Sugandhi Alias Andal Devanayaki

by T. D. Ramakrishnan

  ‘My mother,’ she said.

  He was furious at her reply. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked. ‘A pen?’ she said. ‘No. A torture pen. I’ll push it inside you if you lie to me.’ She looked at the pen in fear. It was three times as large as an ordinary pen. It had a sharp edge and metal thorns fixed to it. When Caesar pushed a button on it, a red light flashed in her face. As she stood in fear, not knowing what would happen next, two soldiers pushed her back onto the cot.

  Caesar asked once more, ‘Who is Meenakshi Rajarathinam?’ The moment she replied, ‘My mother,’ the pen was pushed inside her vagina. She screamed at the electric current that shook her body. Finally, she broke down and said, ‘It’s Sugandhi, who was in the Iyakkam. Sugandhi is Meenakshi Rajarathinam.’

  ‘Oh, now you are on track, you bitch.’ He pulled the pen out. The thorns tore her flesh. She quickly replied to all his questions. If she delayed even for a little while, he would use the pen until she screamed for mercy.

  Yamuna too was being interrogated in the same way in the next room. Colonel Rodriguez was more cruel than Caesar. He did not even give Yamuna the time to take her clothes off. He hit her until her breasts and nose bled, and burnt her around her navel and nipples with his cigarette. After that, he entered her. But the next stage was different. Instead of the torture pen, he used the ‘raping robot’. The robot’s hands were cold. She felt her ribs cracking under its strength. Its iron kiss was horrifying. When it entered her, she nearly collapsed with pain. She was sobbing as she answered the colonel’s questions about Gayathri and Juliet. And when she refused to speak about Hume and Andrea, he brought out the torture pen as well.

  When the interrogation ended, Yamuna’s condition was worse than Arul’s. Both of them were put in cells for further questioning. A gynaecologist from Colombo arrived to treat them.

  Peter was tense when he left the Nelum Pokuna with Manju. Juliet had sent him a text message: ‘Peter, they suspect me. You escape. I will never betray you.’ The words were like a bullet flying towards his forehead. Peter was thinking about his baby. ‘How can I escape and leave her to die?’ Manju could sense Peter’s anxiety. She poured him a glass of whiskey.

  ‘What happened? Why are you worried?’

  ‘We didn’t see Juliet when we left.’

  ‘Oh! Are you worried about that?’

  ‘She is pregnant.’

  ‘So you are worried about the baby.’

  ‘Yes. She might have a miscarriage if she exerts herself like this.’

  ‘Nothing will happen. Even if it does, just take another chance. If you want to be a father, I am ready.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Peter said, and showed her Juliet’s message.

  She was shocked. She immediately called Samaraveera and told him that she wanted to go back as her mother was ill. He arranged tickets for the evening flight.

  My conscience accused me of betraying the woman I loved and abandoning my dream project on Rajini. But I quickly packed and left for the airport with Manju.

  On the way, she showed me her iPhone. There was a video in it. An S-Class Benz with a CHOGM number plate was coming from Liberty Plaza car park minutes after the inaugural ceremony, and moving towards the venue. Acting on suspicion, the soldiers stopped the car near the Natural History Museum. Manju said, ‘Peter, minutes after the driver got out, the car exploded. The security officers were killed. The government has hushed it up. It is said that a woman without hands was driving the car. There are pictures of her on WhatsApp. It is said that after the explosion, when the flames were rising, she flew into the sky. Facebook comments corroborate this story.’

  I was shocked by the pictures. It was Devanayaki. I returned the phone to Manju.

  ‘Anyway, we are safe,’ she said.

  ‘But how can a woman without hands drive a car? Then fly to the skies?’

  ‘I’m sure she would have had people to help her. These are grossly exaggerated stories. Maybe she lost her hands in the explosion. Soldiers are known for making up such tales.’

  When the aircraft took off, I saw Devanayaki. From a burning Lanka, she was coming to Kanthalur with me. She had placed one foot on Sigiriya and the other on Sripada. I could hear Arulmozhi Nangai’s song:

  I am sad sad sad

  I am mad mad mad

  Kill me kill me kill me

  Fuck me fuck me fuck me

  I am one who has lost her dreams

  Forgotten poetry

  Burnt love from her heart

  PS

  Insights

  Interviews

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  Translator’s Note

  PRIYA K. NAIR

  A Conversation with T.D. Ramakrishnan

  Translator’s Note

  Priya K. Nair

  T.D. Ramakrishnan’s novels have complex structures that offer plural perspectives, multiple modes of narration and a relentless revision of authorized history. Memories mingle with fables, blurring the boundaries of fact and fiction.

  Malayalam literature written in the late fifties and sixties revealed the impact of modernism, but the criticism against such works was that the writers had never experienced the horrors of the World Wars or the existentialist angst that troubled the European writers, and that the modernist trends in these works were only copied from the west. In the late sixties, with O.V. Vijayan’s The Legends of Khasak, postmodernism made its presence felt in Malayalam literature. Writers subverted the linear narrative structure and dealt with themes that had not been discussed before.

  Malayalam literature of contemporary times displays disillusionment with the communist movement, the multiple effects of the gulf diaspora, the rise of consumerism and the increasing dependence on technology for entertainment and information. The youth displays a conscious ignorance of politics and is immersed in the extensive possibilities of state of the art technology.

  T.D. Ramakrishnan has made a mark in Malayalam literature by using the extensive possibilities of alternative history. He has succeeded in mixing myth and history with impeccable ease. In Malayalam, C.V. Raman Pillai’s Marthandavarma was the first novel to experiment with history. For years after that, history remained strictly an objective background against which plots played out. In an effort to problematize the discourse of accepted history, T.D. Ramakrishnan in his novel Francis Itty Cora explores the events of local history mixing it with myth and memory. In Sugandhi Alias Andal Devanayaki, the author uses the recorded history of the Eelam movement in Sri Lanka, but he universalizes the struggle for freedom by mixing it with the invented myth of Devanayaki who valiantly fought against the atrocities of King Mahinda using her brains as well as her body. He suggests that Devanayaki is reincarnated whenever women are exploited. Each woman has a Devanayaki within her who rebels against the cruelties of a patriarchal power structure. This very political novel provides an insight into the quest for identity that has become a mark of the contemporary world. Human beings marginalized because of gender, race, religion or politics strive for existence in a hostile world that is becoming increasingly fascist in its outlook. Though the novel is about the Eelam movement in Sri Lanka, the author understands that freedom of individuals is a highly contested issue everywhere in the contemporary world. He reiterates that women and children are always the most affected during times of violence – state sponsored or revolutionary. The fable of Devanayaki is a tale of resistance against the exploitation of women.

  T.D. Ramakrishan’s fictional narratives also display the characteristics of ‘auto-modernity’ as he uses the extensive possibilities of technology. The internet becomes a mode to express autonomy as characters slip into various identities with protean ease. Technology is used in unexpected ways, challenging traditional concepts of knowledge, culture and writing.

  Most of the fiction written in Malayalam is located in Kerala. Very rarely are narratives placed outside this space. Local colour and flavour play a very important part in novels and poems. But T.D. Rama
krishnan’s narrative spaces are never confined to the geographical terrain of Kerala. Itty Cora travels the world and Sugandhi, though set in Sri Lanka, brings the world into its ambit. The author uses a large canvas to depict his fictional narratives and, in so doing, he often challenges cartography, implying that borders are abstract and cannot be reduced to mere lines that exist to exclude. Travelling becomes a crucial feature in his texts, hinting at possibilities that have been overlooked by history.

  The author is very conscious of the power of literature as something that can be used to resist fascist ideologies. His novel can be seen as a powerful articulation against authoritarian power structures. He firmly believes that the artist must question regimes that turn a blind eye towards stark realities.

  A Conversation with T.D. Ramakrishnan

  Priya K. Nair: Sugandhi Alias Andal Devanayaki is set in Sri Lanka. What was your motivation in choosing this space?

  T.D. Ramakrishnan: I have been keenly following the political and social changes in Sri Lanka for the past twenty-five years. Initially, I was inspired by the freedom movement in Sri Lanka. From my limited experience then, I’d assumed that this was a revolutionary movement, much like the movement led by Che Guevara. But after the assassination of Rajiv Gandhi, I grew suspicious about the modus operandi of this movement. A truly revolutionary movement would not use suicide bombers. They will not hire killers. Revolutions aim at removing the class of exploiters, but I cannot condone the murder of innocents. Any revolution needs to be democratic, otherwise its disintegration is inevitable. Sri Lanka is a lesson that teaches us the need for democracy within a revolt. A leader who makes undemocratic decisions will cause untold harm to the multitude.

  I read Tamil literature, particularly Sri Lankan Tamil literature. I know that the political scenario in Sri Lanka is quite complex. There is state sponsored violence on one side, and the extremely violent Tamil movement on the other. I thought of finding out whether there was anyone who spoke of peace. I came to know that there was indeed a group of people who were against violence of any kind. There were writers, journalists, human rights activists – the intellectual elite, so to speak – but unfortunately, most of them were silenced. Some of them were deported, others killed. The violent movements preyed upon them. The genocide filled me with angst. Geographically, Sri Lanka is quite close to Kerala. I was born and brought up in Eyyal, in Thrissur. There were many people who went to Sri Lanka to look for work. Though there are many connections with this land, not much creative writing from India has focused on Sri Lanka. Most of the narratives produced have been partisan in nature. I wanted to write about the people who spoke for peace.

  PKN: Your novels, quite unlike other Malayalam novels, choose locales other than Kerala for the stories to unfold. Why?

  TDR: In the twenty-first century, literature has attained a global dimension. Not just literature, all discourses have acquired transnational characteristics. The contemporary age is marked by increased mobility. The movement of people across the globe has opened up multiple variations in the techniques of storytelling. The space in which a story unfolds is vast. One of the major problems that a writer faces today is to get people to read. They have many sources of entertainment, and so one way to capture their attention is to use literature to open new vistas of knowledge to them, to talk of new spaces. Literature is constantly reinventing itself.

  I have tried to address the world in my fiction, I have attempted to speak to a global audience and hence, translation is vital.

  PKN: In your fictional oeuvre, you often problematize myth and history. Could you speak about that?

  TDR: A writer has to seek new strategies – one way is to problematize myth and history. In my novel, Francis Itty Cora, I have quoted Umberto Eco: ‘Why write novels? To rewrite history.’

  Accepted history is the voice of the power structure. This implies that the discourse of history is not objective or neutral. There are silences within the discourse of history. The marginalized have no space here and hence, history ought to be problematized. This opens up many possibilities for creative writers. So we have to explore the possibility of alternative histories, a discourse that challenges accepted notions that exist in the fields of sociology, anthropology and politics.

  Myths have, from time immemorial, been the repository of human imagination. Myths travel from one person to another, and in the course of this travel, they change. This change is a clear indicator of the strength of human imagination. It has an aesthetics of its own. And a myth is a collaborative effort. It has political undercurrents. That is what makes it organic. When myth and history are used in a narrative, new dimensions open up before us. Myths have fascinated me, as have the silences in history – and my narratives blend myths and silences.

  Myths should never be confused with events, or what can be called reality. Myths should be approached aesthetically. The pushpaka vimanam in the Ramayana is a brilliant example of heightened imagination – never to be confused with reality.

  Some of the myths in north Kerala, like the Mappila Theyyam, are not very old. Myths can be generated even in contemporary society. In such a situation, myths become socio-political interventions. They open up infinite possibilities without any conclusion or end. I have created myths of my own which I have used in my novels. Andal Devanayaki is not an existing myth.

  PKN: Your novels have been categorized as postmodern narratives. Was this a conscious attempt?

  TDR: I have never tried consciously to write in a particular mode or use a specific technique. I can’t write in that manner. For me, a particular idea or incident comes to mind and then I develop it into a story. I got the idea for this novel from Satchidanandan’s poem ‘Andal’.

  Magical realism is a technique that most academics and critics have found in my novels. I believe that human imagination is magical. I indulge in wild fantasies that may appear absurd, but I attempt to take a quantum jump into meta-reality.

  PKN: Sugandhi reflects stark reality too, doesn’t it?

  TDR: A work of fiction is not a photocopied image of social reality. It is a mixture of reality and meta-reality. This novel is a reaction to certain social issues that disturbed me. I was very close to several writers who belonged to Sri Lanka. I don’t know where many of them are now; whether they survived the civil war or not. Shobasakthi (Antonythasan Jesuthasan) and V.I.S. Jayapalan have shared many experiences with me. I got a glimpse into the world of terror that they lived in by speaking to them. They just told me about the atrocities they were subjected to. War, whatever kind of war it may be, is a saga of violence and the worst affected are always women and children. But if I just put these events in my novel, I don’t think that people would want to read it.

  A writer is definitely a social activist, but not just a social activist. His social responsibility is rendered through his art. His creative output triggers thought. Writing is a political activity – it is a micro-level intervention, a rebellion against power structures.

  A philosopher or a politician might suggest solutions to social crises, but a writer cannot put forward any answers. The human race has, at many stages and in many different spaces, made attempts to establish peace and to ensure the progress of humanity. Confucius, the Buddha and Marx have proposed ideologies to ensure peace and equality but, despite their interventions, violence and selfishness have only escalated.

  I cannot categorically state what is right or wrong – that is relative. When joint families disintegrated and gave way to nuclear families, we bemoaned the loss of a tradition of communal living. Now we speak about polyamory, which is becoming increasingly common. It is the time-space framework that decides what is right or wrong.

  Creative writing is a continuing revolt against oppression – not a riot, but a rebellion. It is rebellion to rejuvenate the system. It becomes the recreation of existence.

  PKN: Could you comment on the current political scenario?

  TDR: Fascism has many faces, and it has surfaced in
many countries. The neo-Nazis and the radical left are gaining supporters. In some places the fascists are in power, in others they have a sizeable following.

  In Germany, 12 per cent support the neo-Nazis. The Le Pens in France also have their supporters. It is frightening when we remember that these countries witnessed the bitter realities of the World War caused by fascism. They should never go back. But 12 per cent is the frightening reality.

  In Sri Lanka and Burma too, such fascists have come to power. The ideology of fascism has been redefined. It uses new tactics. It comes in the guise of democracy or communism. It speaks of peace and development. It controls the corporate sector. Then, there is academic and intellectual fascism.

  In India, it is now that we see the murder of writers.

  What I say of Sri Lanka is applicable to the world at large. It can be about any country where the power structure turns against the people. In such places, women and children are the worst affected. That is why my novel focuses on the experiences of women in a country that is torn apart by internal strife. My fiction is an aesthetic rebellion against fascist structures.

  About the Book

  ‘A magical blend of myth and history.’ – Benyamin, author of Goat Days

  ‘A unique and powerful work of fiction that travels between the actual and the fantastic, the real and the surreal, the political and the sexual…’ – K. Satchidanandan

  When Peter Jeevanandam arrives in Sri Lanka to shoot a movie about a human rights activist ostensibly murdered by the LTTE, the government is more than willing to help. What they don’t know is that he is also searching for Sugandhi – an LTTE member, and the love of his life.