it.
If it is possible for a book to be too clever for its own good, then this is it.
Kandasamy sets about giving us a fictionalised version of the massacre that took place in the village of Kilvenmani on Christmas Day 1968 when 44 Dalit agricultural labourers, including women and children, were locked in a hut by a group of landowners and burnt alive. Or rather, she doesn’t give us this – at least not for ages. The opening chapters of the novel both dazzle with wit and frustrate with lengthy digressions, false starts and editorial intrusion. In a sense Kandasamy plays with the reader, much as a cat might play with a mouse. She gives us hope that she is, after all, going to tell us the story. “Do you rue the fact that modernism and postmodernism have killed our story-telling traditions?” she asks us. And when the poor frustrated reader answers in the affirmative, she slams her writers’s paw back down on us and gives us yet more clever word play and gimmicky asides. There are, to be fair, wonderful witty gems amongst all this. “It is common knowledge,” she tells us, “that no land would ever be found interesting until a white man arrived, befriended some locals, tried the regional cuisine, asked a lot of impertinent questions, took copious notes in his Moleskine notebook…” And Kandasamy’s roots as a poet show clearly in the section of Nicky Minaj-like rap. So clever. But still, it doesn’t compensate for the frustration.
It’s a shame too, because, once she finally gets to the story, Kandasamy produces an incredibly moving account. In this third section of the book, she isn’t yet finished with postmodern devices, but here they are used to great effect. The account of the victims’ bodies she gives to Inspector Rajavel and the bald, factual details of the report contrast powerfully with the more personal accounts of witnesses that follow. These accounts are lyrical, stunning and shocking in their brutal detail. One chapter takes the form of an unstoppable sentence describing the fire eating all in its path “and now the fire spreads with fondness and familiarity and the old men and the women and the children are bathed in blisters making touch their greatest trauma and long ago tattoos of loved ones’ names show up on their arms…” Unlike most novels, the novel doesn’t offer us the inner thoughts of characters or even possess an actual protagonist but this is, I think, deliberate. Kundasamy has told us from the first that she doesn’t intend to offer us a traditional story.
All in all, it’s probably worth ploughing through the literary tricks at the beginning to get to the real heart of the book, that is, if you haven’t already abandoned it.
November 11, 2014
“The ochre sparrows are on fire. The pigeons in white flight are on fire. The sun is on fire. The clouds are burning at the edges. The flaming yellow of the moon is on fire. The stars pour with sparks that will scorch the earth on touchdown. The gold of the paddy fields is on fire. The burning brown mounds of grain and mountains of hay are on fire. The red flag at noon is on fire. The gutted huts have roofs on fire. The ponds are bright and burning as they splice up the sunlight. The roads catch fire whenever a stray vehicle kicks up dust. The sand is speckled with fire sparkles. The gods have blackened into death and the camphor only lights up their charred corpses. Women carelessly wind the fire around their hips and across their breasts. Girls carry fire in the ends of their curling hair and they pretend not to notice at all…”
Meena Kandasamy’s The Gypsy Goddess is a novel about the real-life massacre of forty-four Dalits in the village of Kilvenmani, in 1968. The massacre was part of a chain of events in the resistance of the peasants of Tamil Nadu against high-caste landowners and their struggle to secure higher wages and a better life, a struggle that was punctuated by facing both physical and social violence (in the form of caste-based and economic boycotts). The important role of the Communist Party in organising resistance lent it strong class overtones, and following a similar pattern, was portrayed as communist insurgency by the landowners. Ultimately, the along with the massacre, the village of Kilvenmani was burned down, and the perpetrators were never punished. The Gypsy Goddess is a retelling of this epochal – and little-studied event – in post-independence Indian history. For reasons that will become immediately obvious, it is also an extremely difficult book to review.
Let us start with its novel approach to what I’d call the problem of authenticity. As a non-participant, separated from the events by the gulf of time, class and lived experiences, how can a writer authentically represent her chosen set of events? To put it another way, what right does she have to tell someone else’s story? (Let us bracket, for this purpose, postmodernist arguments, and assume that “authenticity”, as a concept, makes sense)
One poignant method of dealing with the problem is Jean Genet’s. In Prisoner of Love, which is his account of his two years among the Palestinian fedayeen, Genet is acutely alive to his outsider status, and the risk that in the very act of writing about the Palestinians, he is performing an act of appropriation. That understanding haunts him throughout the book, and he goes out of his way to clarify that he is telling his story, and not Palestine’s. This is about my time spent among the Palestinians, not with them, he says. Later, he writes: “I’ll have looked on at the Palestinians’ revolt as if from a window or a box in a theatre, and as if through a pearl-handled lorgnette”, and affirms that “you used to be in the audience and now you’re backstage. But you’ll never be an actor.” But if Genet deals with the problem by expressing his unease with his project, while affirming its necessity – Ali isn’t a voice, unless he’s a faint, pale voice contained in mine - Kandasamy addresses it by deliberately parodying all accepted conventions of the novel (such, as for instance, character construction and show-tell, to name just two), conventions that are designed to gloss over the problem of authenticity. Throughout the story, the authorial voice alternates with the narrative voice, never letting us forget that what we’re reading is a conscious reconstruction. “I am just spreading out the mattress on the riverside, setting up the landscape, inviting you, dear reader, to join me and look beyond the trauma, with the aid of… romantic imagery.” “I am willing to try everything to get this story across. So, here I am, pitching a tent under a tree, propping up a blank screen, pulling out my puppets.” This device takes on a particularly fascinating form in the middle of the book, when Gopalkrishna Naidu, caste-Hindu, head of the Paddy Producers’ Association and ultimately responsible for the massacre, is dictating a petition to the government, pleading for action against the “communist agitators.” Here, the author re-imagines the scene by putting herself in the place of Naidu’s legal consultant and secretary, and intersperses the narration of the event with her own reflections about it, not as a disembodied, third-person narrative voice, but in the first person present: “every Communist gospel is deliberately reworked until it sounds as though it were a part of a sinister agenda to murder him. It sets him at ease.” It is a rather unique – and brilliant – interpretation of Thucydides’ confession to his readers at the beginning of The Peloponnesian War” – that the speeches he will describe represent not what the speakers actually said, but what – in the author’s opinion – speakers of that sort, in those circumstances, ought to have said. Somewhere between invention and reconstruction. And that is the point.
Full review here: http://anenduringromantic.wordpress.c...
Meena Kandasamy’s The Gypsy Goddess is a novel about the real-life massacre of forty-four Dalits in the village of Kilvenmani, in 1968. The massacre was part of a chain of events in the resistance of the peasants of Tamil Nadu against high-caste landowners and their struggle to secure higher wages and a better life, a struggle that was punctuated by facing both physical and social violence (in the form of caste-based and economic boycotts). The important role of the Communist Party in organising resistance lent it strong class overtones, and following a similar pattern, was portrayed as communist insurgency by the landowners. Ultimately, the along with the massacre, the village of Kilvenmani was burned down, and the perpetrators were never punished. The Gypsy Goddess is a retelling of this epochal – and little-studied event – in post-independence Indian history. For reasons that will become immediately obvious, it is also an extremely difficult book to review.
Let us start with its novel approach to what I’d call the problem of authenticity. As a non-participant, separated from the events by the gulf of time, class and lived experiences, how can a writer authentically represent her chosen set of events? To put it another way, what right does she have to tell someone else’s story? (Let us bracket, for this purpose, postmodernist arguments, and assume that “authenticity”, as a concept, makes sense)
One poignant method of dealing with the problem is Jean Genet’s. In Prisoner of Love, which is his account of his two years among the Palestinian fedayeen, Genet is acutely alive to his outsider status, and the risk that in the very act of writing about the Palestinians, he is performing an act of appropriation. That understanding haunts him throughout the book, and he goes out of his way to clarify that he is telling his story, and not Palestine’s. This is about my time spent among the Palestinians, not with them, he says. Later, he writes: “I’ll have looked on at the Palestinians’ revolt as if from a window or a box in a theatre, and as if through a pearl-handled lorgnette”, and affirms that “you used to be in the audience and now you’re backstage. But you’ll never be an actor.” But if Genet deals with the problem by expressing his unease with his project, while affirming its necessity – Ali isn’t a voice, unless he’s a faint, pale voice contained in mine - Kandasamy addresses it by deliberately parodying all accepted conventions of the novel (such, as for instance, character construction and show-tell, to name just two), conventions that are designed to gloss over the problem of authenticity. Throughout the story, the authorial voice alternates with the narrative voice, never letting us forget that what we’re reading is a conscious reconstruction. “I am just spreading out the mattress on the riverside, setting up the landscape, inviting you, dear reader, to join me and look beyond the trauma, with the aid of… romantic imagery.” “I am willing to try everything to get this story across. So, here I am, pitching a tent under a tree, propping up a blank screen, pulling out my puppets.” This device takes on a particularly fascinating form in the middle of the book, when Gopalkrishna Naidu, caste-Hindu, head of the Paddy Producers’ Association and ultimately responsible for the massacre, is dictating a petition to the government, pleading for action against the “communist agitators.” Here, the author re-imagines the scene by putting herself in the place of Naidu’s legal consultant and secretary, and intersperses the narration of the event with her own reflections about it, not as a disembodied, third-person narrative voice, but in the first person present: “every Communist gospel is deliberately reworked until it sounds as though it were a part of a sinister agenda to murder him. It sets him at ease.” It is a rather unique – and brilliant – interpretation of Thucydides’ confession to his readers at the beginning of The Peloponnesian War” – that the speeches he will describe represent not what the speakers actually said, but what – in the author’s opinion – speakers of that sort, in those circumstances, ought to have said. Somewhere between invention and reconstruction. And that is the point.
Full review here: http://anenduringromantic.wordpress.c...
June 5, 2019
“They said even hawks could not carry away the sky, so scavenger crows like us should not have lofty dreams.”
RATING: 5/5
Caste is simultaneously both an archaic as well as a contemporary reality of India. Contrary to popular belief, caste as an oppressive social institution still exists in modern Indian society. Kandasamy’s experimental debut novel deals with the story of a Dalit community comprised mostly of agricultural labourers who lead an inhuman existence in the South Indian state of Tamil Nadu under the relentless callousness of their upper-caste landlords. The crux of the narrative is a historical massacre that took place on 25th December, 1968 in the village of Kilvenmani where 44 people belonging to the Dalit community were murdered in cold blood by the landlords and their henchmen. The microcosm of the village then becomes a small-scale representation of the macrocosm of the nation.
The narration is unconventional, to say the least. Kandasamy constantly brings attention to the artificially constructed nature of her novel. In a way, this allows her to shed the Western antecedents of the form and instead posit a distinctly Indian, and Tamil, position. Kandasamy overturns the gaze of the outsider looking in on a Dalit Community and offers a critique of the exoticism which colours the said gaze. When she hits you, pun intended, with the sheer force of her writing, you have no option but to marvel at the finesse with which she wields the pen. The novelty in the structure of different chapters - one is written as a memo to the CM, another as a Marxist party pamphlet, yet another in the form of victim interviews - is a literary treat. It manages to be extremely hilarious even as it narrates some shockingly cruel events in the national history.
The fourth wall is constantly broken and the author uses this to keep up a conversation with the reader. It acts as a self-conscious critique of the novel and its narrative structure while also providing commentary for authorial decisions. By pointing out how history and its keeping is biased in the favour of the keeper, she paves the way for giving voices to subjects who have been silenced for too long. Kandasamy is one of my absolute favourites when it comes to Indian authors. When I Hit You, which was shortlisted for the Women's Prize (and should have won it in my opinion), is another breathtaking masterpiece. Her poetry is starkly visceral and lays bare so many truths. I highly recommend you all to read her and introduce yourself to this emerging literary giant.
RATING: 5/5
Caste is simultaneously both an archaic as well as a contemporary reality of India. Contrary to popular belief, caste as an oppressive social institution still exists in modern Indian society. Kandasamy’s experimental debut novel deals with the story of a Dalit community comprised mostly of agricultural labourers who lead an inhuman existence in the South Indian state of Tamil Nadu under the relentless callousness of their upper-caste landlords. The crux of the narrative is a historical massacre that took place on 25th December, 1968 in the village of Kilvenmani where 44 people belonging to the Dalit community were murdered in cold blood by the landlords and their henchmen. The microcosm of the village then becomes a small-scale representation of the macrocosm of the nation.
The narration is unconventional, to say the least. Kandasamy constantly brings attention to the artificially constructed nature of her novel. In a way, this allows her to shed the Western antecedents of the form and instead posit a distinctly Indian, and Tamil, position. Kandasamy overturns the gaze of the outsider looking in on a Dalit Community and offers a critique of the exoticism which colours the said gaze. When she hits you, pun intended, with the sheer force of her writing, you have no option but to marvel at the finesse with which she wields the pen. The novelty in the structure of different chapters - one is written as a memo to the CM, another as a Marxist party pamphlet, yet another in the form of victim interviews - is a literary treat. It manages to be extremely hilarious even as it narrates some shockingly cruel events in the national history.
The fourth wall is constantly broken and the author uses this to keep up a conversation with the reader. It acts as a self-conscious critique of the novel and its narrative structure while also providing commentary for authorial decisions. By pointing out how history and its keeping is biased in the favour of the keeper, she paves the way for giving voices to subjects who have been silenced for too long. Kandasamy is one of my absolute favourites when it comes to Indian authors. When I Hit You, which was shortlisted for the Women's Prize (and should have won it in my opinion), is another breathtaking masterpiece. Her poetry is starkly visceral and lays bare so many truths. I highly recommend you all to read her and introduce yourself to this emerging literary giant.
February 17, 2014
The Gypsy Goddess is based on a true-life massacre of untouchable agricultural labourers. It's an excoriating view of modern India: the injustice of privilege, the hypocrisy of authority and the unforgivable politics of turning a blind eye. An inventive, provocative and brazen novel.
December 26, 2019
Perhaps the greatest tragedy in the lives of human beings is that their thinking capacity is superseded by greed. This greed overpowers them and they fail to see other human lives which are as sensitive and vulnerable as them. Meena Kandasamy's debut novel, The Gypsy Goddess (2014), talks at length about such greed. It is based on a massacre that took place in Kilvenmani, a village in Tamil Nadu, in 1968.
The novel begins with an epigraph which connects hunger to fearlessness. Food is one of the basic human needs but it is ironic that people who generally toil hard to produce it are often the ones to whom it is denied. The villages that the author talks about in the novel are not just unequal in terms of the division of wealth, but also because of casteism which is still a rampant issue in this modern Indian world. The common people of the villages work for landlords but struggle for even the most basic needs of life. Naturally, communism spreads in the villages and thus, the already existing division further widens up.
Meena Kandasamy's prose is extremely experimental. There is not a single point in the novel where its narrative seemed monotonous to me. Her authorial presence throughout the novel is felt and seems essential to better acquaint the readers with both the subjective and objective aspects of the events. There was one instance in the novel where fourth-degree burns are mentioned. I broke down even though the author had clothed it in an impersonal garb. I feel that even if one has read numerous books on casteism, untouchability and wealth inequality, this book should be read just because of the way the author has written it all down.
The novel begins with an epigraph which connects hunger to fearlessness. Food is one of the basic human needs but it is ironic that people who generally toil hard to produce it are often the ones to whom it is denied. The villages that the author talks about in the novel are not just unequal in terms of the division of wealth, but also because of casteism which is still a rampant issue in this modern Indian world. The common people of the villages work for landlords but struggle for even the most basic needs of life. Naturally, communism spreads in the villages and thus, the already existing division further widens up.
Meena Kandasamy's prose is extremely experimental. There is not a single point in the novel where its narrative seemed monotonous to me. Her authorial presence throughout the novel is felt and seems essential to better acquaint the readers with both the subjective and objective aspects of the events. There was one instance in the novel where fourth-degree burns are mentioned. I broke down even though the author had clothed it in an impersonal garb. I feel that even if one has read numerous books on casteism, untouchability and wealth inequality, this book should be read just because of the way the author has written it all down.
November 9, 2014
A very difficult book to read. Brilliant prose. As the author self proclaims, it is some bad ass writing and definitely not the faint hearted or those looking for a breezy read.
It sheds light on a tragic event dragging you along the bushes, forcing you to watch it from a safe hiding place, not just as an one off occurrence. You might share even a survivor guilt if you are one of these readers who have a show reel running in your mind as the book unfolds.
A look at the regional papers will confirm that this tragedy is not the last. If the author wants to persist in this genre, she will never run out of material.
It sheds light on a tragic event dragging you along the bushes, forcing you to watch it from a safe hiding place, not just as an one off occurrence. You might share even a survivor guilt if you are one of these readers who have a show reel running in your mind as the book unfolds.
A look at the regional papers will confirm that this tragedy is not the last. If the author wants to persist in this genre, she will never run out of material.
August 11, 2017
A random interview I read recently of Meena Kandasamy’s led to Watsapp conversations and I got introduced to her poems by Ashok Unny. They were so bold, raw, and fierce that I dug up all her poems available and picked her novels when I couldn’t get enough of her bitter honesty that she writes with.
As I was parallely reading both The Gypsy Goddess and When I Hit You I realized, she has a very unconventional way of beginning her novel. In the latter, she starts off the first chapter saying that she will describe her abusive marriage story herself and not allow her mother to steal the limelight. The former is so erratically unstructured that I had to recheck if I was reading the right novel. The first chapter is only about storytelling art and the second chapter is about why she chose the title to be The Gypsy Goddess. In the process you are introduced to the premise and a fair bit about the characters.
The Gypsy Goddess is a fictionalized version of Kilvenmani Massacre that occurred in Tanjore District in 1968 where 44 Dalits were burnt alive by the landlords for rebelling against them under the influence of Communist ideologies for want of higher wages and rights. The government officers and the police were said to have been involved with the landlords. The whole account of the massacre is written quite beautifully with such amazing prose and effects. Sometimes it runs like a Tamil movie where you are introduced to the villainous landlord in typical South Indian cinematic style. Each chapter reads differently. The writing style is unique and doesn’t follow any protocol. You hear of the power wielding landlords through his speech, Communist movement through party pamphlets, gloom after the massacre through a widow’s lament, heinous death details through a sub inspector’s report, and so on..
The book was quite enlightening and well researched. The language and prose is brilliant. A 4/5 from my side.
Some quotes:
“Of all the things we could have said to the people of other planets, we chose to fire into space a capsule containing the model for the double helix structure, the composition of DNA and the formation of nucleotides. Not a message that declared: it is sunny here it also rains a lot we love colours and dope we sign and we dance we cook up a storm with anything we can find we are fucked up in too many ways but we are a funny bunch so may we request the pleasure of your company”
“Just because this is a novel set in rural India, do not expect a herd of buffalo to walk across every page for the sake of authenticity.”
“The problem with thinking up a new and original idea within a novel is that you have to make sure that Kurt Vonnegut did not already think of it.”
As I was parallely reading both The Gypsy Goddess and When I Hit You I realized, she has a very unconventional way of beginning her novel. In the latter, she starts off the first chapter saying that she will describe her abusive marriage story herself and not allow her mother to steal the limelight. The former is so erratically unstructured that I had to recheck if I was reading the right novel. The first chapter is only about storytelling art and the second chapter is about why she chose the title to be The Gypsy Goddess. In the process you are introduced to the premise and a fair bit about the characters.
The Gypsy Goddess is a fictionalized version of Kilvenmani Massacre that occurred in Tanjore District in 1968 where 44 Dalits were burnt alive by the landlords for rebelling against them under the influence of Communist ideologies for want of higher wages and rights. The government officers and the police were said to have been involved with the landlords. The whole account of the massacre is written quite beautifully with such amazing prose and effects. Sometimes it runs like a Tamil movie where you are introduced to the villainous landlord in typical South Indian cinematic style. Each chapter reads differently. The writing style is unique and doesn’t follow any protocol. You hear of the power wielding landlords through his speech, Communist movement through party pamphlets, gloom after the massacre through a widow’s lament, heinous death details through a sub inspector’s report, and so on..
The book was quite enlightening and well researched. The language and prose is brilliant. A 4/5 from my side.
Some quotes:
“Of all the things we could have said to the people of other planets, we chose to fire into space a capsule containing the model for the double helix structure, the composition of DNA and the formation of nucleotides. Not a message that declared: it is sunny here it also rains a lot we love colours and dope we sign and we dance we cook up a storm with anything we can find we are fucked up in too many ways but we are a funny bunch so may we request the pleasure of your company”
“Just because this is a novel set in rural India, do not expect a herd of buffalo to walk across every page for the sake of authenticity.”
“The problem with thinking up a new and original idea within a novel is that you have to make sure that Kurt Vonnegut did not already think of it.”
August 25, 2014
"Because I have taken the pleasure in the aggressive act of clobbering you with metafictive devices, I can hear some of you go: what happened to the rules of the novel?" says Meena Kandasamy midway through the novel. The novelist is a constant presence in the narrative and it is not something you are used to in a conventional novel. That might jar your experience while setting about reading the novel. But Meena's searing prose is extremely cynical and honest and is not out to please anyone. Weaving through the incidents preceding a massacre and getting the reader used to her unique use of narrative device, Meena has produced a very important book about the caste killing of the 1960s Tamil Nadu. The initial apprehensions about its unconventional nature melt away as the book progresses and by the end of it, the book quickly became one of my favorite books I have read this year.
December 30, 2014
Meena Kandasamy's The Gypsy Goddess is a unique literary work. It pieces together the events around the late 60s class struggle between landlords and peasants in the Tanjore district, mainly focussing on the massacre in Kilvenmani. Kandasamy's style mixes a chronological journalistic narration with strong poetic language. The oddities don't stop there; Kandasamy has a penchant for inserting herself into the narrative, first person style, and apart from this the narrative shifts back and forth from third person to first person plural. This post-modern pastiche is at times diffuse but also oddly powerful (The first person plural narrative after the massacre is utterly gripping). The poet in Kanadasamy is the dominant voice and provides the emotional resonance that is sometimes lacking in the terse journalistic portions. It is the kind of book that will polarise opinion, mainly, because balance is not the author's strongest hallmark which leaves the narration teetering between indulgence and indifference; this makes things difficult for a reader looking for an immersive narrative. Nevertheless it is a terrific attempt; Kandasamy is onto something but it needs some ironing out.
March 27, 2021
"Meanwhile, remember this: nobody lives happily. Nobody outlived the ever-after"
Meena Kandasamy's debut novel is an angry postmodern narrative of one of the true dalit labourers mass murders that happened in 1968 in Nagapatinam's Kilveni village who chose communism. A wikipedia entry under the title Kilvenmani massacre in the times of Asuran and Pa.Ranjith.
So, more than the story, it was the story teller who wins over the admiration. In her acknowledgements this angry author reveals her inspiration in 2009.
"There is no story that cannot be told. The difficulty in telling a tale is a story in itself"
The book cannot change facts and so it becomes creative with revealing it to the reader. The author jumps in to talk directly in the reader's hearing in multiple voices with a nervous cheekiness. Yet, her anger oozes out when she leaves in the police report of the 44 corpses found as a device to communicate the story.
Can an unsettling book be liked? If yes, what are you going to do about it? When you get out from the insulated numbness of the routine - you feel discomforted. This author probably found her outlet.
Stars are for the book, admiration is for the author.
Meena Kandasamy's debut novel is an angry postmodern narrative of one of the true dalit labourers mass murders that happened in 1968 in Nagapatinam's Kilveni village who chose communism. A wikipedia entry under the title Kilvenmani massacre in the times of Asuran and Pa.Ranjith.
So, more than the story, it was the story teller who wins over the admiration. In her acknowledgements this angry author reveals her inspiration in 2009.
"There is no story that cannot be told. The difficulty in telling a tale is a story in itself"
The book cannot change facts and so it becomes creative with revealing it to the reader. The author jumps in to talk directly in the reader's hearing in multiple voices with a nervous cheekiness. Yet, her anger oozes out when she leaves in the police report of the 44 corpses found as a device to communicate the story.
Can an unsettling book be liked? If yes, what are you going to do about it? When you get out from the insulated numbness of the routine - you feel discomforted. This author probably found her outlet.
Stars are for the book, admiration is for the author.
May 26, 2020
It's a masterpiece! The atrocities felt by the Dalits in Kilvenmani region is easily palpable by the readers because Meena Kandasamy has written it so descriptively. It's a Must-Read! The narrative begins with a determination and ends in determination. There's a constant tone of melancholy and determination floating in the narrative that never leaves this amazing plot!
September 22, 2022
A very witty, crisp narration of a very harrowing chain of events from Tamil Nadu of the late 60s. The book was heartbreaking, very well written, and excellently researched. The author was the narrator, with slipping points of view - while also making sure none of that takes away from the tragedy and the anger of the caste atrocity that took place.
May 23, 2023
At some point in the book, Meena Kandasamy says the rules of writing a novel are hanging on her clothesline, somewhere there. Written in an unusual, truly original form, written to describe the events of the 1968 Killvenmani massacre, written in some places in unpunctuated escalating pace, written with fierceness and tenderness and to startle, shake, educate, taunt, awake. Cannot recommend enough!
August 5, 2020
This book has tapped into some of my most personal feelings, a very strong story and yet it did not impress me enough and I think it might be because of the style of story-writing. It starts with an unmatched fervor of a serious book and claims to be an unconventional one at that. However in Parts 1 and 2 especially, half the readers might have felt put off by the author’s overarching presence over the original story she wishes to tell and left the book half-way. It just doesn't seem like the best way to tell a story or at least this story. The research, original accounts, that she brings to us is overwhelming for any reader. It is only in Parts 3 and 4, that the novel really picks up a certain pace and seriousness doing away with occasional interjections. Her voice in the latter parts are actually a very good emotional resonance for any reader.
Initially, after reading the prologue, I thought I will be overwhelmed and emotionally destroyed after finishing it. Turns out, it wasn't all that difficult mostly because the author has a penchant for interjecting in a whole different tone from that that a few lines before she adopted (in all suddenness).
Throughout the book, she describes some details of rural life in Tamil Nadu; she does it in a way that allows one to picture what it would be like, even in case you've never been to any of these places. This is my favorite one:
“How can there be satisfaction, contentment, pleasure or the pursuit of happiness when women have to wake up every morning with a prayer that there is some tamarind, some dried chilli and half an onion in the home, anything to make the burning, red-hot chutney that can be licked from their fingers to let them tolerate the tastelessness of the leftover rice?”
I deeply resonate with this because it talks about what was normal food then and now in villages. It is often said that this is one of the healthiest local options available to stay strong. Highly recommend anyway, because this story needs to be told and read widely.
Initially, after reading the prologue, I thought I will be overwhelmed and emotionally destroyed after finishing it. Turns out, it wasn't all that difficult mostly because the author has a penchant for interjecting in a whole different tone from that that a few lines before she adopted (in all suddenness).
Throughout the book, she describes some details of rural life in Tamil Nadu; she does it in a way that allows one to picture what it would be like, even in case you've never been to any of these places. This is my favorite one:
“How can there be satisfaction, contentment, pleasure or the pursuit of happiness when women have to wake up every morning with a prayer that there is some tamarind, some dried chilli and half an onion in the home, anything to make the burning, red-hot chutney that can be licked from their fingers to let them tolerate the tastelessness of the leftover rice?”
I deeply resonate with this because it talks about what was normal food then and now in villages. It is often said that this is one of the healthiest local options available to stay strong. Highly recommend anyway, because this story needs to be told and read widely.
September 4, 2020
Any words will only do injustice to the marvellous piece of writing that this book is. You are bound to feel stupid and naive even if you are the most woke and socially aware person alive. How can we possibly make sense of what people of Kilvenmani went through? We can only feign an understanding.
June 21, 2016
Fierce, intelligent writing that makes you think. Funny and hard-hitting. Loved it.
January 29, 2017
Loved the book for the exceptional narrative style and the Tamil phrases.
April 29, 2018
This book will make you angry.
January 14, 2021
The Gypsy Goddess is a book based on the Keezhvenmani Massacre of 1968. ‘The’ because you MUST have heard of it – atleast some version of it. But since most of us turn a blind eye to history, even when she guiltlessly repeats herself time and again, let me explain some part of her.
Keezhvenmani is a village in Thanjavur district, Tamilnadu (or, Kilvenmani, Tanjore for those not familiar with the Tamil lingual nuances). It was just another village – thousands starving under the greed of the feudal landlords; spacious mansions on one side of the village and crowded cheris (slums) on the other side; caste-discrimination running through roads, water and fields (but definitely not in the carnal desires of the upper castes) – you know – a normal village in South India. But that was until Christmas day of 1968 – ofcourse, the predominantly Hindu village had nothing to do with this day of joy – except that it delivered death and lifelong trauma instead of gifts on that day. On that fateful night (fateful, because how else will you describe that inhumane incident?) 44 innocent villagers were torched to death by the landlords.
Their crime, you ask? Asking for a wage increase.
How dare those landless labourers ask for something that would fill their stomachs after toiling for weeks on the fields under the scorching sun on bare legs and ofcourse, on an empty stomach? How dare they desire for a miniscule of the paddy sown, tended by and harvested by them? They are, after all, untouchables – the pallans and the paraiyans (Again, to the ignorant mind, they are considered the lowest among the lowest in Manu’s social hierarchy. Who’s Manu, you ask? Some “noble” man who set rules to the society –you know, the basics – who should be given how much respect & dignity).
Now that I have made it clear that this book is based on a real event – a goresome one at that – and one that isn’t so long ago in history, let me also confess that I could complete the book only after 3 unsuccesful attempts. I first started reading this book around October, last year. The narrative was very different from anything I had read so far (shows how limited my reading is) – it was poetry hidden under the ruse of some well written prose. Every sentence tugged at my heartstrings, played among words & phonetics, had hidden metaphors and well, it is one well-written book, I must say! A little too descriptive for the stomach to digest, though. I took 2 weeks to read this 180 page novel – I just couldn’t continue reading at many points through the novel.
I did have my concerns about it being not-so-accurate. But the author makes it clear that this book is no documentary. There’s no clear timeline or, a trackable plot, or even any main protagonist – well there’s the villain of the story though.
She writes about the political picture of the day without any remorse – Periyar, Anna, Karunanidhi, the Communist party, the Congress, the judiciary – no one escapes the might of her pen. She throws in some witty sarcasm as a freebie every once in a while. The place, people and the pathetic massacre is real. So is the feeling of numbness once the reader closes the book. For people who grew up in Tamilnadu or who have some idea about the massacre or the Dravidian movement, this book is a MUST READ. Ofcourse not the most authentic source to study the massacre or the “Agrarian Labour Problems of East Tanjore District” as the then government tried to understand it. But definitely a highly recommended book.
Keezhvenmani is a village in Thanjavur district, Tamilnadu (or, Kilvenmani, Tanjore for those not familiar with the Tamil lingual nuances). It was just another village – thousands starving under the greed of the feudal landlords; spacious mansions on one side of the village and crowded cheris (slums) on the other side; caste-discrimination running through roads, water and fields (but definitely not in the carnal desires of the upper castes) – you know – a normal village in South India. But that was until Christmas day of 1968 – ofcourse, the predominantly Hindu village had nothing to do with this day of joy – except that it delivered death and lifelong trauma instead of gifts on that day. On that fateful night (fateful, because how else will you describe that inhumane incident?) 44 innocent villagers were torched to death by the landlords.
Their crime, you ask? Asking for a wage increase.
How dare those landless labourers ask for something that would fill their stomachs after toiling for weeks on the fields under the scorching sun on bare legs and ofcourse, on an empty stomach? How dare they desire for a miniscule of the paddy sown, tended by and harvested by them? They are, after all, untouchables – the pallans and the paraiyans (Again, to the ignorant mind, they are considered the lowest among the lowest in Manu’s social hierarchy. Who’s Manu, you ask? Some “noble” man who set rules to the society –you know, the basics – who should be given how much respect & dignity).
Now that I have made it clear that this book is based on a real event – a goresome one at that – and one that isn’t so long ago in history, let me also confess that I could complete the book only after 3 unsuccesful attempts. I first started reading this book around October, last year. The narrative was very different from anything I had read so far (shows how limited my reading is) – it was poetry hidden under the ruse of some well written prose. Every sentence tugged at my heartstrings, played among words & phonetics, had hidden metaphors and well, it is one well-written book, I must say! A little too descriptive for the stomach to digest, though. I took 2 weeks to read this 180 page novel – I just couldn’t continue reading at many points through the novel.
I did have my concerns about it being not-so-accurate. But the author makes it clear that this book is no documentary. There’s no clear timeline or, a trackable plot, or even any main protagonist – well there’s the villain of the story though.
She writes about the political picture of the day without any remorse – Periyar, Anna, Karunanidhi, the Communist party, the Congress, the judiciary – no one escapes the might of her pen. She throws in some witty sarcasm as a freebie every once in a while. The place, people and the pathetic massacre is real. So is the feeling of numbness once the reader closes the book. For people who grew up in Tamilnadu or who have some idea about the massacre or the Dravidian movement, this book is a MUST READ. Ofcourse not the most authentic source to study the massacre or the “Agrarian Labour Problems of East Tanjore District” as the then government tried to understand it. But definitely a highly recommended book.
August 2, 2021
Forever grateful to @talksbooksandmore for introducing me to Meena Kandasamy. A good book is the one which stays with you, even after you finish reading is what she says. Yes, I'm in a book hangover, I can't stop thinking about it.
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A book where the author is not just a silent narrator, but a living breathing entity who at times explains her writing style, and sometimes provides commentary on the events in the first half of the book. Her lyrical words drip with sarcasm and later she just... guts you.
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The story is about the massacre of agricultural labourers which happened in Tanjore in 1968. It was hard to read at times, the descriptions too graphic, the pain too raw. Untouchability - the curse they were born with, the atrocities they had to face just cause they asked for an extra measure of grain. We are so privileged to not have been born in that time , I can't fathom how they lived then. It is a book which will frustrate you, as it shows how power can change the version of truth, how fast the accused become the victim,that "justice has nothing common with law"
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A book where the author is not just a silent narrator, but a living breathing entity who at times explains her writing style, and sometimes provides commentary on the events in the first half of the book. Her lyrical words drip with sarcasm and later she just... guts you.
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The story is about the massacre of agricultural labourers which happened in Tanjore in 1968. It was hard to read at times, the descriptions too graphic, the pain too raw. Untouchability - the curse they were born with, the atrocities they had to face just cause they asked for an extra measure of grain. We are so privileged to not have been born in that time , I can't fathom how they lived then. It is a book which will frustrate you, as it shows how power can change the version of truth, how fast the accused become the victim,that "justice has nothing common with law"
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September 12, 2025
A book that lays bare the caste-class faultlines in Indian society. It talks of the brutal massacre of forty-four landless Dalit agricultural laborers in a small village of Tamil Nadu in 1968. They were burnt alive and the justice was largely denied.
It is a story that should make us question our systems and our own identity in the system. It gives voice to the voiceless masses. The novel portrays the lopsidedness of the state and also points to the limitations of the left movement and its support system.
The author sometimes changes role between the writer and the reader which might irk some readers but the author really does not care.
If you read for pleasure/ leisure, do not think of picking this up but if your myths have already been busted and you want to look deeply into the wounds, do give it a try.
It is a story that should make us question our systems and our own identity in the system. It gives voice to the voiceless masses. The novel portrays the lopsidedness of the state and also points to the limitations of the left movement and its support system.
The author sometimes changes role between the writer and the reader which might irk some readers but the author really does not care.
If you read for pleasure/ leisure, do not think of picking this up but if your myths have already been busted and you want to look deeply into the wounds, do give it a try.
April 23, 2024
destroying ….
August 20, 2023
Such an important book!
March 3, 2024
A sometimes confusing but captivating read - Kandaswamy pushes against the constraints of the typical novel to tell a powerful story of injustice and question the wilful ignorance of the reader.
September 8, 2025
Briljant briljant briljant genialisk fantastisk fruktansvärd briljant
April 28, 2017
I'm revising my rating upwards. Because this is not a book meant to be read for its literature. Rather it tells the horrific story of the most violent caste incident in Tamil Nadu in independent India. You have to wonder why this was not taught in our school history books. Well because even the self respect speaking Dravidian rulers turned a blind eye when it came to serving justice in this case. Because as much as they might have had the right intentions when it comes to abolition of caste, their political interests meant that they couldn't afford to upset the middle level castes, who were the oppressors in this case.
My salute to Meena for bringing public attention to this episode. The verbose pages in the beginning of the book put me off. But this is a story that has to be told. This should be included in our history chapters, least we forget one of the worst crimes in the history of India.
My salute to Meena for bringing public attention to this episode. The verbose pages in the beginning of the book put me off. But this is a story that has to be told. This should be included in our history chapters, least we forget one of the worst crimes in the history of India.
January 31, 2025
Meena, I love you, but I couldn’t get into this — to me it resembled poetry in that it revolved around and outward from a single thing, in this case an event of extreme violence, but didn’t have a narrative to invite me back each time I set it down. The language in itself is gorgeous. 1 star for the communism, and 1 for the originality.
March 28, 2017
It'd be a shame to critically pull this book apart I feel. Can't do it. The real issue now is to not dump the book in the recesses of my memory because what's the point of this book otherwise?
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