Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another. Having endured the gamut of public response from literary acclaim to vilification by right wing ‘cultural’ fanatics, Tamil author Perumal Murugan had, some years ago, announced his ‘death’ as a writer.
Poonachi: Or the Story of a Black Goat, adeptly translated into English by N Kalyan Raman, is thus both a resurrection and a renewal. Goats are problem-free, harmless and above all energetic, declares Murugan in the preface. A story needs narrative pace. Therefore I have chosen to write about goats.
The opening is gently ironic: Once, in a village there was a goat. No one knew where she was born. The birth of an ordinary life never leaves a trace, does it? It draws the reader into a bleak, drought-ridden rural landscape reminiscent of Murugan’s earlier works, Seasons of the Palm, One Part Woman and Pyre.
An elderly goatherd brings home to his wife a day-old jet black kid, a gift from a mysterious stranger. At one level this extraordinary story is about the tender bond that develops between the impoverished, lonely couple and the weak but feisty foundling whom they raise on rice water and oilcakes.
At another, it is a coming-of-age tale: Poonachi, the outsider, survives predatory eagles and wildcats, grows up and becomes a miracle of fecundity. She births seven kids—twice. This is both her triumph and her misfortune.
Her story becomes an allegory for the human condition in modern times: our anxieties, dreams and compulsions, as well as the transactional nature of our deepest interactions. Under environmental pressure lives grow meagre and relationships are the first casualties. From love to commerce to tragedy—the progression is inexorable.
Having researched in the folklore of his native region, Kongunadu, Murugan has mastered the natural rhythms of the oral tradition. The narrative pace is nimble. The storytelling is clear-eyed, concise and evocative. However, it is in the depiction of the landscape that he excels. Indeed, the setting undergirds all aspects of the tale.
It provides an understanding of the characters and their dilemmas. It drives the plot. For instance, separated from her family and lost in the forest one night, Poonachi witnesses this scene: The wild boars appeared like silhouettes. They entered the pond, shattering the silence, drinking the water and swimming around in it…. She saw cavorting young ones climb onto huge adult boars and jumping into the water. They were all vague and indistinct as shadows. What gave them life were the sounds that rose in the air.
The longing for breaking free echoes in the goat’s heart. Having known scarcity all her life, she reflects: Everything was available in the forest except her own herd. Could she ever live alone? Weren’t the wild boars happy only because they lived together? Ultimately, it is the quiet meditation of lines like these that imbues this powerful story with grace. It is what remains.