Trial by Silence Read online

  PERUMAL MURUGAN

  trial by silence

  Translated from the Tamil by Aniruddhan Vasudevan

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Preface to the Tamil Edition

  Translator’s Note

  Trial by Silence

  Glossary

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  TRIAL BY SILENCE

  Perumal Murugan is the star of contemporary Tamil literature. An award-winning writer, poet and scholar, he has garnered both critical acclaim and commercial success for his vast array of work. Some of his novels have been translated into English to immense acclaim, including Seasons of the Palm, which was shortlisted for the Kiriyama Prize in 2005, and One Part Woman, his best-known work, which was shortlisted for the Crossword Award and won the prestigious ILF Samanvay Bhasha Samman in 2015.

  Aniruddhan Vasudevan is a performer, writer, translator and PhD student in anthropology at the University of Texas, Austin. His much-lauded translation of Perumal Murugan’s One Part Woman has become an award-winning bestseller.

  Praise for One Part Woman

  ‘A superb book in which tenderness, love and desire kindle each other into a conflagration of sexual rapture’—Bapsi Sidhwa

  ‘Perumal Murugan opens up the layers of desire, longing, loss and fulfilment in a relationship with extraordinary sensitivity and surgical precision’—Ambai

  ‘A fable about sexual passion and social norms, pleasure and the conventions of family and motherhood . . . A lovely rendering of the Tamil’—Biblio

  ‘Perumal Murugan turns an intimate and crystalline gaze on a married couple in interior Tamil Nadu. It is a gaze that lays bare the intricacies of their story, culminating in a heart-wrenching denouement that allows no room for apathy . . . One Part Woman is a powerful and insightful rendering of an entire milieu which is certainly still in existence. [Murugan] handles myriad complexities with an enviable sophistication, creating an evocative, even haunting, work . . . Murugan’s writing is taut and suspenseful . . . Aniruddhan Vasudevan’s translation deserves mention—the language is crisp, retaining local flavour without jarring, and often lyrical’—The Hindu Business Line

  ‘An evocative novel about a childless couple reminds us of the excellence of writing in Indian languages . . . This is a novel of many layers; of richly textured relationships; of raw and resonant dialogues and characters . . . Perumal Murugan’s voice is distinct; it is the voice of writing in the Indian languages rich in characters, dialogues and locales that are unerringly drawn and intensely evocative. As the novel moves towards its inevitable climax, tragic yet redemptive, the reader shares in the anguish of the characters caught in a fate beyond their control. It is because a superb writer has drawn us adroitly into the lives of those far removed from our acquaintance’—Indian Express

  ‘Murugan imbues the simple story of a young couple, deeply in love and anxious to have a child, with the complexities of convention, obligation and, ultimately, conviction . . . An engaging story’—Time Out

  ‘One Part Woman has the distant romanticism of a gentler, slower, prettier world, but it is infused with a sense of immediacy . . . Murugan intricately examines the effect the pressure to have a child has on [the couple’s] relationship . . . One Part Woman is beautifully rooted in its setting. Murugan delights in description and Aniruddhan translates it ably’—Open

  Praise for Perumal Murugan

  ‘Murugan’s fictional villages are places full of quiet menace, where caste boundaries are protected with violence and social exclusion’—Ellen Barry, New York Times

  ‘Versatile, sensitive to history and conscious of his responsibilities as a writer, Murugan is . . . the most accomplished of his generation of Tamil writers’—Caravan

  ‘[A] great literary chronicler . . . Murugan is at the height of his creative powers’—The Hindu

  ‘Murugan’s insights about relationships spread throughout his work like flashes of lightning’—Kalachuvadu

  Author’s Preface to the Tamil Edition

  Let Him Live

  Several readers of One Part Woman (Madhorubagan) wondered what would happen to Kali at the end of the novel. Eager to see if I could respond to their queries, I wrote two sequels.

  Releasing everyone from the uncertainty of whether Kali survives or not, I let him live in Ardhanaari (Trial by Silence). Kali is a common man. And the world of common folk has very narrow boundaries. Much like Kali’s barn. I tried to bring him out of this confined world and let him wander away a bit. But he was not capable of all that. He returned to the barn and confined himself to it. All right, let him live.

  When I wrote this novel, I experienced a great freedom of mind. My mind and hands worked together with much ease. You can see the effects of that freedom in this novel. But now I wonder if so much freedom of mind is appropriate for these times. I don’t think I will ever again experience that state of mind. Therefore, my mind celebrates this novel as one that emerged from the rarest of rare moments in life.

  This is the second edition of this novel. I have made some changes in the text of the first edition. I request you to understand that this is a novel and, hence, fiction. That is, I want to emphasize that it is entirely a product of my imagination. In particular, I want to point out that the names that occur in the novel do not refer to any specific persons or places. In this novel, I have used various folk tales, descriptions of events, expressions and words. These were necessary for the world I was creating through words. Please read them with that understanding. If any of this turns out to be intolerable to you, I request you to kindly avoid reading the novel. Thank you.

  Namakkal

  Perumal Murugan

  26 November 2016

  Translator’s Note

  It has been my pleasure and privilege to translate Perumal Murugan’s sequels to his celebrated Tamil novel Madhorubagan, which I translated to English some years ago. One Part Woman portrays the agrarian life of a loving young couple, Ponna and Kali, who are unable to conceive a child. The social expectations around marriage and childbirth and the couple’s own intense longing for a child weigh heavily on them. Towards the end of the novel, we see Ponna going to a temple festival where, on one particular night, consensual union between any man and woman is sanctioned. She meets a man who—because custom accords him the status of a god for that one night—might help her get pregnant. The Tamil sequels Aalavaayan and Ardhanaari imagine two possible, alternative futures for Ponna—one as a widow after Kali’s suicide, and the other a life with Kali, bearing his judgement, rejection and eloquent silence.

  In A Lonely Harvest (Aalavaayan), we see Murugan detailing Ponna’s life after Kali succeeds in committing suicide, unable to bear the thought that Ponna could have consented to being with another man, even if only for a night, even if only for the sake of a child and even if in a way sanctioned by custom. In this novel, we encounter Ponna’s grief and confusion as well as the amazing ways in which solidarity, friendship and care operate among women. Her mother and mother-in-law close ranks around Ponna and do all they can to support her and protect her from the judgements of the world.

  In Trial by Silence (Ardhanaari), Murugan imagines a different future, where Kali survives his suicide attempt but is unable to forgive Ponna or any of the others he holds responsible for ruining his marriage and life. Ponna is faced with Kali’s incredible silence and withdrawal, his inability to even inhabit the same space as her. This novel, then, is a portrayal of the attempts at forgiveness, reconciliation and reclaiming of happiness and love.

  I could not take ‘Madhorubagan’ simply to be the name of a deity and translate it as ‘The Half-Female God’, because the
novel and its title are not about the deity in any significant sense. Despite its discussion of human attachments to divine forms, worship and practices, the novel is about the relationship between Kali and Ponna and their intense love for each other. It is about Kali’s understanding that Ponna is an inseparable part of him—he is unable to imagine himself without her. And hence the intensity of his suffering when he sees her decision to go to the festival as a great betrayal of that oneness. Hence the poignance of his torment. Similarly, though at a superficially cultural level, the words ‘Aalavaayan’ and ‘Ardhanaari’ could be read as names of different forms of a deity, the novels have little to do with them. Translating them as such would have been misleading.

  As someone who grew up in Tamil Nadu, and with caste and class backgrounds different from the one Murugan details in these novels, I am forever fascinated by both the familiar and the unfamiliar I find in his descriptions of people, land, food, customs, practices, animals, plants and so on. I have attempted to keep some balance of familiarity and distance alive in the translation. We find in these novels an agrarian world of a particular region in a not-so-distant past, with its social structures, relationships, values, possibilities and constraints. My focus has been on the tone, texture and feelings that rise up to meet us as we follow these richly imagined characters navigating their world.

  It is not necessary to read One Part Woman in order to understand the sequels. Perumal Murugan’s narrative beautifully catches you up with key aspects of the earlier novel’s plot that animate and give force to these sequels and their imagination of alternative futures for the main characters.

  I can only hope I am getting, at least, a little better at this work with every act of translation. And I hope you enjoy reading these novels.

  Austin, Texas

  Aniruddhan Vasudevan

  19 September 2018

  ONE

  Kali stared ceaselessly at the stump on the portia tree where the branch had been cut down.

  It looked very much like the sort of small stump that would stick out of the shoulder if an arm were severed from a body. He could still see the desiccated cuts left by the sickle on the bark. They looked like fish scales. It was he who had cut down the branch, having grown tired of his mother’s insistence to get it done. That particular branch of the tree had been a favourite of his. He used to see it as the tree kindly lowering an arm towards him, lovingly asking him to climb on to it. In moments of excitement, he would jump up and grab hold of that branch. And he would swing from it until he couldn’t bear the pain in his hands. At that point, he would heave himself to make a wide leap and land five or six feet away. The cow and oxen tethered in the tree’s shade would look at him in amazement.

  Once, when his uncle’s children had come over for some festival, he set a swing on this very branch for them to play on. It took just a push for them to swing a great arc with nothing to hinder their movement. The branch held itself tight, much like the sturdy arms of a wrestler. No matter how hard the children swung from it, they never had to worry that the branch might break and fall. Kali was very sad that he eventually had to chop that branch off. But he had to—his mother was absolutely firm about that. In fact, she had wanted the entire tree to be felled. But since he had put up much resistance to that idea, she conceded to just severing that one branch.

  When he looked at that branch in his beleaguered state that day, he felt as though it was calling out to him. He had already reached a point where he was considering death as the only way he could move past the impasse in his life. What an extraordinary situation it was. So many people had conspired to fool one man. His mother, mother-in-law, father-in-law, brother-in-law, Ponna. All the others might have consented to that plan. But how could Ponna? Surely, she wouldn’t have agreed to the plan if she hadn’t secretly desired to sleep with another man? In his blinding rage, his first impulse was to hack her down with the sickle, severing her head from her body. But if he did that, she would shudder and suffer for just a little while, and then die. And Kali would have had to bear the lifelong stigma of having murdered his wife. No, that wouldn’t do. She needed to suffer for the rest of her life, agonizing constantly about what she had done. And he concluded that his death would be that perfect punishment for her.

  He also thought that dying would put an end to his own torment. ‘You should suffer for the rest of your life,’ he said out loud, thinking of Ponna. He kept chanting this like a mantra for a little while. As he gritted his teeth and repeated the incantation again and again, he felt invigorated. He looked at the length of rope he had unravelled from the bundle of maize sheaths. It was an old rope, but it had several strong twining strands and it would never break. He picked up that rope and flung it over the branch, where it dangled like a snake. He pulled the other end and formed a noose. Then, realizing that he would need some object to stand on—if he were to carry out his grim plan—Kali looked around for something suitable. He spotted the big upturned basket in which they enclosed the chickens. When he picked it up, the chickens scattered in all directions, clucking in panic.

  The day had not fully dawned yet. The light was so dim it seemed as though you were looking at things through a sieve. The chickens continued to run around in the darkness. Kali dropped the basket under the dangling rope. The chickens clucked even louder. At this hour, his mother, Seerayi, was headed towards the barnyard from her house in the village. She thought she would take care of all the cleaning work in the cattle shed since Kali was away. She had woken up very early, as soon as she heard the crows cawing from the tamarind trees in the village. Now as she neared the barnyard, she heard the ruckus of the chicken clucking about. Assuming it was some wildcat trying to hunt the chickens, she ran towards the enclosure, making noises to chase away the intruder. Then she saw that the gate was wide open. ‘It must be a thief,’ she thought, and was annoyed with herself for not staying overnight in the barnyard and keeping an eye on things. As she ran in, she saw Kali. She could tell it was him even though everything was cloaked in shadow. And the moment she saw the basket and the rope, she understood.

  She ran to him, beating herself on the chest, crying, ‘My god! My precious boy!’ and flung herself on the ground, firmly holding on to his legs to keep him from proceeding. Her grip was like iron shackles. Kali could not move even an inch. Angry that she had come at just that precise moment, he tried to kick himself free of her, shouting, ‘Let go of me!’ But she did not loosen her grip. He was amazed that a scrawny woman like her possessed so much strength. He felt like a rat caught in a trap. He calmed down a bit and again said, ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘I have kept myself alive all these years just for your sake!’ Seerayi shouted. ‘Hang me on that rope! Witness me shudder and die before you decide to kill yourself. This tree has plenty of branches to hang from!’

  Her desperate plea brought him to his senses. ‘All right, Amma,’ he said. ‘I won’t do anything to myself. Don’t worry. Let go of me.’ He was still trying to extricate himself from her hold.

  ‘Promise me you won’t,’ she said. ‘On my life.’

  ‘On your life. I promise,’ he said.

  ‘Promise me, with the goddess Koolithaayi as witness.’

  ‘I promise, with the goddess Koolithaayi as witness. Let go of me.’ By now, he was also concerned that if anyone were to witness this scene it would be a source of much embarrassment.

  Seerayi let go of him immediately and pushed away the basket, before falling flat on the ground. Kali finally found his bearings. He realized that if his mother had not come at the right time, he wouldn’t be witnessing the new, red dawn.

  Kali walked to the pot of water kept near the cattle shed, only to discover that it was less than half-full. He had to reach in deep before his hand could scoop up any water. Had he stayed in the barnyard the night before, he would have replenished the various pots and tubs by now. He picked up the little piece of soap kept nearby and washed his face. He also drank some water and sat down righ
t there, panting.

  Meanwhile, Seerayi had sat up and started beating her chest, singing:

  When even ripe and old palmyra leaves are shining and thriving here

  The fresh new leaf wants to take leave

  When even dead trees are blossoming forth

  The fresh young tree wants to uproot itself

  When old fronds are holding firm

  The fresh new frond wants to fall

  When withered trees are standing tall

  The healthy tree here insists on dying

  By this time, Kali had been completely shaken out of the desire to die. He was fully aware of the world around him. He looked over the fence. If anyone walking along the path, taking their cattle out, were to hear this song of lament, they might come in to inquire what was going on. And if they saw the rope, they would go and tell the entire village that Kali had tried to hang himself. After that, he would have to explain his actions to everyone. In just one second, his fate had changed. And his mind, which had just moments ago been filled with rage, was now a tumult of embarrassment and shame. He shouted at Seerayi, ‘I am still alive, aren’t I? Why are you singing this dirge now? Think of the shame if anyone hears it.’

  She rose quickly from where she was sitting and rushed to him. Holding his head in her hands, she said, ‘What went so wrong in your life that you had to consider killing yourself? You are talking about shame and honour now? If I had come even a second late, you would have dishonoured me for the rest of my life!’

  Kali started sobbing. ‘All of you have conspired to dishonour me! Why do I need to live? How can I claim to be a man in this world ever again?’ He walked away and sat down on the cot.