A few weeks after I first read Mahasena by Kala Krishnan, I found myself at the Hindu temple in Kauai, Hawaii, where there is a shrine to the boy-god so lovingly described in this novel. Established in a Sri Lankan Tamil Saiva tradition over acres of tropical island, the Kadavul temple grounds feature in secular guidebooks. But the temple itself is only open to practising Hindus wishing to pray inside, and only by appointment during the pandemic.
On the morning of our visit, we happened upon a middle-aged white woman in a jewel-toned kurta, a lay volunteer tasked with gatekeeping, talking with a slightly younger woman of Indian origin. The visiting woman was asking to be let in without an appointment. She had also taken several pictures of the temple on her phone in clear disregard of the large signs prohibiting photography all around.
The conversation that ensued was rich in comedic material – of people talking at cross-purposes – throughout, but one section stood out. The white volunteer listed the gods who had shrines within, stopping at Muruga, and the Indian American woman who had been nodding all along, said, “Muruga, who’s that?” in tones that suggested some foreign chicanery was at work. At which the volunteer gasped in equal affront, “But aren’t you from India?” meaning of course, “How do you not know Muruga?”
The expected...
It is, thankfully, still possible to be a practising Hindu without knowing every deity that makes up the large and diverse pantheon. But this exchange reminded me of one of the things I’d found remarkable when I first encountered this book. My family contains staunch devotees of Murugan, which ensured that the stories were a familiar part of my childhood. But they were stories exclusively heard, almost never read in English.
It felt as if the stories of Muruga were a well-kept secret among people who knew Tamil. I had picked this book to read with the tiny shock of recognition and all the weight of expectation that such experience would entail.
If chanced upon in passing, Mahasena, part one of the Murugan trilogy, might be pegged for an action packed and adrenaline-fuelled “gods vs demons” tale of a tidy triumph of good over evil. It certainly is a rollicking tale that stretches all the way back to the beginning, when all that exists is the Vast, from which emerge Time, Creation and a differently re-imagined Trinity.
There are gods aplenty – emotional, fallible and all too human, sometimes powerless against the coming trouble and tragedy that their omniscience nevertheless allows them to see. There are asuras as well, rendered in equally human terms. There is the undercurrent of impending battle. But tidy, it is not.
Nor is the conflict set up in overly moralistic terms. Like all good stories, whether grandmother’s tales or puranic lore, it unfolds with gorgeously detailed detours, with emotional heft and in playful moments as it recounts twin stories of birth – of Muruga, and of the language of the people that adore him, Tamil. (Or more precisely, Tamizh.)
... and the unexpected
If all of this may be reasonably expected at first glance, there are still surprises to be found. The first of these is the prose, lush and exquisite, that ferries us through this richly imagined world. It is no surprise at all to find in the acknowledgements that the author is a poet. Poetry echoes through not just the language of the book, but its plot.
Then there are tales of women, unexpected in a paean to a boy-god born to lead his people into war, but also in other ways. Saraswathi the river who tires of people’s expectations, the six Krithikas fleeing a past and in search of knowledge, and Arundathi, the paragon of virtue that brides to this day are taught to emulate, and others – all find a place in the author’s remarkable vision and gaze.
Perhaps the story of Arundathi is the one that those brides would find most surprising of all, but to explain why would be to spoil the moment of discovery to be had when encountering the story first-hand. Suffice to say that these are more complete stories of women than we are usually told, and they gently highlight the patriarchy in other versions we may have come to accept.
All the characters are lovingly drawn and detailed, perhaps with devotion, even. The story itself skews faithful to the lore. But of note is the nuanced treatment of Asuras, who get unexpected voice and space on the page. Asuras are innovators and engineers while the Suras stand for order and tradition, in contrast to the many other ways this conflict could be characterised.
Vishnu comes bearing gifts for his nephew, Muruga when he first comes home to Kailasa but Ravana is another favoured uncle who visits, carrying his Rudra Veena and an almost complete Shiva Tandava Stotram. Even Surapadman, the mighty antagonist that Muruga is born to battle, is far from the villain that good-vs-evil motifs demand. His cause might even seem just, to an unbiased observer.
While the story that results from all of this is more interesting, it seems fitting that this Dravidian god would have his story told with exactly such a viewpoint. And there is a striking image that recurs a few times through the book, of Muruga harkening back to a more ancient language to create Tamil. Perhaps it is also that the author harkens back herself in creating this tale—to an older, more pluralistic Hinduism where suras, asuras and their differences were much less important than the vast truth that connected them all.
But to focus on these facets would be to miss the essence of this book – an entertaining read that tells a lovingly detailed story. In this first volume we begin with a playful image of a yet unborn god irritated by tuneless singing, and we leave him at the end to his mighty army, the chants of Veeravel! Vetrivel! and the cliff-hanger of upcoming battle. The overall impression that remains of a book that transcends genre and expectation is welcome, but incidental to its enjoyment.
Mahasena: Part One of the Murugan Trilogy, Kala Krishnan, Context.