Conservationist and writer Zai Whitaker perpetually found herself around naturalists. First, it was her father, ornithologist Zafar Rashid Futehally, who served as the secretary of the Bombay Natural History Society; then came her (former) husband, Rom Whitaker.
Thanks to their influences, she was able to familiarise herself with the world of the Irular people, an Adivasi tribe in Tamil Nadu. She went on to work closely with them, learning how they earn a living by selling the “glossy skins” of the “rat snakes, pythons, cobras and Russell’s vipers” they hunt. She also helped establish a snake-catcher’s cooperative and a women’s empowerment initiative in the region.
Over the years, the knowledge she acquired in the process inspired multiple books, including Kali and the Rat Snake (2000). It, however, took her 10 long years to contextualise the real-life experiences in the backdrop of the period when the Irulars’ livelihood became endangered with the Wildlife (Protection) Act (1972) outlawing several hunting practices. But, her patience bore a miraculous fruit—the achingly wonderful novel, Termite Fry.
Set in the Seneri village in the Eastern Ghats, it keenly follows the life of a couple—Karadi and Rani, their children—Mari and Thenee, and Karadi’s father, Thatha, a respected community leader, a “great vaidyar, an expert on herbal medicine”, and a shaman. One enters the book right in the thick of action—Karadi is catching termites. He was waiting for suitable conditions before initiating the hunt. The atmosphere and landscape are lively and full of everything natural. Vibrant and colourful, the kinetics fill the reader with the anticipation of an adventurous ride, and the author doesn’t disappoint. Zai takes us through a wave-like narrative, where each impetus effortlessly paves the way for the next, calling for a fresh cast of characters to dominate for a while, before making things more engaging for the next leg.
The book is a testimony to her sharp observation skills. For example, in the village, “a person’s correct age was rarely known”—Mari is approximately 11-13 years old, and Thenee is “big enough to walk, but small enough to carry”. Or how Mari innocently believed that his parents’ names were “Listen and Look Here” for, that’s how he heard them address each other; they did so because calling each other by their names was deemed “disrespectful”. It was also a way to avoid the attention of the evil.
The book portrays the tribe’s resilience, but doesn’t paint them as helpless. Zai’s feminist gaze ensures that no “upper-caste” people’s saviour complex determines the conclusion of the narrative. Instead, it reaches its finality through the actions of the quick-witted and street-smart Thenee.
The child’s rebellious attitude on witnessing her people getting cheated by greedy profit-mongers is quite a scene. Several other voices shine through, too. Rani’s tongue-in-cheek comment when mansplained by her brother-in-law on fetching water early morning from a corporation tap “informally reserved for Adivasis” is a case in point: “Yes, it’s a good arrangement for the men”. More such interjections appear throughout the narrative.
Eventually, an author’s mastery is reflected in their use of language. Bare and crisp are a few adjectives one can use for Zai’s economy of words and clever storytelling. That the novel reflects Irular realities with accuracy is reiterated in the Afterword, which talks about the author’s commitment towards depicting a potent voice of the tribe. One such reflection comes through the episode of Thatha telling his granddaughter a story from a time when he was as small as a “little bush”.
Then, the “smell” of the bus giving it away to “high-caste people” implies the latter’s discriminatory tendencies. The inter-generational trauma is further heightened when sensing trouble, Thatha forcefully pushes Mari to deboard the bus. No “ism” and theory can help encapsulate such experiences in a narrative. It can only be done through patient absorption and artful articulation like Zai’s.