“Watching a fight is more exciting than fighting –

It’s no skin off your nose!”

Interview with Narayan

K M Sherrif

KMS: Let me first congratulate you on your nomination to the Genral Council of the
Kerala Sahitya Akademi. Do you think your position will help you play a decisive role in
projecting cultural identity of Kerala’s marginalized communities including Adivasis?

Narayan: That is certainly my wish. I do not know how much I can live up to it. All I
can now say is that I will make every effort towards it. Of course, I am happy that, for
the first time, someone from my community is occupying this position.

KMS: Could you briefly describe the circumstances under which, unlike most of the
established writers in Malayalam, you have emerged from a community which has no
tradition of written literature.

Narayan: I grew up as a motherless child, almost an orphan. Going to school was a

great struggle. There was nobody to help, guide or encourage me. But from early
childhood reading books was an obsession with me. I devoured books. That was how I
discovered Malayalam literature. The voracious reading in childhood, perhaps,
awakened the writer in me.

KMS: Dalit writing or Adivasi writing is writing produced by communities who have
never been allowed tto enter the domain of literary discourse. Do you believe that writers
who are not Dalits or Adivasis can faithfully depict the life of these communities in their
writing? Would you call their works Dalit writing or Adivasi writing?

Narayan: I can only speak about Adivasi writing – because I am an Adivasi. To say
that non-Adivasi writers cannot write about Adivasi life will be to hold a depressingly
parochial view on the issue. But it is certainly an exacting job. It is more exciting to
watch a fight than to throw yourself into the thick of it – it is no skin off your nose!
Things change dramatically when the blows start falling on you. If you are to overcome
the limitations of the idle spectator you have to learn the Adivasis’ languages and delve
into the depths of their complex cultures. You have to know as much about them as an
insider. You have to have commitment, patience and the single-minded concentration of
the researcher. How many such writers can one find in Malayalam? Hardly any. But
many non-Adivasi writers think that writing about Adivasis is child’s play. Drop a few
exotic names, create the right ‘atmosphere’ with hills, forests and wild life, and the
Adivasi concoction is ready to serve! As an Adivasi writer writing in Malayalam is my
personal problem. As you know, Malayalam is only a second language to me. The
conditions for writing and publishing in the language I speak at home do not exist now.
KMS: The same diligence and concentration are demanded from a translator of Adivasi
or Dalit writing. You will agree that re-signifying the complexity of life depicted in the
original text in translation, especially in translation into a culturally un-related language
like English, for instance, is a daunting task. In fact one often hears translators speaking
about the inevitable break with the original. But in the context of the asymmetrical
relationship between the source culture and the target culture, isn’t there a case for a
translation to be as close as possible to the original?

Narayan: I would suggest that ideally translation of Adivasi writing should stay as close
as possible to the original. The translation should not lose the ‘strong smell’ of the
original 1 I know it is easier said than done. But as a marginalized people the Adivasis
have the right to demand that much from a translator.

KMS: I think your observations are borne out by the translations of some of your stories.
The Hindi translation of “Eenamchakki”2 appears quite mechanical and fails to catch the
subtle resonances of Adivasi life in the original. The Tamil translation of “Thalakkum
Mulakkum Karam” 3, on the other hand, effectively resignifies the nuances and dynamics
of Adivasi life.

Narayan: The Tamil translator had very clearly grasped the complexities of Adivasi life
depicted in the original. The Hindi translator was a university professor who had very
little knowledge of the background of the text. Needless to say, good academics are not
necessarily good translators.

KMS: Do you think there should be a collective of committed translators to translate

Dalit and Adivasi writing?

Narayan: A collective of committed translators is a good idea. Ideally, translators from

Dalit and Adivasi communities should play a central role in such a collective.

KMS: Many of your stories diverge radically in both language and narrative techniques
from stories in the mainstream tradition. I would describe “Nissahayante Nilavili” (“A
Cry in the Wilderness”) as the most remarkable of your stories. The protagonist of the
story is not only helpless, but also dispossessed in every sense. The sights he sees on the
roadside appear to him to belong to another world altogether. The dispossessed ‘other’
appears in some other stories too.

Narayan: The helplessness of the protagonist is the helplessness of his community. The
‘other-wordly’ sights are tantalizingly out of his reach. What happens in the second part
of the story is a mock-miracle. He had been lying virtually unattended in the hospital for
days. No doctor or nurse had a moment to spare for him. Suddenly an army of doctors
and nurses descend on him. It was too late when he realized he had been sold, that one of
his organs was a valuable commodity. The entry of Adivasis into civil life is almost
1
Naryaan here used the Malayalam word ‘chooru’ which can in most contexts be translated as ‘strong
smell.”
2
The translation of this story titled “The Evil One” is included in this selection.
3
Included in this collection as “Taxes for Heads and Breasts.”
always marked by an act of dispossession. As an Adivasi writer the bitter experience of
dispossession colours my stories. Perhaps the memory of dispossession is a great
weakness in my fiction.

KMS: I would call it a great strength.

Narayan: Such an observation is very gratifying. That apart, everything I wrote have
been written from the vantge point of experience. I have put my everything – body, mind
and soul – into my works, which is the reason why I have, compared to many of my
contemporaries in Malayalam literature, written so little. Three novels and about sixty
stories in all.4 When editors of weeklies and monthlies ask me for stories for their special
numbers 5I wouldn’t have stories to give them. Stories are rare visitors to my mind.
Once a story arrives it takes even longer to develop.

KMS: Although there are a number of educated Adivasis in Kerala, why is it that you are
the only writer to have emerged from the community?

Narayan: The life of Adivasis – even those with an education or a government job – is a
ceaseless struggle for survival. It is so riven by conflicts that there is no peace of mind to
write stories or poems. Unlike other communities in Kerala, the majority of the Adivasis
do not even have a roof over their heads. A writer like me is an exception. And
Malayalam, as I have already pointed out, is only a second language to us.

KMS: Some of your stories are weakly structured and have a whiff of sentimentality
about them. They are markedly different from powerful stories like “Nissahayannte
Nilavili” and “Punarvichinthanathinu Avasaramillathe” which are strong statements
about the vicissitudes and conflicts of Adivasi life in Kerala. What was happening in
these stories which read much like the kind of stories popular magazines churn out in
their thousands? Did they originate from the process of getting apprenticed to a second
language.

Narayan: Yes, they were the result of attempts to imitate those models which were the
easiest to imitate. The feeling was “why not try a hand at writing something like this.”

KMS: I understand that your first novel Kocharethi was published ten years after it was
written. Why the long delay?

Narayan: Let me confess that I have still not grown into a writer. When I started writing
it was a reflexive action. I was provoked by the horrible misrepresentation of Adivasis in
fiction by non-Adivasi writers. I had no higher aim than giving a true picture of the
Adivasi community. I was bent on doing it without circumlocution or exaggeration. I
was also determined not to imitate any of the established writers in Malayalam. That was
how Kocharethi was born.

4
This interview was taken in January 2005. Narayan has written two novels and a few stories after that.
5
Almost all weeklies and monthlies in Malayalam with sizable circulation bring out special numbers every
year in which stories, poems and articles by the established writers are published.
 I did not have the courage to approach any publisher. I knew that upstarts like me
should not expect to find a better destination than the dustbin for their first works. I gave
the manuscript to a friend of mine, a school teacher, for reading. I thought I should get
an informed reader’s opinion about my first novel. But for some strange reason this
friend of mine could not find the time to read the book. I took it back from him a few
months later. Then another friend of mine suggested it would make a good story for a
film. We made inquiries in that direction. But it did not take long for us to realize we
were floating on a daydream. It was years later that I took out the manuscript and made
another copy. It then occurred to me that there was nothing wrong in submitting the
manuscript to DC Books, the largest publishing house in Kerala. There was something
dignified even in having your manuscript rejected by DC Books! To my astonishment
they accepted it for publication. My stories have met the same fate. My first published
story “Sariyavilla, Ennalum” saw the light of day only in 2000 in a special number of
Bhashaposhini.

KMS: The cultural identity of Dalits, Adivasis and Religious minorities is a much
debated issue. The proponents of identity politics argue that these identities should not
be lost in grand narratives like nationalism. Do you think identity politics can effectively
resist hegemonic ideologies which are historically more advanced?

Narayan: It is heartening to note that the marginalized sections of our society – whether
they are Dalits, Adivasis or Muslims – have become aware of their identities. They can
certainly turn this awareness into a weapon. Take literature. The hegemons have been
telling us: Look, we are are here to look after literature. Your business is just to do what
you have always been doing. That Dalits and Adivasis have become conscious of the art
and literature they create is the greatest cultural revolution of our age.

KMS: Identity is both unifying and divisive. In a geographically small society like
Kerala would not the divisions created by identity politics hasten the entrenchment of
neo-colonial forces? Does this call for a closing of ranks among the marginalized
communities of Kerala without compromising their cultural identities?

Narayan: Identity is, of course, important. But the marginalized communities of Kerala
can gain nothing if they struggle separately on their own. Although the necessity of joint
action is clear to all, the outlines of such a joint action have not yet become clearly
visible. There is an increasing apprehension that time is running out. But it is probably
just alarmist. Unity must be built on firm foundations, not on the shifting sands of
expediency.

KMS: The first victims of global capital in India are Adivasis and Dalits. Yet there are
Dalit intellectuals who hold that global capital is a lesser evil than Savarna hegemony,
even that Dalits, Adivasis and Minorities should ally themselves with global capital to
undermine Savarna hegemony. Although you have not directly written or spoken on the
issue, your story “Punarvicharathinu Idayillathe” (No Time for Second Thoughts) is
probably an unambiguous assertion of your conviction that the hegemony of global
capital would be an unmitigated disaster for Dalits and Adivasis.

Narayan: Yes, that was precisely what I was trying to say in the story. Global capital is
not a messiah who delivers the marginalized sections of Indian society from Savarna
hegemony. In fact the natural allies of global capital in India have always been the
Savarna elite. Dalits and Adivasis are the first victims of this alliance. Colonialism
always drew its first blood from them.

KMS: I understand that your forthcoming novel is titled Adhinivesathinte Chora (The
Blood of Colonialism).

Narayan: Yes, colonialism draws its first blood by removing the Adivasis from their
natural sources of sustenance, knowledge and power. But that is not the end. When
Adivsis are removed, the space they vacated will be occupied, through a constant process
of marginalization, by other sections of society like workers thrown out of employment
and the declining sections of the middle classes. Take a university teacher like you. You
may be paid five or ten lakh rupees as compensation if you are found redundant and
removed from service (hire-and-fire practices are being extended to all sectors). What
can you do with the money? It is virtually impossible to survive on a small business.
Global capital is ruthlessly driving small investors out of business. All you can get is a
small interest on a fixed deposit from a bank (interest rates are falling). Soon you may be
forced into a hand-to-mouth existence, even into a debt trap.

KMS: Today we see Adivasis organizing themselves in a way they have never been able
to do before. Has the failure of the Left in India forced the Adivais to turn to identity
politics?

Narayan: One cannot say that the Left has been a complete failure. It was in fact the
Left that first organized Adivasis. A number of serious errors in formulating policy and
translating it into praxis has seriously affected the Left’s ability to lead the struggles of
Adivasis. I would say that Adivasis should be able to strengthen themselves to demand
from the Left policies and decisions which would carry their struggle forward. The
struggles for land being waged by Adivasis all over the country for land show that such a
movement is gathering strength.

KMS: Adivsis in Kerala are still fiercely protective about their customs and rituals,
perhaps more than any other community in the state. There are some among the
community who argue that preservation of customs and rituals are part of the assertion of
the cultural identity of Adivasis. There are others who demand that Adivasis should
modernize themselves like other communities of Kerala. What is your position in this
matter?

Narayan: Adivasis should not allow themselves to be showcased. I believe that, given a
choice, most Adivasis would prefer to appear like other people and be treated like them.
It is time that the stereotypes of the scantily clad Adivasis with weird hairstyles, wielding
sickles and hoes is buried forever. There is no reason why the Adivasis shouldn’t take a
bath, get a haircut and a shave and wear the same kinds of clothes like other people.
Lighting a lamp at dusk should not be constructed as anything more than a cultural
tradition. But a prayer is different. You can do it if you want to, but not as a matter of
compulsion. To say that Adivasis will be accepted in the mainstream only if they
abandon all their cultural traditions is, of course, sheer racist arrogance.

I am certainly against retaining cruel and inhuman practices in the name of

cultural identity. When you are ill you should go for modern medical care, not
witchcraft. Of course, Adivasis have their own indigenous systems of medicine. But
they were meant for an age when there were no doctors or hospitals.

KMS: But nattarivu6 is still considered relevant.

Narayan: I didn’t say it was completely irrelevant. But all systems of indigenous
knowledge should be selectively and carefully applied. They have to be tested against
more modern forms and developed. One must learn to sift the grain from the chaff.

KMS: Does the rise of C K Janu to the leadership of Adivasis in Kerala represent a new
awakening among Adivasi women. Or is it just a flash in the pan.

Narayan: To call it a flash in the pan would be right. The condition of Adivasi women
in Kerala is much more miserable than that of the women of any other community.
Which is why no woman other than Janu has emerged into the leadership of Adivasis.
Things become clear when we observe that, although Janu’s style of functioning is
modern she talks in the language of identity politics. But Janu’s boldness in leading a
community against a state machinery armed to the teeth was remarkable. If Janu’s
leadership inspires the politicization of Adivasi women in Kerala it will be a great leap
forward.

6
Nattarivu – indigenous systems of knowledge.