The Gypsy Goddess by Meena Kandasamy

within the novelist must be laid to rest. When the story gets a life of its own and gallops away recklessly, one must remind her of the rules: ‘You don’t try to steal in your dumbass mothafucking poetry into a goddamn historical novel, crazy bitch.’ And so the critics decide that they should put certain, difficult questions before this undisciplined narrator. They act upon their urge to make the stupid hoe sit down for a Q&A session. Here is how it goes:
    Why can’t you fucking follow chronology?
    I can. If you observe carefully, you will not fail to note that everyone gets fucked in the due course of time.
    Why can’t you follow a standard narrative format?
    If the reader wanted a straight, humourless version of the events that surrounded the single biggest caste atrocity in India, she would read a research paper in the Economic and Political Weekly or a balanced press report. If the reader wants to understand the myriad landowning patterns in the Tanjore district, she will read an academic treatise like ‘Rural Change in Southeast Asia’ to find the ready-reckoner, drop-down list of hierarchies:
    Landlords
    â€“ Mirasdars
    â€“ Minors (only used for mirasdars who wear too much gold jewellery and are proven womanizers)
    Rich Peasants
    Middle Peasants
    Tenant Cultivators
    Farm Overseers
    And, at the bottom of the list, the four kinds of landless labourers:
    Hereditary Serfs
    â€“ Velaikkaarar (servants)
    â€“ Pannaiyal (bonded permanent serfs)
    Hired Labourers
    â€“ regular coolies
    â€“ casual coolies.
    In another essay, Professor Gough will say that formerly, in Tanjore, all the Brahmins were mirasdars , and all the untouchables were landless labourers. The education will be immediate, procedural and perfect; it will not display any of the haughty haphazardness of this novel. After such class-based classification, the reader will encounter many intermediary castes: Vellalar , Naidu or Naicker , Agamudaiyar , Mudaliar , Chettiar , Reddiyar , Konar , Kallar , Vanniyar , Nadar . She will be plagued by the plight of the untouchable castes: Pallar , Paraiyar , Chakkiliyar . The reader will be lost in such an alphabet soup. She will learn that life in these parts operates along lines of caste, and not just along structured feudal relations governing the modes of production. A reader cannot challenge what she does not comprehend. Beyond history lessons, she will find herself gravitating towards twisted tales. Hence, this rabble-rousing. Hence, this troublemaking. This craving for unintelligibility is a curse upon the postcolonial reader, who seeks me out. And I write for my readers.
    Will this chapter tell the story of the intervening months, July to December?
    Yes. The way Science or Nature tells the story of every individual lab rat. This chapter is the most clinical in this book that it actually borders on research. This is where the particulars are generalized to produce a reliable narrative.
    Is there a single story?
    No. Of course, I’ve consulted Chimamanda on this too.
    Can every story be told?
    Yes. I could do it if you were in the mood to read about how every landlord screwed the life of every labourer. Right now, I am concentrating on one story.
    Were atrocities made into templates?
    No. Not at all. That would be atrocious. It is just that being jerks, these feudal bastards did not have the fiction writer in mind and therefore they performed the same kinds of atrocities. Once in a while it totally went out of hand, but, otherwise, addicted to their trademark morbidity, they lacked imagination.
    Are you writing for writers?
    No. Writers who read are readers firstly.
    Should we wait for a better writer to tell this story?
    No. And yes. Irrespective of your decision, I have decided to tell this story. And once I am done with this, there are other stories waiting to be told. And can you now please move away, so that I can address my readers?

    For all my shortcomings, I will not