Pyre by Perumal Murugan

An yellow copper pod spins on its axis dropping the air  settling at the foot of the parent tree. A thin breeze dropped more yellow dots. An April morning sun glazed mango-filled mango trees. First bright reds of gul mohur. Pagoda trees in whites. Car rush had thinned; a few cycles still dared to take the sun; there was no haste in the air. Empty cement benches on the pavements of Link Road. We sat and watched. 'Would you like to be born a human in the next janma,' Rama popped. 'Yes,' me said a half-way believer in rebirth. 'Why,' came the second question. 'To be with you, watch copper pods, ear koyals and read Pyre of Perumal Murugan,' me said. 'Many janmas for a many reading of Perumal Murugan, Saro (Saroja) and Kumaresan,' Rama came back. She is keen on the Tamil original, eager to read all his Tamil writings, now out of print. The Lady has read twice Maadhorubaagan and the mention of Perumal lights up her faint wrinkles. A gentleman at Kalachuvadu informed Perumal saar denying them from running his editions. English translation of Pookuzhi by Aniruddhan Vasudevan is kuzhambu with the Tamil tang; Vasudevan admits ...'the difficulty is because there is more direct speech involved in Pookuzhi; the characters speak a lot and their streams of thought too bear the distinct mark of regional speech patterns. In the Tamil text, Kumaresan's and Saroja's people speak differently; their speech is marked by rural and semi-urban variations.' That alone is the reason that India cannot produce English writing; its art and culture can and will have varied lingos but never English; English is no literary tongue for most Indians. When Kumaresan fondles Saroja (the village thinks she is named after B. Saroja Devi, the Tamil actress), 'Pilla', me paused savouring Pilla; Pilla has no English; in Chennai me has heard Pilla but it is now the term glows; keen to call Rama, Pilla; hope she agrees. 'The sun was blazing overhead when Saroja and Kumaresan stepped off the bus. Beyond the tamarind trees that lined the road, all they could see were vast expanses of arid land. There were no houses anywhere in sight. With each searing gust of wind, the white summer heat spread over everything as if white saris had been flung across the sky. There was not a soul on the road. Even the birds were silent. Just an ashen dryness, singed by the heat, hung in the air. Saroja listened to venture into that inhospitable space.' A sun burns. A pyre is lit. Caste casts a shroud. Villages are sour spots; towns are less sour; towns and cities have their terms of hatred; Mumbai has Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Dalit pockets, making hate easy and killing easier. Perumal Murugan respects his readers, their imagination; leaving the thinking to them; he, as a writer walks the writer; gets them to debaye. There is no thunder in the writing. A well-crafted newsreport. Wish me could meet Perumal Murugan, one day.