Kalki Ramaswamy Krishnamurthy, better known by his pen name, Kalki, believed that the test of good writing lay in determining whether it aided the unification of the human community or promoted discord. A pioneering voice in Tamil literature, Kalki has been held in high regard for over a century.
“In him, the activist inflames the writer, the poet coexists with the propagandist, and the creative mind informs the crusading spirit,” writes his granddaughter, the playwright Gowri Ramnarayan, in her six-part translation of his widely popular historical fiction novel, Ponniyin Selvan. The first two books in the series — First Flood and The Cyclone (Ebury Press) — are out this month, to coincide with Kalki’s 125th birth anniversary.
Adapted on screen as well as on stage, Ponniyin Selvan’s popularity has only multiplied over the years. Ramnarayan speaks freely of her relationship with Kalki as a reader, writer, and granddaughter. Edited excerpts:
Kalki at his writing desk. | Photo Credit: Coutesy ‘Kalki’ magazine
How does it feel to carry on the legacy of a writer as exceptional as your grandfather?
Kalki died in 1954, after dictating the 26th chapter of his novel Amara Tara from his sickbed. His daughter Anandhi, my mother, then just 23, continued and completed it. Some years later, my uncle Rajendran became the editor of Kalki magazine, followed by his daughters. I’d say that it is they who carried on [Kalki’s] legacy. Though, I believe that only family traditions and values can be passed on. Creativity is your own.
When I became a journalist, my mother said reproachfully, “Your grandfather doted on you, but you write in English!” Later, as a playwright, I was handling a genre that Kalki left untouched. So, though my sensibilities have been shaped by belonging to a family of writers and performing artists, I guess I have never been burdened by any ‘legacy’.
Some lessons from growing up in the shadow of a literary marvel?
It was all light. No shadows. Though Kalki died when I was only four, I grew up devouring his writings, more non-fiction than fiction. I was inspired by his dauntless integrity, liberal and inclusive outlook, promotion of gender equality, commitment to Gandhian values, ardour for the arts, and most of all, his conviction that freedom was everyone’s birthright. But it was Ponniyin Selvan that made me understand just how books by different writers in every age can make you claim thoughts and feelings from across the world, far beyond your own time, place, experience, and ken. I’d say that the best gift Kalki gave me was the passion for reading. He taught me how imagination is almighty, how powerful language can be.
Why do you think ‘Ponniyin Selvan’ continues to occupy such a vital space in literary and cultural discourses?
This is a mystery to me. I am sure it would be to Kalki, too. He thought — and I agree — that Alai Osai (which I have translated as The Sound of Waves) was his best work. And certainly, Sivakamiyin Sapatam (Sivakami’s Vow) is his most realised work in structure and content.
So, how did Ponniyin Selvan overtake them? Perhaps it is the adventure with a protagonist (Vandiyatevan) who rises from the ranks by his own efforts, or the magnified, idealised archetype (Arulmozhi Varman) as the role model of the great leader — symbolising the Mahatma’s nobility, Nehru’s charisma, Patel’s steel, Rajaji’s integrity, and the compassion of Buddha and Ashoka. Also, remarkably, as Kalki depicts a patriarchal society driven by class distinctions, he underscores the fallacy of grading human beings on the basis of their caste, class or gender. He foregrounds women, highlighting their intelligence, strength, and savvy. Ponniyin Selvan leaves you with the failure of conspiracies, quelling of enemies, and triumph of noble values. Most of all, there is shining hope for the future.
A poster of the movie adaptation of ‘Ponniyin Selvan’, directed by Mani Ratnam.
What is your take on history as raw material for literature?
I am no historian. Nor is historical fiction my favourite genre in world fiction. Nor may it have been Kalki’s, for that matter, though he launched it in Tamil for the very first time. The reason is obvious. The swashbuckling genre of the historical novel enabled Kalki to redefine goals for the new India he dreamed of, a nation emerging from 150 years of enslavement. By recreating the glories of past ages, he could rouse his people from the insecurity, torpor, and inferiority internalised during colonial rule.
Were you able to retain the Tamil essence of Kalki’s original writing? Has English been able to do justice to it?
The translated verse will carry its own aura and train of connotations, often at variance with the implications radiating from the original text. But English brings a certain objectivity. There’s no denying that the comfort zone of my mother tongue makes me feel secure. But ‘Englishing’ keeps me on my toes. While the liquid flow of the language, a notable feature of Ponniyin Selvan, can make you miss some of the implied nuances, the translation gave me a new range of insights into thought processes and oblique emotional undertones at work in the original. Anyway, a perfect translation is an impossibility. One can only try one’s best.
Secondly, while the original never goes out of date, a translation does. So why translate at all? I can only echo A.K. Ramanujan, who insisted that translation was repossession. By translating, we reclaim literature, culture, and a sense of our common humanity across the chasms of time and space. I think this means that a translator has to metamorphose into a writer — not ’follow’ or ‘merge’ with the writer but ‘become’ a writer herself — by owning the writing.
The interviewer is a Delhi-based books and culture writer. Instagram @read.dream.repeat
Published - September 29, 2024 06:05 am IST
