My entry point for Jeyamohan’s The Abyss (translated from the Tamil by Suchitra Ramachandran) is through Bala’s Tamil movie Naan Kadavul (2009) in which an aghori takes on the might of a wicked tradesman who turns a profit by making physically challenged people beg on the stairs of a temple. The movie clearly differentiates between the good and the bad, the protagonist and the antagonist, by setting their worlds apart – the aghori lives in a cave that’s a few feet above the ground, whereas the tradesman conducts his affairs in a dungeon.
Ezhaam Ulagam (The Abyss), the novel on which Naan Kadavul is based, though, is not restricted to the above-and-below discourse, as it mostly focuses on the lives of the beggars and the folks who buy and sell them. Jeyamohan seems to be interested in placing the readers alongside his characters rather than keeping them around the edges as observers, because he doesn’t come to the page with the intention of branding the trade as a crime. There are no heroes in his story as there are no problems that need solutions.
The business
Pothivelu Pandaram, the trader in The Abyss, is not by any means a man who’s regarded with scorn. He is, in fact, respected by everybody around him, including his wife and three daughters. He comes across as a father who doesn’t mind walking the extra mile to get his children whatever they desire; he even goes out in the middle of the night to buy gold bangles for his youngest daughter, Meenatchi. But on the business front, he’s shrewd, cunning, and a pathological liar – he knows his way around the system. He sells deformed babies for a high price and bribes the cops whenever necessary in order to stay out of trouble.
The beggars are nonchalantly called “items” and pushed to the margins of society. Isn’t an item merely a thing that can be traded? Furthermore, Pandaram categorises people based on their souls. He says, “There are all kinds of souls, great and little. Now, we say Mahatma Gandhi, yes? What’s that? Maha-atma. A great soul. That’s because his atma was great. Ours, on the other hand, is a smaller soul, a smaller atma. We must respect other souls like ours. Love them. But there are souls even smaller than ours. Those we must protect. Look after. Now, take these creatures. These items. But for us, who do they have? The whole lot would be out on the streets, hungry and begging. They’d starve to death. But now they are under us, so they don’t need to worry about a thing. They get enough to eat, a roof over their heads, medicines if they are sick.”
Well, how can anybody argue with a sweet talker who thinks he’s a saviour? Although the novel is narrated without approaching the subject through the lens of social commentary, there’s an unmistakable layer of philosophy that’s laced with dark humour. And it’s not just about the warped fate that’s handed to the beggars, either. It goes beyond the simplistic notions of birth and death, pain and misery, love and loss.
The beggars (Ramappan, Kuyyan, Erukku, and Ahmedkutty) regularly chat about politics, entertainment, and relationships. They even acknowledge one another with an innate sense of joviality. Jeyamohan, in the preface, states that he himself had run away from home to become a beggar in his earlier days. His motivations were obviously different, but the experiences he gained have allowed him to shape each character and event with finesse. Take the poignant moment, for example, where Ahmedkutty warns Pandaram to not go ahead with his daughter’s wedding as he worries that the prospective groom’s government job may not be permanent, after all.
Pandaram immediately learns that Ahmedkutty is indeed right. Does that mean the latter is smarter than the former? He could very well be; he even reads newspapers every day and keeps tabs on a number of topics. He still, however, doesn’t show a keenness to get out of the nefarious circle. That’s perhaps what will bother us. We want ordinary people to raise their voices against injustice all the time, but reality sits on a separate plane. Even when you aspire to reach it, it turns into a shadow that disappears from sight the minute you turn your head away.
Rebellion of the privileged
In the Q&A segment (conducted by Ramachandran) at the end of the novel, Jeyamohan insists, “Beggars or mendicants bear no responsibility for anything. Not for the town they live in, or their immediate surroundings. That is how they are. How will they then take up responsibility for all of society? Only a man who feels that he is responsible for society, for changing it, will feel the need to participate in a revolution. A man who shrugs his shoulders and says ‘I’m not responsible’ is not going to be part of any revolution. That’s true for a samiyar; that’s equally true for a beggar.” This is the narrative factor that separates Naan Kadavul from its source material as the idea of revolution occurs only to the aghori (an outsider) there.
The novel, set in Tamil Nadu, employs several dialects and languages. There are people who speak Kannada and Malayalam as well. It must have been a Herculean task for Ramachandran to translate the nuances and curses into English. Bawdy language in regional literature, especially, is a hard nut to crack, as the proverbs and phrases are attached to specific regions. The novel has a strong Tamil flavour which constantly reminds you that you’re reading borrowed words. It won’t become a hindrance, though, as you’ll get used to it within the first few chapters.
The Abyss cannot be easily digested. And the climax, when it arrives on its haunches, will knock the wind out of you since it is shockingly constructed on the hills of greed and oppression. Nevertheless, it still needs to be discussed widely, for it puts a spotlight on the varied facets of social horror along with a certain kind of warmth that hasn’t yet trickled into the mainstream conversation.
The Abyss, Jeyamohan, translated from the Tamil by Suchitra Ramachandran, Juggernaut.