Wednesday, 28 May 2025

Dispossessed (வந்தாரங்குடி), a novel by Kanmani Gunasekaran Chapter 7



“This girl doesn’t listen to me, no matter how many times I tell her. I have been telling her to wear good clothes. Being an adolescent, she may attain her puberty at any time, and in that case, I can get her blouses and skirts for my daughter, but she doesn’t listen to me. Look at her, like a Karagattam dancer with her short skirt above her knees and men’s shirt. I won’t get blessed if I wash those clothes you throw at me at the cost of straining my hips. Will I? They are just fit to be used only as cleaning cloths.” When Ekali Arasayi entered the front yard, pushing her way through the wooden door, Bhuma Devi was holding the broom in her hands and tightening its hilt as if paying no heed to her rants. She didn’t like to risk inviting Arasayi’s further teasing and mockery by opening her mouth. Though her rants about the clothes looked innocuously fake, there was an element of expectation in them. Other girls of Bhuma’s age had already attained puberty and were waiting to get married off. Bhuma was the only one left out. The day the auspicious turmeric water is anointed on her when she reaches puberty, would be the day of celebration for Arasayi. Rasokkiyam would treat the washermen, barbers, and other labourers in the village with respect as his own siblings and offer them gifts as much as he could without any reservations.

Those inoffensive references about her puberty brought in her a mild shyness and unease. She swiftly ran into the house, faking anger on her face. Bhuma’s mother brought some parboiled rice in a winnow and said, “It seems that you won’t get good sleep if you don’t tease her. Do you?” as she emptied it into the Arasayi’s sari held like a cradle.

“This doesn’t concern you, Periyayi.” Arasayi winked her left eye tightly and gestured at Bhuma while dropping a pinch of parboiled rice back in the winnow, as it was not supposed to be left empty.

Bhuma came to the door with the broom in hand, obviously rushing to get out of Arasayi’s sight. She saw someone writing something on the temple walls. There were only two places in the village that the local villagers could depend on to get to know what was happening in the country, in the village, and particularly in the Vanniyar Association. The first one—the walls of the village tank’s sluice gates lying beyond the residential areas of Mandarakkuppam near the entrance to the village. The second one was this temple wall. Those walls facing the street would always have something scribbled on them. The recent sentence that was almost carved in the memory, watching them daily sitting on the veranda –The Vanniyar Association’s 5th Anniversary celebration.  Venue: Kalaivanar Hall—was now completely hidden with whitewash.

Four or five people were standing near to it. When she saw Arivazhagan, the most prominent among them, standing, she grew apprehensive. ‘If it is not Arivazhagan, Mama, who then could it be writing? As she craned her neck through them to see who it was, she felt a slight uneasiness building up in her. A split-second image of the pearl millet field flashed across her mind, assuming a mammoth proportion. She bent down and broomed the floor. She was caught in the dust, stirred up, settled in a layer on the street. He was Sikamani.

“Hey, Bhuma. You are wearing your shirt today. Aren’t you? Why? Didn’t you get any of your elder brother’s shirts today? Bring a mug of water.” She was embarrassed to see Arivazhagan standing there as she straightened up her torso. “This is just for casual wear at home, Mama.” She sprinted off into the house like a butterfly, tossing the broom onto the ground.

Arivazhagan, standing at the doorway, turned, hearing someone calling him out. It was Sadhasivam who came there after his work and asked him something as he was trying to park his bicycle. “Why are you standing here, Mama? You could have had a seat on the veranda.”

“I just need some water, Maple.” Arivazhagan, while standing near the veranda, glanced at the portrait of ‘Ayya’1 fixed near the door on the wall. He walked in, went near to it to have a close look at what was pasted at its bottom. The portrait was framed in glass along with the Rosokkiya Padaiyachi’s party membership receipt pasted on it. “Maple, with your father’s membership, you left everything. You don’t even show up your head to attend any meeting of the association. Our ayya has been struggling to get reservations for all of us. Hasn’t he?”

Unbuttoning his shirt, standing in the hall inside, Sadhasivam minced his words, dragging them hesitantly, “Nothing like that. It is because of my work…”

Arivazhagan stood, without knowing how to respond to him. He then said, as he went down walking on the street, “Maple, you are an educated man. You visit so many places. Is it worth a meaning if a person like you is indifferent in this manner? Who doesn’t have work?”

Bhuma extended the mug of water. He poured some water into his mouth, gargled it, spat it out, and then drank a little. She wanted to have a glance of Sikamani again, who was seen writing on the wall beyond the layer of man-heigh dust stirred up by the hooves of cattle.

She looked at him again on the pretext of collecting the dung dropped by the cattle that had left a while ago. It had been inscribed there on the wall in dark red “ Ayya calls upon. Why is this road picketing that lasted for one week? A grand meeting to explain it. Date: 05.10.86. Time: Evening 03.00. Venue: Cuddalore Manjai Nagar ground”. Her hands were now scratching the ground instead of picking the dung, as her eyes were busy crawling on the person who was writing while she was reading it.

“Do you need water?” When Arivazhagan asked Sikamani, the shocked Bhumadevi came to her senses, and she almost snatched the water mug with her dung-smeared hand from him.

Sadhasivam remained inside the home. He would have also, otherwise, been shocked had he heard Arivazhagan addressing Sikamani. Only when Sikamani, with a sudden jerk of his head, gestured at him with a brush in his hands, did it occur to Arivazhagan that Sikamani didn’t share a cosy relationship with her family.

Bhuma dropped the dung she was holding in her left hand along the shed and washed her hands with the remaining water from the mug. With an obvious effort to change the mood of the situation, Arivazhagan said to Bhuma, “Don’t be an indifferent man like your elder brother. Be supportive of our Ayya and association like your father. There is a general meeting in Cuddalore next week. Ayya is coming there. Your chithi and the akka of the house on that side are also attending that meeting. You should also come.”

Bhuma just nodded her head with a perfunctory expression of regards and stood there a while, looking back gently, pulling her head backward to see Sikamani, who was still busy with writing. The sparrows of the pearl millet fields fluttered up again in her heart.

                                                               *** Ended***    

Note:

1. Dr Ramdas, a local politician.  



Friday, 23 May 2025

A monarch of this land (ஒரு இந்நாட்டு மன்னர்) by Nanjil Nadan

 



This is an English translation of “Oru Innaattu Mannar”, a short story written by Nanjil Nadan. Translated into English by Saravanan Karmegam.

***

No one knew what his name was. Everyone, from children to elders, called him “Vaithiyar.”1  If the voter list is scrutinized, perhaps we may know his name. He had been voting either in the name of the late Kombaiya Devar or Nallathambi Konar, who left this country long ago, without obligating anyone to have the trouble of finding out his name. But it might not be possible in this village panchayat election. As the contenders Umaiyorubagan, holding the election symbol of “road roller,’ and Bhoodhalingam Pillai, holding the election symbol of “pumpkin,” were actually locals, no one dared to use Vaithiyar, who was known to everyone in the village, to cast a fake vote. ‘Vaithiyar’ was deeply saddened at the fact that he had been neglected completely in the hurly-burly of elections in the village. He was considerably annoyed that his democratic right, that he was enjoying till now, had been neglected today.

Both the political parties were equally disappointed that a vote was being wasted without any use. There was no one of his age alive in the village that might help out in knowing his name. Since ‘Vaithiyar’ was the one who shaved off the ‘first hair’ of most of the locally influential community men running the village affair after their birth, it was improbable that they knew his name.

Even the questions asked lightheartedly out of sheer curiosity to know his name had only invited a standard, nonchalant reply from him: “What is the use of knowing it ? Are you going to finalise any purchase of land in my name with that?” Living a life without even knowing his own name, it didn’t even occur to him that he had a vote to cast in his original name in the voter list.

There were two unknown names in the village voters list. Manikkkam, a supporter of “Pumpkin,” was bewildered while scrutinising the voter list, not knowing who they were. Vaithiyar’s face came for a second like a flash in his mind. The first name was Pugaiyilai Pillai. It couldn’t be his name. The second one was Ananja Perumal. Surmising that this name might belong to ‘Vaithiyar,’ he glanced through the age. Eighty-two. He jerked with excitement!

That village, colloquially known as Kochanallur and morphologically known as Kochadaiya Nallur, must have about a hundred houses. Among those hundred houses, there were seven houses that boasted scrupulous following of universal love for all the living beings on this earth, collectively known as “Saivaite village” or “Brahmin residence,” a name drawn either through their own clans or marriage alliances. (Let me declare in categorical terms that this distinction had been made strictly on the basis of population, and not based on class distinction.). Since the farmers were of the unanimous opinion that those who wore the ‘sacred thread’ were all ‘Iyers,’ they used to be jealous of the unity among Iyers, having no hint of how 'united' they were among themselves. Apart from these men, there were other Hindus subjected to class distinction, such as Nadars, Devars, Vannars (washermen), and Navithars (barbers), in an apparent display to prove the unity in the Hindu religion. Other than these people, there were people who were not very sure whether they were Christians or Hindus or not both. If you attempt an estimate on the basis of worship of deities, the list will grow endless with myriad forms of deities—Sudalaimadan, Enapechi, Isaki Amman, Theradi Madan, Pulai Madan, Muthu Pattan, Kazhu Madan, Vandi Marichan, Mundan, Mutharamman, Soolaipidari, Sandhanamari, Muppidari, etc.  

If you could prove that the aforesaid gods and goddesses were all Hindu deities by citing the examples of their glorious deeds in their various avatars, then those people would also be considered Hindus. On the other hand, if you followed a simple mathematical formula—A is equal to B, B is equal to C, so A must be equal to C—we could then establish them worshipping so-and-so gods and goddesses who were essentially Hindu deities and thus prove those people as Hindus beyond an iota of doubt. The Englishmen must have termed this land of so many castes, a multitude of deities, and various languages and cultures as India and its people Hindu, presumably to avoid all these unwarranted troubles. All the data-based boastful deliberations of godmen and jagathgurus on the percentage of Hindus in this country in fact do include these considerable numbers of people as well.

Even though Kochanallur could boast of all these qualities of Ramrajya, the election for village Panchayat president couldn’t be underrated. Cutthroat competition. The only comforting aspect of this election was that both the contestants belonged to the farmer community, from the same caste, and, very particularly, they were brothers-in-law. This ensured the absence of caste clashes despite a stiff competition between them. The entire village faced a dilemma to align itself on either side of the parties. Other than those hundred households, were found a Teppakulam with greenish layers of mosses, a Sathan temple on its embankment, some assorted places of worship, a dilapidated mandapam, a water point that functioned illegally there after seven o'clock, a dry ginger tea shop, a grocery shop that sold anything ranging from betel leaves to Tom Tom tonic at double its price, seven or eight coconut groves around, and twenty threshing fields and agricultural lands around it. It was good to see those plants and assets having no voting rights, lest they would have also faced the same embarrassment of being dependent on these two men like others in the village.

The guesswork and conventional estimate of vote share and who would get what were all that had occupied everyone’s mind. The “Pumpkin” candidate’s sister had come from Nankuneri a week ago, as she had a vote in this village. Would the ‘road roller’ candidate remain quiet after this news? A telegram was sent to his brother, who was working in Puliyankudi. He was instructed to come alone, not with his wife. She was Pumpkin’s sister. (The symbol refers to the candidate, and is used for convenience). What if she cast her vote in favour of Pumpkin notwithstanding the political standing of her husband? What is the use of a single vote that is added up to either side? Wasn’t it better if both of them didn’t turn up for casting their votes?

The observers guessed that the winning margin wouldn’t be more than ten votes, no matter who would win. The secretarial offices they opened on account of attending to election-related works were always filled with men. The expenses on betel leaves, beedi, dry ginger tea, vada, and cards shot up exponentially in geometric proportion as the date of the election was nearing. It was feared that the restiveness of having to face the election the next day might first grow into a fever and then into pneumonia. It was at that historical moment that Manikkam sped away from Pumpkin’s secretarial office.

As his face turned brighter as if he had tasted the success, he was propelled by an extraordinary thirst to prove the superlative historical truth beyond any doubt that Ananja Perumal was none other than ‘Vaithiyar.’ He knew where ‘Vaithiyar’ would be by now.

While Manikkam sped fast towards the Sathan temple, he was alerted by his intuition. ‘If I go by this straight route, the opponent party members might develop a suspicion as to why I have opted for this route. That too, when we have the election tomorrow, the suspicion would grow stronger. Any probe or investigation by the spies of the road roller in the event of me falling in their eyes will spoil everything. What if the opponent party men try their hand to win over the voter I have found with all my hard work squeezing out my brain?”

Patting himself for his intelligent idea that occurred at an opportune time, Manikkam took a roundabout way to Sathan temple. He went to the coconut nursery, going past the school and fence, walked on the ridges, and climbed on the wooden gate on the way, and then reached the temple from its rear. A shade of unease started building up in him as he grew uncertain whether he would be able to meet ‘Vaithiyar’ alone.

He came to the façade of the temple. Not a sparrow was seen around, as it was a cold month. That man sleeping like a bundle of dirty clothes, curling his body, almost cuddling along the wall in the northeastern corner, must be ‘Vaithiyar,’ he thought. With his eyes growing dim and his hands growing shaky, his shaving caused bruises along the ears as he lost control, Vaithiyar was thus reduced to this corner after he lost his job.

As it was past nine, he must have slept. Occasional coughs to prove his presence. Manikkam went near to the corner, stood there a while, and looked around. There was no one around. Who would come to this trivial corner when the entire village is reeling under the bustle of election fever?

He called out to Vaithiyar softly.

“Vaithiyar…hei….Vaithiyar”

No reply. Manikam’s words didn’t fall into his ears as he was sleeping, covering his ears. Manikkam shook that ‘human bundle.’ Showing no sign of urgency or excitement, Vaithiyar got up and stared at Manikkkam insouciantly.

“Why, is someone in the house…?”

Manikkam knew what that had meant. Had it been some other time, his reply would have been different. But today he was aware of the weight of one vote. He replied calmly.

“Nothing like that. I wanted to ask you something."

Terror settled in Vaithiyar's heart. Someone wakes him up in the dead of the night to ask him about something… It means… 

“Is your name Ananja Perumal?” Vaithiyar’s face brightened up with amazement. “Ah…what sort of rubbish is this? Just to know this, you are holding my throat now. Aren’t you?”

“Is it your name? Tell me.”

“Who’s told you all these? I forgot it long ago. What is the need for it now?”

“Save your breath now. Your name is in the voters list. I will come with a car tomorrow and take you along with me. You will get coffee and meals. If the men of the road roller ask you anything, just tell them no. You get me?”

The very thought that he was one of the many uncrowned princes of this secular democratic socialist republic and he also had the right to vote brought him a new vigour. His dull shoulders grew a little stronger with this sense of pride.

“Why should I bother telling them? That day, road roller’s men came to me and told me, - It is alright anyway that you had been casting your vote in the name of a dead person and an absconder till date. But if you come this time to vote at the insistence of anyone, you will then understand what it means. We will hand you over to the police—that is why I keep myself away from all these. They are brothers-in-law, and they may fight today. Tomorrow they will make up as a pair and go to the market holding their hands. I just keep myself aloof without getting into unnecessary problems. Now my name is in the list of voters. I am not even aware of it this long!”

“Even now no one knows about it. I only found it out. Your name must have been there earlier too. But who else other than me would look that closely? Leave it. I will tell them to buy you a new dhoti and a shirt. You must come with me in the morning, eat idlis, put on your new clothes, and then cast your vote. I will teach you everything. You shouldn’t be friendly with anyone. Is that okay?”

“Will I say anything to anyone after this? That too, after you told this much?”

Manikkam walked to the Pumpkin’s house with his chest swelled with pride at the assurance from Vaithiyar. 

The ambience there looked resplendent, like a royal court. Pumpkin was sitting in the centre as the most prominent figure there. All the benches and chairs of that house were found scattered all around. The queue of men who wanted to show their allegiance. A couple of plates full of betel leaves. Cauldrons boiling dry ginger tea. The men who developed sore throats due to recurrent yells of slogans along the streets around those hundred houses were speaking among themselves in distorted, hoarse voices. The preparations for the next day's coffee were on.

There was a steady simmer as the cauldron making idlis was placed on mammoth stoves. Since pumpkin was the election symbol, lots of pumpkin were neatly cut into pieces and heaped on a palm leaf for making sambar. The bundles of banana leaves were occupying most of the available spaces. Clanking of utensils. Five bags of pumpkin to be distributed in case of winning in the election were kept stacked up against the wall.

It was said that the road roller also had bought two bags of pumpkins to break them by tossing them on the streets, hoping with certainty that Pumpkin would lose in the election. There was a huge demand for pumpkin in the Kanagamoolam market. A big landlord in that area seemed to have planned to cultivate pumpkins across Melaichi Konam village, having in mind the next election and the need to cater to the demand for pumpkins.

Seven or eight bull drawn carts and two rented cars were kept ready to go to the polling booth tomorrow. Needless to say, that road roller must have also arranged similar preparations. They faced only one discomfort—they wouldn’t be able to make sambar with a road roller the way their opponent party was making sambar with pumpkin. One of the intelligent chaps among them offered a suggestion that the road roller, which is known otherwise as ‘urulai’ in Tamil, which means potato too. So, it was decided that they could make sambar with it.

The most notable aspect of this election was the total number of voters, which stood at two hundred and seventy. Even if the voter turnout was a hundred percent, they could all be transported with sixteen bull-drawn carts and four rented cars. Not only that, the government elementary school where the election was held was not even half a furlong from any corner of the village by walk. But would it be right to make the uncrowned princes of this republic walk all the way to the booth?

The next day, it dawned with a full festive mood. Urgency and anxiety were vying with each other.   The people were so restless that they would have pulled the sun out of its place with a rope had it not risen in time, like deliberately ripening the fruit by beating it when it takes more time to ripen.  

Pumpkin’s son and daughter-in-law went out to bring the villagers at six o'clock. Following them, Road Roller’s son and daughter-in-law did the same. All the preparations were in full swing for morning coffee. Manikkam had kept ‘Vaithiyar’ in a safe place in the early morning. He made him have a bath in the well, had him put on his new dhoti and shirt, and decked him out with vibhooti. Vaithiyar was so delighted and thought he could receive such a treatment if the elections were held every month.

The polling started with inordinate haste after ten o'clock. The dust was stirred up by the taxis. The bull-drawn carts brought pots of water, poured it onto the street, and plastered it. The cars entered the streets, which had never seen even a bicycle, and brought the voters to the booth. The children were offered coffee, snacks, taxi ride when they accompanied their parents while polling. Some of them flatly refused to get into the bullock cart and insisted on a car instead. How would they afford missing all this luxury if not at the time of election?

Both the contestants were present in the polling booth. Their representatives were sitting in a row on either side. The school teachers, as the government employees, were there. Two policemen with lathis were on their tight vigil, as it was feared that tension might erupt anytime. They didn’t bring rifles, considering the lathi itself was too much for those farmers.

When ‘Vaithiyar, alias Ananja Perumal, got off the car in front of the polling booth, everyone raised their eyebrows in amazement. In immaculate white, and Vibhuti all over his body embodying a pure Saivaite, he evinced an extraordinary interest in everyone.

“Son of a dirty bitch… How dare he come here to cast his fake vote, that too in the local body election?” The road roller seethed with anger.

Since it was past twelve, the crowd had started dwindling. When Vaithiyar stood in the queue, there were only seven or eight people standing in front of him. A couple of men were hesitantly standing afar, possibly in a dilemma whether to join after him or after their meals.

After two minutes of waiting, Vaithiyar went out of the queue and started walking fast. Pumpkin raised his eyebrows as if to know what had happened to him. The road roller stroked his moustache and threw an insulting stare at Pumpkin as if showing his resolve not to allow Vaithiyar to cast his fake vote against him.

Manikkam followed Vaithiyar who had run away from the queue and caught him in a couple of steps.

“You, old bugger! What the hell happened to you? Are you running to the cremation ground?”

“Ah…, don’t shout at me. I’ll be back in a minute.” – His voice carried some urgency.

“I am just asking you the same. Where the heck are you going? Have you gone mad?”

“Wait… I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Go anywhere you want, but only after casting your vote.”

“What sort of unwanted trouble is this? You have brought me here even before I could wash my face. After that, I had seven or eight idlis. How would that get digested at this old age? It will stop in a while. Just leave me a minute so that I can do it.”

Before Vaithiyar arrived there after attending to his nature call, the polling had been stopped during lunch break. As it was potentially dangerous to keep Vaithiyar waiting there, they took him in the car, fed him in the house, brought him again, and made him stand as the first person to vote. He threw his eyes valiantly around like a ‘Sooran’ in the Sooran festival. The polling resumed after the lunch break. Vaithiyar entered the polling booth, holding a voter sheet given to him in the name of Ananja Perumal. The road roller was eagerly waiting for him to teach him a lesson before he would leave the booth. Vaithiyar gave the sheet to the first polling officer.

The road roller roared once.

“Hey Vaithiyar, do you have the vote?”

Vaithiyar gazed at him doubtfully.

“Yes, I have. See it yourself.”

Road Roller was astounded at seeing the sheet Vaithiyar gave him. Pumpkin’s face displayed a secretive streak of a smile at seeing the shock on the road roller’s face.

“Is your name Ananja Perumal?”

“Yes. Do you think I have come here to cast my fake vote?”

The road roller was still suspicious. He then checked the voter list once again. Again he was shocked a little. In a short while, a grin of contempt spread across his face.

“We all know that you have been casting your fake vote in the name of those who ran away from this country. Now you have come here to cast your vote on behalf of a dead person. Haven’t you?”

“No… My name is Ananja Perumal. I won’t lie. Will I?”

“Let it be Ananja Perumal or Erinja Perumal or whatever. But the Ananja Perumal in the list is a woman.”

“What, woman!”

“Then what? Get your eyes wide open and see yourself. This is the elder sister of our grandpa, Colombo Pillai. It’s been ten years now since she died. Here, you are standing to cast her vote! You useless moron! Get out of my sight.”

Not knowing what to do, Vaithiyar looked at Pumpkin helplessly. Pumpkin threw his furious stare at him as if sinking his teeth into him and tearing him apart.

                                                      ***End***

Note:

1.    "Vaithiyar" denotes barber in a respectable way. 

Wednesday, 21 May 2025

மரப்பசு- தி. ஜானகிராமன் எழுதிய அழகான குப்பை நாவல்.

 


தலைப்பைப் பார்த்தவுடன் ஜானகிராமனின் விசுவாச கோடிகள் என்னைத் தொலைத்துக் கட்ட கங்கணம் கட்டிக்கொண்டு வரப்போகிறார்கள். சமீபமாக முகநூலில் ஜானகிராமனின் இரண்டு நாவல்களை குற்றியிரும் குலையுயிருமாக நையப்புடைக்கிறாகள். ஒன்று அம்மா வந்தாள், இன்னொன்று மரப்பசு. பிறழ்வுகளைப் பேசும் படைப்புகளை நியாயப்படுத்தி தங்களை முற்போக்குவாதிகளாக்க் காட்டிக் கொள்வது ஒருவகையான fashion. இவ்வளவு நேர்த்தியாக பெண்கள் பற்றியும் அவர்கள் தனித்தன்மை பற்றியும் தனது படைப்புகளில் பேசிய தி. ஜா தனது மகள் கலப்புத் திருமணம் செய்ததை ஒப்புக்கொள்ளவில்லை என்பதை அவர் மகள் உமா மஹேஸ்வரி ஒரு நேர்காணலில் சொல்லி இருக்கிறார்.  So what we speak, most of the time, is not exactly we want to follow.   

காலங்காலமாக பெண்ணியப்பார்வையிலும் பெண்களின் சுதந்திரப்போக்கையும் மையமாக வைத்து வெகுவாக விவாதிக்கப்பட்ட, பலராலும் பெரிதும் சிலாகிக்கப்பட்ட நாவல் வரிசையில் தி. ஜாவின் மரப்பசுவும் ஒன்று. அவர் எழுதிய பல சாகாவரம் பெற்ற நாவல்களில் ஆங்கிலத்தில் மொழியாக்கம் செய்யப்பட்டுள்ள மூன்றே நாவல்களில் இதுவும் ஒன்று. கல்லூரி நூலகத்தில் இதனுடைய ஆங்கில மொழிபெயர்ப்பைப் பார்த்திருக்கிறேன். “Wooden Cow” என்ற தலைப்பில் லக்ஷ்மி கண்ணன் மொழி பெயர்த்திருப்பார். ஆங்கிலத்தில் வந்திருக்கும் மற்ற இரண்டு நாவல்கள் அம்மா வந்தாள் மற்றும் செம்பருத்தி. மொழிபெயர்ப்பாளர்கள் பெயர் நினைவில்லை. மோகமுள்ளை இதுவரை யாரும் ஆங்கிலத்தில் முயற்சிக்கவில்லையா அல்லது தற்போதைய விற்பனை இலக்கியமாக மாறுவதற்கு அதற்குத் தகுதி இல்லையா தெரியவில்லை.

வாட்ஸப்பிலும் சமூக ஊடகங்களிலும் தங்களது தனிப்பட்ட பிரச்சினையை quotes மாதிரி வைத்து சம்பந்தப்பட்டவர் தான் நினைப்பதைப் பார்த்து தெரிந்துகொள்ளட்டும் என்று ஒருவர் நினைப்பதைப்போன்ற ஒரு மனநிலையில்தான் ஜானகிராமன் மரப்பசு நாவலை எழுதியிருக்க வேண்டும் என்று நினைக்கிறேன். அவர் எழுதிய அனைத்து நாவல்களையும் படித்தபின்புதான் இந்த மாதிரியான ஒரு எண்ணம் எனக்குத் தோன்றுகிறது. அவருடைய மற்ற பெண் கதாப்பாத்திரங்களைப் போல நெஞ்சை நிமிர்த்திக்கொண்டு தைரியமாக வலம் வரும் பெண்ணைப் போல அம்மணி எனக்குத்  தோன்றவில்லை. தன்னை ஏமாற்றிவிட்ட யாரோ ஒரு பெண்ணை intellectual vengeance போல பழிவாங்க இந்த நாவலை எழுதி ஜானகிராமன் தனது ஆதங்கத்தையும் ஆத்திரத்தையும் தீர்த்துக்கொண்டாரோ என்னவோ. ஜானகிராமன் மீது எந்தக்குறையும் இல்லை. தனக்குத் தோன்றியதை எழுதிவிட்டு அவர் பாட்டுக்கு அமைதியாகத்தான் இருக்கிறார். மரப்பசுவைப் பற்றி அவர் எங்கும் பிரஸ்தாபித்து இருக்கிறாரா என்றால் அதுவும் இல்லை.  நாம்தான் அம்மணி அப்படி அம்மணி இப்படி என்று ஏதோ இல்லாத பிம்பத்தை அந்தக் கதாபாத்திரம் மீது ஏற்றி பெண்ணியத்தையும் பெண் சுதந்திரத்தையும் கோணலான திசையில் புரிந்து கொண்டிருக்கிறோம்.

சிறுவயதில் கணவனை இழந்த பெண்ணொருத்தி மொட்டையடிக்கப் பட்டு வெண்ணிற உடை அணிவிக்கப்பட்டு அலங்கோலப்படுத்தப் படும்போது அதனைப் பார்த்து வெறுக்கும் அம்மணி இந்த மாதிரியான ஒரு சூழலில் தன்னை திணித்துவிடக்கூடாது என்று நினைக்கும் இடத்தில் தனித்து நிற்பது உண்மைதான். ஒரு சமூக அமைப்பில் ஒரு பெண்ணுக்கு இழைக்கப்படும் அநீதியில் இருந்து கற்றுக்கொள்ள வேண்டிய பாடம் ஒன்று அதை மாற்ற வேண்டும்; மாற்றப் போராட வேண்டும் அல்லது அதற்குக் காரணமான அத்தனைக் காரணிகளிலிருந்தும் தன்னால் முடிந்த அளவு விலகி இருந்து உடல் மற்றும் மனம் இரண்டின் integrity என்ற விஷயத்தை சமரசம் செய்துகொள்ளாமல் இருக்க வேண்டும்.

ஆனால் அம்மணி செய்தது என்ன? வெறும் பித்துக்குளித்தனம் அன்றி வேறொன்றும் இல்லை. உலகில் இருக்கும் எல்லோரின் மீதும் வார்த்தைகளால் அன்பு காட்டினால் மட்டும் போதாது, அரவணைத்து ஆற்றுப்படுத்த வேண்டும்; முடிந்தால் அவர்களை உடலளவில் திருப்திப்படுத்த வேண்டும். மூன்னூறு பெரிடம் அவள் உடலுறவு கொண்டிருக்கிறாள். மூவாயிரம் பேரை கட்டியணைத்து ஆற்றுப்படுத்தியிருக்கிறாள். இங்கு பெண் சுதந்திரமும் பெண்ணுக்குரிய தனித் தன்மையும் எங்கே வெளிப்படுகிறது என்று தெரியவில்லை.

கோபாலி என்பவன் ஒரு கோமாளியாகத்தான் என் கண்களுக்குத் தெரிகிறான். கோபாலி என்ற பெயரைத் தேர்ந்தெடுக்கும்போது இவனைப் போன்ற கோமாளிதான் உனக்கு லாயக்கு என்று தனது வஞ்சத்தைத் தீர்த்துக்கொண்டாரோ தி. ஜா. என்பது அவருக்குத்தான் வெளிச்சம். இந்தக் கோபா( மா)லியை இவனை ஆற்றுப்படுத்துகிறாள். அவனுடைய மகள் தன் வயதொத்த பெண் என்ற உண்மை தெரிந்தபோதும் அவனை தன்னுடைய உடலால் ஆற்றுப்படுத்துகிறாள். அவன் மூலம் கிடைக்கும் தொடர்புகள் அனைத்தையும் ஆற்றுப்படுத்துகிறாள். அதாவது எல்லோரும் என்னிடம் வந்து படுத்துவிட்டுப் போங்கள் என்று சொல்லாமல் சொல்கிறாள். பின்னர் வெளிநாட்டில் புரூஸ் என்பவன்….இப்படி பட்டியல் நீளுகிறது. இன்னொரு கட்டத்தில் தான் தனியாக வீட்டில் விட்டுவிட்டு வந்த மரகதத்தை கோபாலி பதம் பார்த்து விடுவானோ என்று பயப்படுகிறாள். தான் பலரிடம் படுத்தாலும் மரகதம் அப்படி ஆகிவிடக்கூடாது என்று நினைக்கிறாள். இது ஏன் என்று புரியவில்லை. தன்னைப்போல எல்லோரும் இந்த உலகத்தை குறிப்பாக பெண் உடலுக்கு நாயாய் அலையும் அனைத்து ஆண் வர்க்கத்தையும் ஆற்றுப்படுத்தட்டுமே என்று மரகதத்தையும் அந்த வழியில் தள்ளிவிட அவள் ஏன் நினைக்கவில்லை? எங்கோ ஒரு மூலையில் அவளுக்கு உறைத்திருக்கத்தான் செய்கிறது. தான் ஆற்றுப்படுத்தவில்லை. தான் செய்துகொண்டிருப்பது வெறும் உடல் சுகத்துக்குத்தான் என்ற உண்மை அவளுக்கு எங்கோ உறைத்துக்கொண்டுதான் இருந்திருக்கிறது.

அம்மணியை முன்னிலைப்படுத்தி பெண்கள் புரிந்து கொள்ள வேண்டிய ஒரு கதாப்பாத்திரம் அவள் என்று விவாதம் புரியும் அனைத்து விமர்சகர்களுக்கும் பெண்ணியத்தைப் புரிந்துகொண்டதாகக் காட்டிக்கொள்ளும் பெண்களுக்கு சில கேள்விகள்.

இந்த சமூக அமைப்பை பார்த்து வெறுப்படையும் அம்மணி அதில் ஏகோபித்த ஆதிக்கம் செலுத்தும் ஆண் வர்க்கத்திற்கு தன்னுடைய உடலை எந்த ஒரு வரைமுறையும் இல்லாமல் எப்படி தாரை வார்க்கத் துணிகிறாள்? இவள் ஆற்றுப்படுத்துவதாக நினைக்கும் ஓர் இனம் ஆண் இனமாக மட்டும் இருப்பது ஏன்? பெண் இனமாக இருக்கலாம். சமுதாயத்தால் ஒதுக்கப்பட்ட, உரிமைகள் மறுக்கப்பட்ட பெண்களாகவோ குழந்தைகளாகவோ முதியவர்களாகவோ பிச்சைக்காரகளாகவோ கணவனால் கைவிடப்பட்டவர்களாகவோ இருக்கலாமே. அது என்ன இவள் உடலை அனுபவிக்கத் துடிக்கும் ஆண்களை மட்டும் வரைமுறை இல்லாமல் ஆற்றுப்படுத்த நினைக்கிறாள். இது வெறும் சுயநலம்தானே. ஆக தான் ஒரு கட்டுப்பாட்டுக்குள் இருந்தால் ஒருவனிடம் மட்டும்தான் படுக்க முடியும். இப்படி கட்டுப்பாடு இல்லாமல் திரிந்தால் கண்டவனிடம் படுக்கும் சுதந்திரம் கிடைக்கும் என்று நினைக்கும் ஒரு விட்டேத்திப் பெண்ணாக ஏன் அவள் இருக்க முடியாது.? அவளுடைய கல்வி, பொருளாதாரம், செல்வாக்கு இதையெல்லாம் காரணம் காட்டி அவள் செய்வது உலகை ஆற்றுப்படுத்தவே அன்றி வேறு எதுவும் இல்லை என்று நொண்டிச்  சாக்கு சொல்வதும், அவளைப்போல எந்த ஒரு வசதியும் வாய்ப்பும் கிடைக்கபெறாத பெண் ஒருத்தி இப்படி ஆற்றுப்படுத்தக் கிளம்பினால் இவள் என்ன இப்படி அரிப்பெடுத்துப்போய் தேவடியாத்தனம் செய்கிறாள் என்று கிண்டல் செய்வதும் நகைமுரண். பெண்ணியத்தைப் புரிந்து கொள்ளும் விதமே பிறழ்வுகளைச் செய்பவர் யார் என்பதைப் பொறுத்துதான் என்ற போக்கு முற்றிலும் பத்தாம் பசலித் தனமானது; போலியானது.

ஒரு பெண் தன்னுடைய சுதந்திரமான போக்கைப் பற்றி நினைக்கும்போது தன்னுடைய உடல்கூறைப் பற்றி கொஞ்சம் யோசித்தேயாக வேண்டும். அவள் உடல் விதைகளைப் பெற்று விளைவிப்பதற்காக உருவாக்கப்பட்டுள்ளது. வாங்கிக் கொள்ள ஒரு பெண் தயாரானால் குப்பையைக் கொட்டுவதற்கு இந்த ஆண் இனம் வரிசையில் கால்கடுக்க நிற்கத் தயாராக உள்ளது. தான் என்ன ஒரு குப்பைத் தொட்டியா என்ற ஒரு உடல் சார்ந்த மற்றும் சமூகம் சார்ந்த பிரக்ஞையும் ஒரு பெண்ணுக்குக் கண்டிப்பாக இருக்க வேண்டும். பத்து நிமிடங்களில் இழப்பேதும் இன்றி உதறிவிட்டு எழும் ஆண்களின் உடல் கூறு வேறு. அதை ஏற்றுக்கொள்ளும் பெண் ஒருத்தி பத்து மாதங்கள் சுமக்கவேண்டிய நிர்ப்பந்தத்திற்குத் தள்ளப்பட வாய்ப்பு உண்டு என்பது பெண் உடல் கூறு. இந்த நிலையில் எண்ணிலடங்கா ஆண்களை ஆற்றுப்படுத்துகிறேன் பேர்வழியென்று ஒவ்வொருவனிமும் இருந்து குப்பையை தனது உடலுக்குள் வாங்குவது எந்த மாதிரியான பெண் சுதந்திரம் என்று புரியவில்லை. பெண் என்பவள் ஆண்களின் குப்பைத் தொட்டியல்ல. அம்மணியும் அதைப் புரிந்துகொள்ளவில்லை. அவளைப் புரிந்துகொண்டதாக சொல்லிக்கொள்ளும் எவரும் இந்த உண்மையைப் புரிந்துகொள்ளவில்லை.

மரப்பசுவை ஒரு கதையாகப் படிப்பதோடு நிறுத்திக்கொள்ள வேண்டும். Flaubert’s Madam Bovary மாதிரி, D. H. Lawrance’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover மாதிரி. பிறழ்வுகளைச் சொல்லும் கதைகளைப் படிக்கும்போது இப்படியும் மனிதர்கள் இருக்கிறார்கள் அவர்களை நாம் புரிந்து கொள்ள வேண்டும் என்ற படிப்பினை மட்டுமே அந்த மாதிரியான படைப்புகளின் நோக்கமே தவிர எப்படிப்பட்ட பெண், பெண் வர்க்கத்திலேயே இப்படி ஒரு பாத்திரப்படைப்பு இருக்க முடியுமா, எல்லோரையும் உடலுறவில் திருப்திப்படுத்த எப்படிப்பட்ட பெருந்தனமையான மனம் வேண்டும் என்று தன் குடும்பம் என்ற ஒரு பாதுகாப்பு வளையத்துக்குள் இருந்துகொண்டு வெளியே நடக்கும் பிறழ்வுகளில் நியாயம் தேடுவது வக்கிரத்தின் உச்சம். அம்மணி தன் மனைவியாக இருந்தாலோ தங்கையாக இருந்தாலோ இப்படி நியாயம் தேடும் பெண்ணியவாதிகள் எங்கே போய் தலையை மறைத்துக்கொள்வார்கள் என்று தெரியவில்லை.

Ammani is just a deviation. Just a character unfit for the present society.

ரொம்ப புளகாங்கிதம் அடைய அவள் பெரிய கதாப்பாத்திரம் இல்லை. அப்படி புளகாங்கிதம் அடைய விரும்புவது ஆண்களாகவே இருப்பார்கள். அதில் பெரும்பான்மையானவர்கள் தனக்கொருத்தி இப்படி கிடைத்தால் நன்றாக இருந்திருக்குமல்லவா என்று நினைக்கும் ரகமாத்தான் இருப்பார்கள்.

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