At 77, the International Booker Prize-winning Kannada writer, activist, and lawyer Banu Mushtaq is chatty, strong, and full of stories that speak of a lifelong fight against societal evils and setbacks — from women pushed to commit suicide from feelings of isolation and family pressure; sisters with brothers who want to rob them of their inheritance; working mothers expected to be responsible for their daughters’ secular and religious education. “I’m 77 now. I have nothing to lose. I must keep writing,” she says.
From the fire of the Bandaya movement in the 1970s to the global literary acclaim, Mushtaq has never stopped writing against the grain. One of the few Muslim women to emerge from Karnataka’s radical literary movement, her stories have long questioned patriarchy, and society’s conscience, with her work masterfully blending humour with the colloquial rhythm of Kannada, drawing deeply from personal experience, political resistance, and the burdens of gender and religion. In an interview with TMS, following her Booker victory and her return to India, Mushtaq reflects on the silences she’s broken, the lives she’s lived through her characters, and the power of putting pain to paper.
Excerpts:
Does writing get complicated after winning an award?
Writing remains a deeply private act, whether people are watching or not. I haven’t written anything since winning the Booker, I’ve been too busy. Awards bring joy and also expectations but the award has definitely given me confidence and encouragement.
You’re working on your autobiography. How truthful can a memoir really be? Are there things you’re determined to put on record?
People often say that writers don’t tell the full truth in autobiographies. But I want to tell the truth, and truth is many-layered. There’s the truth of events, and then the truth as conveyed through fiction. I cannot wear masks in my memoir. But even so, memory is a tricky alley.
What I’m determined to put on record now are the silences, the struggles of being a Muslim woman writer, the politics of literary spaces, the fierce joys, and quiet devastations that shaped me. This is not a confession; it’s a witnessing. There will be no complaints, no accusations. But I want to bare my life. I want to say many things that have been layered within me.
Can you tell us about the first story you ever wrote?
I’ve been writing since childhood. In college, I wrote a story about a woman facing deep emotional tension due to her married life. She tried, she struggled, and ultimately died by suicide. The story was titled ‘Am I the Culprit?’ (Am I Apradhi?). Unfortunately, I didn’t preserve it, but I remember it was published in Prajamata, a prominent Kannada weekly, and I can still recall the cover page.
In ‘Heart Lamp’, Mehrun is in despair and is eventually rescued by her daughter. It’s a deeply intimate and haunting story, drawn from your own experience. How did you find the emotional distance to fictionalise such pain?
That story carries the scent of my wounds. To write it, I had to step aside and let Mehrun speak, not as me, but as someone with her own voice and despair. Distance didn’t come easily. It came with time, tears, and trust in the healing power of fiction. It was cathartic, but not sentimental. I wanted the truth, sculpted through story.
I was very emotional. I once tried to end my life by pouring kerosene on myself. But Mehrun’s story is different. She had no one. She was surrounded only by despair. In her marital and parental homes, no one supported her. She was drowning until her daughter, a minor, came to her rescue. In situations of conflict between parents, children often become wiser—Salma, for instance, became an adult too early. She lost her childhood.
There’s no black-and-white morality in your stories. For example, in ‘The High-Heeled Shoe’, Nayaz both loves and tortures his wife. Why do your women characters often endure so much?
What choice do they have? Patriarchy begins at home. Even if a woman leaves her husband, where will she go? Predators are everywhere, even at the workplace. She must earn, find shelter, and try to live with dignity. But even as a beggar or domestic worker, patriarchy haunts her. If she returns to her mother’s home, she might be turned away. If she finds work, her employer may exploit her. Patriarchy follows her everywhere. This is why she endures and protests in her own way.
I believe 50 per cent of women would leave their partners if they had shelter. But they don’t. Not even children are safe. In the womb itself, a girl child is aborted. There are posters in Rajasthan: “Spend `600 now, save `6 lakhs later.” Misogyny begins before birth.
You began writing during the Bandaya Sahitya movement in Karnataka. How did that shape your writing, both in content and style? Do you still feel that spirit today?
Bandaya gave me permission to be angry in Kannada. It allowed me to disrupt, to write. I was one of the few Muslim women in that space. It was liberating but isolating. There was a fire, a solidarity with others who burned with questions. Bandaya made me brave. That spirit still burns in my writing but in more quieter and precise ways. Bandaya is a lens, a way to perceive and internalise the world. Its slogan — Hudga aagali, kavya haadga aagali! (Let this sword become a poem) is deeply humane. It doesn’t ask the sword to cut, but to unite. That gave me the strength to use my craft with purpose.
In a recent event, someone asked why your stories focus mostly on the Muslim community. Why haven’t we seen more representation of others?
Bandaya aimed to challenge caste, gender, and economic oppression. But after the Babri Masjid demolition, my focus shifted. I began asking questions about the demonisation of Muslims, denial of rights, and treatment as second-class citizens. These themes emerged in my later work.
In Heart Lamp, my first collection, such stories aren’t included. But I’ve written over 60 stories in six collections. Only 12 were selected for Heart Lamp. In my second collection, which is currently being translated, you’ll see characters from diverse communities and broader themes.
What do you hope your stories will mean to the next generation of women who are writing, resisting, and trying to be heard?
Wherever patriarchy exists, my stories are reaching there and resonating. The Booker jury said these stories are relevant because they have universality. These aren’t just issues of Muslim women. They are the struggles of all women, poor, marginalised, oppressed by patriarchy. As long as patriarchy exists, my stories will be heard, discussed, cherished, and they will haunt readers. I’m certain of that.
Disclaimer: This article has a mention of suicide