Eminent Tamil writer Imayam on his novel ‘A Woman Burnt’ that delves into how financial considerations often outweigh matters of the heart in shaping relationships, social structures
“In the whole world, there is nothing as debased, as shameless, as the heart,” says Revathi, the daughter of a well-to-do headmaster who has studied engineering, at some point in Imayam’s A Woman Burnt (Simon & Schuster India), which has been translated from the Tamil Sellatha Panam by GJV Prasad. We meet Revathi when she is hell bent on marrying an auto driver, Ravi, a Burmese refugee, against her family’s wishes. Why? Because he tattoos her name on his chest and arms, and every time he appears before her, he cut his arms, threatening, ‘I’ll die if you don’t marry me,” and, at other times, woos her with cheesy lines like, “As soon as I saw you, like an infant getting lost in a huge festival crowd, I lost my heart.”
The heart has its own reasons. As Revathi chooses love over family, little does she realise that she is allowing herself to hurtle down the highway to hell. Why? Because the chasms between them are too vast, unbridgeable: the chasm of class. If she is cloistered at her parents’ house, she feels constricted inside Ravi’s shanty. She soon comes to realise that “it is the money that binds people together, and separates them.” Revathi’s is not a happily-ever-after story. Far from it. The decision alters her life forever. And she has to pay a heavy price for her choice.
Imayam (the pen name of V. Annamalai), who won the 2020 Sahitya Akademi Award for this novel, excels at highlighting the chasms of all kinds: of class, of caste, of gender. Through his seemingly simple prose, he unravels the ruptures that mark the lives of women in Tamil Nadu, and indeed across the country — the darkness of their lives, the daily injustice they are subjected to by the patriarchal society, and the oppression they undergo. The novel also shines light on the pervasive misogyny ingrained in Tamil society. In an in-depth interview to The Federal, Imayam (59) talks about how the lives of Tamil women, drawn from the life he has lived, reveal truths about Tamil society and its culture, and why he considers writing — ‘an indescribable feeling like falling in love’ — to be a core part of his politics. His answers in Tamil have been translated by Kavitha Muralidharan.
Excerpts from the interview:
The novel blends matters of heart with matters of money. Did you set out to juxtapose the two worlds to show that love can’t fill stomachs and that you need financial wherewithal to meet the basic daily needs of the family?
If you ask whether love or friendship determines or solidifies the family institution, social structures, and interpersonal relationships, or whether it is money and the economy that shape them, the answer is the latter. Not every individual wanders in search of love every day. He wanders in search of money and the comforts it can provide. The number of relationships determined by money is greater than the number of relationships formed by love. That’s the truth. Are family bonds, social connections, and marital relationships determined by love, or are they influenced by financial considerations? The human relationships portrayed and desired in literary works differ significantly from the relationships encountered in real life. The role of money in our lives is substantial; it is a construct developed by man, and subsequently, he became addicted to it. Consider the choices of Indians who go abroad. Are they primarily in pursuit of love or do they go in search of money? The answer, in many cases, is the latter.
Money plays the main role in the discord and animosity within the Revathi-Ravi relationship in Sellatha Panam. Even caste distinctions become secondary in comparison. Class conflicts are fundamentally shaped by economic circumstances. When financial resources are scarce, one’s state of mind, relationships, and love tend to turn bitter/acrimonious. In the novel, Revathi says, “There is nothing as disgusting as the human mind on this earth.” She has a reason to say that. Ravi, who once called Revathi’s body as his lifeline, later sets it ablaze. As for Revathi, the same mind which thought it could not exist without him harbours dark wishes for his demise in an accident. I wrote Sellatha Panam to understand the mysteries of the human mind.
A Woman Burnt addresses the tragic issue of self-immolation among women in Tamil Nadu. Could you talk about the subtext of women’s suicide, which often have their roots in the institution of marriage and in the political economy?
About 90 percent of those who die by suicide in India are women. Women from the lower strata of society are more likely to die by suicide than those from the upper-class. Our family and social structures are the primary causes of suicides. At present, the government sells the water bottle in Tamil Nadu, like liquor, through a project called ‘Amma Drinking Water’. Even if you drink tea and coffee, you will now have to pay GST taxes. A man in a government job aspires to marry a woman also working as a public servant. Similarly, a woman employed with the government desires to marry a man with a similar professional background. The question arises: What is the connection between romantic love and government employment?
The primary factor that often influences decisions related to marriage, love, affection, family, and relationships is money. Caste, religion, education and prestige occupy the second place. There is a significant disparity in the number of suicides among women compared to men. If we examine the reasons for suicides, another truth will be established. Domestic and social violence are the leading causes of suicide among women.
How do you see caste and class shaping the lives of your characters?
I never set out to write a short story or a novel about caste, religion, class or women. My sole purpose is to document the lives unfolding before my eyes. If a man or a woman is crying, my job as a writer is to find the reason behind their anguish. My stories exist solely to pose questions: Are their tears a result of caste, religion, rituals, beliefs, economic struggles, family dynamics, or broader social factors? It is my duty to unearth the truth and present it to society. Consider, for instance, the mystery behind Revathi’s 90 percent burns in A Woman Burnt. It is not merely the story of one Revathi but an exploration of the agonizing cries and tears of countless women who suffer the horrors of being set on fire daily. I seek to uncover who or what is behind this horrifying reality.
Why is it so challenging for humans to attain lasting happiness? What shapes a person’s life and influences their pursuit of happiness? It is the responsibility of society to reflect upon whether it truly desires a system of caste, religion, and beliefs that hinder an individual’s ability to live as they are and find happiness. A writer’s job is to merely point out the problem. That’s what I’ve done in A Woman Burnt, as well as in my other novels and short stories, without concern for society’s approval or fear of its disapproval. I agree that ‘caste’ and its associated ‘cruelty’ are prominent in my work. In the society that I live in, it is the caste that determines everything. So, my stories are also about ‘caste’. I’m not the reason for this, it’s the society.
Your writing has been recognized for its raw candour in depicting the harsh realities of life. How do you strike a balance between unflinching realism and the need for literary expression in your storytelling?
My work is not purely realistic. I write only social reality for it is only this that can be turned into literature. Life is not full of magic. The process of converting everyday occurrences into a short story or a novel is difficult to explain. The difference lies in how a journalist reports an event and how a writer transforms it into a short story. Turning real-life experiences into literature is different; it’s about capturing emotions and moods that cannot be fully explained but only felt. If you seek to explain it, you will only be explaining your imagination of the smell. That won’t be authentic. That is not true. How can you explain the chill in your body when your girlfriend touched you for the first time? Writing is like falling in love; both are indescribable. In a way, the book in your hand is a state of my mind in which I write. A baby is born. That’s all.
You’ve been closely associated with the Dravidian Movement. How has your political engagement influenced your literary works? Do you believe literature and politics are inseparable?
Of course, writing is purely a political activity. There is no doubt. Thinking and talking is all political. My short stories and novels are manifestations of my political activities. There is no such thing as apolitical writing or apolitical thinking in the world. You cannot show a single line of depoliticised writing. The Gita speaks of politics. The Qur’an, the Bible are scriptures but they speak of a kind of politics. When religious scriptures themselves are written on the basis of politics in the name of morality, how can there be no politics in the writing of a person who writes that there should be no religion?
It is no secret that I have been associated with the politics of the Dravidian movement. I didn’t hide it. There is no need to hide. Since I am directly involved in politics, it has only helped my writing; political issues have found their way to my short stories and novels. I have written short stories based on party-related issues like ‘A Party Man’, ‘A Confidante’, ‘Partyman’s Corpse’, ‘Their Survival’ and so on. I have also written a novel called Vaazhga Vaazhga. If I hadn’t been directly in the party, I would certainly not have written so many short stories. I couldn’t have written the novel Vaazhga Vaazhga. I can say with certainty that there is no other writer who has written the present-day politics of Tamil Nadu as openly and impartially as I have done. That’s because of my political affiliation. I am a writer from the Dravidian movement of thought, not from the Dravidian tradition of politics.
You depict the struggles of women in most of your works — their silences, their suffering. How do you approach crafting multidimensional female characters in your stories? Is Revathi a departure from your other women characters?
Revathi in Sellatha Panam/A Woman Burnt is different from the women in my previous novels. Arogyam, in Koveru Kazhuthaigal (Beasts of Burden), is beneath the oppressed castes — a woman who has to depend on her village for every meal. Dhanabhagyam and Chinna Ponnu in the novel Arumugam are sex workers. In a way, they are also the oppressed, having to sell their bodies for every meal. Sedal, who appears in the novel by the same name, is a woman who has been pushed into the Devadasi tradition by her villagers. She is also from the oppressed caste, struggling for every meal. In one way or another, these women are bound by social conditions. But the woman in Sellatha Panam is educated, well-to-do, beautiful, and privileged by caste and opportunities. In a way, she is an elite woman. It is her decision about marriage that sets her on fire. Irrespective of caste, class, money, education and privilege, women like Revathi, Arogyam, Dhanapakiyam and Sedal face the same kind of crisis. Women across castes experience the same kind of suffering. What do our marriage system, our family setup, our social and mental structures, and our education teach us? A Woman Burnt raises this question. It also explores whether love is sacred or divine.
In my short stories and novels, women are primary characters. I don’t know how that happened; they naturally occupy the centre stage. I am neither a feminist nor a feminist writer. Neither am I a supporter of those who write from a dogmatic feminist point of view. The characters of Arogyam in Koveru Kazhuthaigal and Sedal in Sedal sprang from my village; they are known to me. They experienced caste discrimination just as I did. The lived experience is the real literature for Arogyam and Sedal; their work is their life, and their lives have now become literary works. Their lives are now literary works. The same applies to Revathi, Amaravathi and Arunmozhi in A Woman Burnt.
To Kamala, who appears in the novel Eng Kathe (My Story), life is not labour-oriented. She doesn’t face caste-based humiliation, economic crises, or the need to rely on others for sustenance. She enjoys social dignity and isn’t burdened by such hardships. While Arogyam is a Vannar (dhobi), Sedal was pushed into the Devadasi system and Dhanabhagyam is a sex worker. Caste is a big problem for all three of them. Survival itself is a challenge, compounded by the stigma attached to their professions. The women in my novels are all drawn from the life I’ve lived; they lived in my time, who in one way or another reflected the realities of the landscape in which I lived. I wonder what could be the reason why I wrote too many women. Perhaps it is because women tend to be the ones who communicate the most, expressing their grief through tears. Perhaps it was their relentless cry to be heard, their unending tears, that compelled me to write about them.
Your writing has been praised for capturing the dialects, idioms, and registers of various communities in Tamil Nadu. How important is it for you to preserve and represent the cultural diversity of the region in your works?
The basic purpose of literature is to document the cultural intricacies of a given geographical landscape, and characters and language play important roles in achieving this objective. The study of literary works is not primarily aimed at understanding the individual joys, sorrows, and celebrations of people. Instead, its significance lies in documenting the specific terrain, the inhabitants of a particular region, the prevailing era, and the activities practiced by the community. While times and individuals may evolve, written literature remains a constant. Literature is the best tool for gaining insights into the lives of people belonging to a particular ethnicity or race. Histories can be inaccurately recorded for political or personal reasons, but writers should refrain from altering facts for their own agenda, be it political or personal. The lives that have already been lived constitute the foundation and heritage of today’s society. Literature contributes to building this foundation and heritage for future generations, whether it is in the form of local or regional literature.
My story, ‘Pethavan,’ addresses the issue of honour killings in Tamil Nadu, shining light on a problem that continues to take place all over India. On the other hand, my novel, Vaazhga Vaazhga talks about the plight of women who are coerced into attending political gatherings during Tamil Nadu elections. It narrates the tragic incident of a stampede that resulted in the loss of lives. It is not a figment of my imagination; it is a poignant account of the women who lost their lives while awaiting the arrival of former Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, Jayalalitha. Such incidents are not exclusive to Tamil Nadu; they occur elsewhere as well. For instance, when Union Home Minister Amit Shah attended a public meeting in Mumbai, numerous women who were compelled to attend the event died. Instead of writing about women who came for 500 rupees and lost their lives, what else can I write a novel about?
Women are often offered money to attend political rallies. This is done to show a large crowd and to showcase the leader’s influence. It’s not an organic crowd. The leaders of all political parties know that the crowd comes together for money. The media knows it. But it will not open its mouth. If you read Vaazhga Vaazhga, you will know how elections the Indian democracy prides itself on take place and how people experience them.
Could you elaborate on your approach to using fiction as a tool for social commentary?
I don’t believe that a literary work can be the most effective tool for reforming society. In a country like India, where a large part of the population is illiterate, and where only a fraction of those who can read actually engage with short stories and novels, it’s unrealistic to expect books to drive social change. In today’s world, even a highly acclaimed book, considered the best in its category, may struggle to sell a thousand or two thousand copies a year. Believing that such books alone can change society would be naive. Consider the popularity of astrology-based books, which can fetch lakhs of rupees in sales. On the other hand, holy texts like the Gita, widely read and discussed in India, as well as the Bible and the Quran, which have a global readership, were written with the intention of reforming society. But do these texts genuinely contribute to social reform? Do they address issues of social justice and morality? What effect do ‘varnashrama dharma’ and ‘manuneeti’ have on India? It’s essential to reflect on whether these ancient texts have effectively shaped the society they were meant to reform. While I do not expect my novels and short stories to serve as instruments of social reform, I also do not wish for them to become tools of destabilization for society.
