Perumal Murugan is the most widely known of contemporary Tamil authors, having been thrust into the national conversation in 2014 when his novel One Part Woman (Madhorubagan) – four years after it was published – was found to have hurt religious sentiments by a handful of local caste-based groups.
Murugan added to the drama by claiming somewhat grandiosely: “Perumal Murugan, the writer is dead. As he is no God, he is not going to resurrect himself”. Three years and a favourable High Court judgment later, a collection of his poems (A Tree that stands in the Crematorium) was published, marking his resurrection.
Seasons in the Palm (Koolamadari) is Murugan’s third novel, first published in Tamil in 2000 and in English by Tara Books in 2004.
This year, courtesy Penguin Books, a new edition of the novel is now available, with its commercial prospects considerably improved, owing to Murugan’s increased stature.
A Tale of ‘Untouchables’, Told With Beauty and Grace
The story is set in rural Tamil Nadu and is told from the point of view of a young goat-herd (Shorty) of the Chakkili caste (a caste of untouchables) who works for a ‘Master’. Shorty’s days begin before dawn and are spent almost entirely in the open fields, herding sheep. He is joined there by his companions – a bunch of boys and girls who work for other Masters – their lives brought and bound together merely by proximity and habit. They spend most of their time with each other, sharing stories, reveries in the shades of trees, sometimes stealing fruits from other farms.
With the passing of time, they also discover hints of sexual tension creeping in, to which the boys react like most young boys do – becoming shyer when the girls are around and making up lewd childish stories about them when they are not.
Shorty is also often joined by his Master’s young son Selvan (one of the rare characters in the story with a proper name) who is too young still to fully inhabit his own caste, and is drawn to Shorty and his companions despite their untouchables because they seem to be the only ones around who are his own age.
The narrative, without overt didacticism, explores themes of casteism and suppression still so prevalent in Tamil Nadu, and the matter-of-fact fatalism with which the downtrodden themselves embrace their predicament. That the story is narrated from Shorty’s point of view allows the story to move from a sense of languor and idyll early on to a grimmer tone as it evolves, leading up to the final tragic denouement. Much like Shorty himself, we too – as readers – gradually realise and come to terms with the inevitable path upon which these kids’ lives are placed.
The writing is filled with grace and compassion and bears a fable-like quality.
More than once, I was reminded of a Malayalam film called The Trap (Ottaal, 2015) – though the setting and story of the film is very different from the novel. Something about the writing, however, and the overall mood and theme evoke the gorgeous images from that film in my mind. The landscapes are described in vivid detail, as are the daily routines in the villages. The elements forever loom over all of this – part-benevolent, part-furious, all-powerful – and they manifest in the beliefs and lore of the village-folk, as much as in the sudden crack of thunder at night that momentarily lights up silhouettes of dark clouds and wind-swept trees and unknown apparitions.
The translation by V Geetha – so often the Achilles’ heel for much of Indian literature – is excellent.
A Novel ‘Impossible to Dislike’
With stories such as these, there is, of course, always a tendency to romanticise and simplify, which this novel is not immune to either –
Most of the characters, including Shorty’s, are drawn as utilitarian tools for specific issues or character traits that Murugan wishes to explore. There is the rowdy boy who bullies the rest and tells tall tales about the ‘city’. There is the young girl who the other kids lust after. There is the other girl who marries and leaves early. And there is the loving mother and the drunk father.
All of them allow Murugan to make his points with precision and economy, but also rob the story of nuance and the characters themselves of memorability.
That said, there is no question that Seasons of the Palm is an important novel, and nearly impossible to dislike. How overwhelmed one is by it may, I suspect, ultimately depend on how much or how little cynicism one carries into it.
The world needs more people who can read books like these and react with passion and positive intent than people who point out the author’s potential hypocrisy and opportunism in their reviews. It is the former kind that brings change, and keeps the world going just a little longer, for whatever that is worth.
(Kushal is a Bengali, brought up in Ahmedabad, and earning his daily bread in Mumbai. He travels and writes when he finds time away from selling SIM cards. He has also published for The Mint and rediff.com)
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