It has been five decades since Malayali readers were riveted by a bunch of simple folks in a village on the banks of River Mayyazhi. A flag-bearer of modern literature in Malayalam, novelist M Mukundan turned 82 last Tuesday. An award-winning writer and former cultural attache of the French Embassy in Delhi, Mukundan speaks to TNIE on his six decades as a writer, why he remains both an ardent fan and staunch critic of the Left, his views on leaders like EMS and VS, & his memories of Onam. Excerpts
You’ve just turned 82 and Mayyazhippuzhayude Theerangalil has turned 50. As you celebrate 60 years of writing, how do you reflect on your writings?
Yes, Mayyazhi is 50! I’m still known for that novel. Recently, a young girl told me she’d read it twice. I joked that she wasn’t born when I wrote it, and she replied that her mother wasn’t born then either! It’s a novel that transcends generations. I’m happy to have written something that resonates with everyone. There are two types of writing: one that appeals to a wide audience and another that’s exclusive to a few. I’ve always preferred writing for the masses. What’s the point of writing if nobody reads it? I’m satisfied that my work has inspired readers to explore literature and seek out other writings of mine.
It is said that you were dissatisfied with the first draft and rewrote the novel after a few years...
This story has been with me since childhood. I didn’t know what literature was then, but images and conversations would appear in my mind. The idea evolved over time. I first wrote the novel at 25, but it had been gestating for 10 years. shared it with N V Krishna Warrier, who liked it but pointed out flaws. I reworked it but still felt it wasn’t right, so I destroyed it. Three or four years later, I wrote it again. This time, when I shared it with others, they liked it, and that’s the version we know today.
If you were writing Mayyazhipuzhayude Theerangalil now, how would your decisions regarding Dasan, the protagonist, change?
There would certainly be changes. With a different perspective, Dasan may not be the same character I created at 25. Age influences our character development, so perhaps Dasan would be older too. The world has changed, and those changes would inevitably impact the story.
You portrayed the French invasion uniquely in your novel. The grandmother, Kurumbi Amma, before her death asks if the ship had returned...
Yes, the French invasion was distinct from the British one. In Mayyazhi, a small locality, the French didn’t exhibit cruelty like the British. They sought land to stay, strategically choosing Mayyazhi for its ocean-facing mountain location, aiding their sea wars. They reportedly purchased the area from Vadakara Vazhunnor for Rs 16,000, a vast sum at the time.
The French maintained good relations with the locals, even befriending them. My sister had a French friend in school, and I recall them speaking French and sharing cakes during Christmas. Kurumbi Amma admired the French for their grandeur, unaware of imperialism’s complexities. In fact, my mother encouraged me to study well, hoping I’d marry a white-skinned lady and succeed, as fair skin was coveted. The French were respected in Mahe, and some were held in high esteem. Kurumbi Amma remained puzzled about the French departure. A writer from a French colony recognised characters like Kurumbi Amma, a great acknowledgment for me.
What is the influence of French culture in Mahe today?
Although the French influence has significantly decreased, there are remnants of their legacy. Some individuals still speak fluent French, like a fish vendor who discussed Albert Camus with a French TV crew. When the French left Mahe, 400 people chose to remain French citizens, while most opted for Indian citizenship because of the nationalist movement. These French citizens enjoyed privileges but needed the Indian government’s permission to stay in their birthplace, Mahe.
Over time, many left for France, where some prospered. I met a Mahe-born policeman in Paris. Some less-educated individuals were recruited to the French army and sent to African colonies. Many stories about Mahe’s migrants need documentation, but I lack the energy to write about them. Residents who opted for French citizenship received a substantial pension, becoming wealthy. Many people migrated to French colonies like Algeria, Morocco, Senegal, and Reunion Island, facing struggles and undocumented lives.
In the 1960s, modernism emerged in literature, and by the mid-1970s, writers like Vijayan, Kakkanadan, and Mukundan gained prominence in Malayalam literature. While Vijayan’s style was philosophical and Kakkanadan’s was more popular, your approach was distinct, characterised by an intuitive style...
The 1960s were a time of global unrest, not just in India but also in Europe. Young people were grappling with a sense of unease and concern. Living in New Delhi and writing during that period, I was determined to craft stories that would resonate with readers. My goal was to engage them, which is why I opted for a more reader-friendly language. For example, I presented the serious and philosophical theme of Adhithyanum Radhayum Mattu Chilarum in a fairy tale-like manner. This was a deliberate choice, driven by my desire to make my writing accessible to all readers. I feel fortunate to have succeeded in writing the way I envisioned, as many writers struggle to achieve this.
How far did life in Delhi, away from your native place, help you evolve as a writer?
Living detached from Kerala has indeed helped me grow as a writer. Observing life in my homeland from afar has given me a unique perspective. In Delhi, I interacted with people from diverse cultures, broadening my outlook. A Keralite living abroad has a different perspective than one living in Kerala. While those in Kerala broaden their views through reading, NRKs like myself learn through experience. Many renowned writers, like Ernest Hemingway, have been inspired by migration. O V Vijayan, for instance, wrote about Khasak’s people while living in Delhi. Exile or migration can indeed spark creativity.
Your novel Mundanam Cheyyapetta Jeevitham is a remarkable work. How did you manage to write such a story in the mid-1960s, before Hindutva ideology and caste-based politics had gained prominence?
Although Hindutva’s emergence wasn’t widely recognised at the time, I sensed its presence. It later evolved into a more powerful movement. Living in Kerala, a politically conscious state, made it impossible to ignore caste dynamics. After the communist government came to power in 1957, we thought we had moved beyond caste thinking. However, during our weekly literary meetings at the Kerala Club’s Sahitya Sakhyam in Delhi, I encountered a fellow Malayali who asked about my full name and father’s name, trying to deduce my caste. This experience showed me that even in literary circles, caste consciousness persisted.
Is there a connection between myth and reality in Mayyazhipuzhayude Theerangalil, given the appearance of dragonflies in Kollam during a discussion about the book?
I’ve heard stories about dragonflies at Velliyamkallu since childhood. The island was once a sacred place, accessible only to a few traditional fishermen who performed rituals before visiting. Now, it’s open to tourism, but its treacherous terrain and sharp seashells make it challenging to traverse. I’ve only heard stories, but a photographer, Vaikom Manoj, once captured them on camera during a church festival in Mayyazhi. When a group of high school students met me in Kollam, two or three dragonflies appeared, exciting the children. I don’t know why they came at that moment. Some things remain mysteries, and I won’t pretend to explain everything. Life is full of surprises and wonders.
You mentioned creativity. Since the protagonist in Kesavante Vilapangal is a writer, did you portray the struggles between the writer and his creativity in the work?
No, Kesavante Vilapangal is more of a political novel. As a Left-leaning individual, I was hurt by the diminution of ideological values within the Left at times. I wanted to critique this without hurting those I respect. It’s easy to criticise others, but harder to criticise those you love and respect. I aimed to criticise the Left without hurting them. Some readers understood the message, while others didn’t. I created an opportunity for readers to consider my objections and the Left’s faltering. The debate continues, with some labelling the novel as pro-Left and others as anti-Left.
You described Appukuttan trying to control his tears while seeing a wall painting of EMS. Was that inspired by your personal experience?
Yes, EMS’s pictures were common in our household, along with Sree Narayana Guru’s. Many of us grew up seeing their images.
In Kesavante Vilapangal, many readers are unsure whether you’re praising or criticising EMS. You’re actually criticising the Left, but did many fail to understand that?
That’s the novel’s success. We shouldn’t write to give a conclusive picture. Leave it to readers to infer and imagine. It can’t be labelled pro-EMS or anti-EMS. That’s for readers and critics to decide. The novel received the Vayalar Award amidst widespread criticism. Notably, P K Vasudevan Nair, a respected figure, chaired the award committee. This led to a significant reduction in
criticism, as many assumed that a jury led by PKV would not have honoured a novel with anti-communist sentiments. Even now, this sparks debate. I’ve chosen not to comment further, as I believe that if I wanted to express my opinions directly, I would have written an article instead of a novel.
After Kesavante Vilapangal, you criticised the Left again in Dinosarukalude Kalam, deconstructing VS. Later, you regretted writing it too…
Yes, I felt that way. I wrote because of a disagreement with V S. As a non-member, I have the liberty to write. The party doesn’t have a problem with that. However, they notice what I say, and I say it with sincerity.
You criticised EMS and can criticise VS too, right?
Yes, I do. But the problem is that times have changed and tolerance has decreased. EMS was willing to correct himself and accept criticism. I too faced criticism for my work, Mayyazhipuzhayude Theerangalil. When I met EMS later, he simply said, ‘You’ve written Mayyazhipuzhayude Theerangalil, and that’s enough.’ VS’s era is different. There’s no leader like EMS, and the party faces this problem now.
EMS and VS are two significant figures...
In different senses... we can’t compare them. EMS was both thoughtful and popular, whereas VS is an innocent person who dreams of a better world, which doesn’t fit the current times. That is what I wrote too. But some people disagree with it. There were protests too (smiles).
People still think you admire Pinarayi...
I know Pinarayi well, as we’re from the same place. He grew as a leader in challenging circumstances, facing poverty, struggles, and police attacks. That’s the Pinarayi I know. I respect him. I don’t know VS like that, though he is a good leader. In today’s situation, a leader should be someone who can understand our problems. I still respect him. After these issues, when I met VS, I asked if he had any problems with me. He just patted my shoulder and said, ‘No.’ He doesn’t have any problems with me, but his fans can be blind. We shouldn’t admire politicians like film stars... leaders hold people’s lives in their hands and should be criticised when necessary.
Do you see Pinarayi Vijayan as a spokesperson for practical politics?
I can’t say for sure. But Pinarayi has done some good things and continues to do so. We can’t overlook those accomplishments. For instance, the establishment of the virology institute – there’s no other institute like that in India. Neo-capitalism may not be our immediate threat (laughs), but viruses are our primary adversaries in the near future. Pinarayi acknowledged this and took the initiative. However, in my view, he is not adept at handling the media.
Is Pinarayi Vijayan representative of modern-day communists in Kerala?
In my opinion, he’s comparatively good. I don’t see any other leader standing out like him.
Do you believe the Left ideology still has a future?
Yes, the Left has immense importance in the future. For me, the Left is not just a party, but a vision, an awareness that encompasses politics, women’s liberation, marginalised communities, and nature. The Left I imagine is vast, but in Kerala, the Left is synonymous with CPM (laughs).
What corrections should the Left make?
We live in a world of exchange, not just enmity. The Left should reconsider rigid opposition to America, given our close ties. However, we must be cautious about right-wing extremism. In Mahe, there were no Sangh Parivar members in the past. However, I recently spotted a saffron flag atop a jackfruit tree in front of my house, indicating a growing presence of extreme rightists. I’m reluctant to use the term fascism because of its overuse, but its presence still lurks, even in our own minds. We mustn’t allow it to resurface. Malayalam writers, in particular, bear a significant responsibility to prevent its resurgence.
Many say today’s writers lack the courage of earlier writers. Do you agree?
(Laughs) Courage depends on one’s perspective. My convictions give me courage when I oppose something, like when I stood against V S Achuthanandan. Strong beliefs can empower people. If today’s writers have convictions, they’ll find courage too.
What happens to leftist writers if the Left weakens in Kerala?
Many writers have always thought from a leftist perspective. The Left has historically protected writers, not just financially but in other ways too. During Covid, Left leaders like Veena George and M V Jayarajan showed concern for writers’ well-being. This care is unique to the Left. While I have friends in other parties, I recently expressed concerns about the Left’s weakening, but the media misinterpreted it. I can’t single-handedly strengthen the Left, but I can voice my concerns.
After 60 years of writing, what are the changes that you have observed?
Much has changed. Moral values have shifted. In the 1960s, Keralites were innocent despite poverty. Now, we see sexually frustrated individuals, and lust dominates.
Your writings often have a regional touch or specific geographical setting, like Mayyazhi and Delhi. Which area does the ‘real Mukundan’ identify with?
I spent 40 years in Delhi, a period longer than what I spent in my native place. That makes it challenging for me to answer the question, ‘Which is my land?’ I was born in Mayyazhi and lived there for 21 years. Thereafter, I travelled to and fro frequently. After retiring, I lived there again for a while. As a result, I consider both places my native places. I often joke that I have dualities in my life – two native places, two small houses (one in Mayyazhi and one in Delhi), two languages (English/French and Malayalam), and even two everyday items, like fridges, washing machines, and gas stoves. I’m caught between these two worlds.
Whose writing inspired you the most?
During my teenage years, I was inspired by Urub, Thakazhi, and Basheer. Pottekkad’s works created a fantasy world for me. Later, I admired Dostoevsky and Sartre. Currently, I appreciate Annie Ernaux, a French writer who emphasises the importance of truth in writing, saying, ‘You can write it however you prefer, but there should be truth in it.’
Can you share your memories of Onam, both in Kerala and as an expatriate?
Before I left Kerala, Onam used to be a celebration of flowers, like thumba, sauntering along paddy fields, and a general atmosphere of mirth and merriment. But when I moved back here from Delhi, Onam seems to have undergone a drastic transformation. No signs of either paddy fields or thumba. It has, on the contrary, become more or less a celebration of the market... consumerism. Onam has, in the present day, turned into mere buying and selling. In the past, it was never so market-oriented. But nowadays, markets seem to have literally hijacked Onam. In a way, it does reflect the changing sensibilities of Malayalis here in Kerala.
Was it the same during your expatriate days too?
For expats, Onam has always been a nostalgic celebration that, sort of, embodied a sense of longing for all that they had left behind. Thankfully, the markets there are yet to take over traditional celebrations. Expatriates haven’t yet succumbed to the onslaught of consumerism when it comes to how they celebrate Onam. In my view, Kerala’s innate culture, rituals, and sensibilities that come alive during Onam continue to remain the way it was in the world of expatriates. It actually feels good that at least somewhere the traditional flavour of Onam is still preserved.
TNIE team: Anil S, Rajesh Ravi, Manoj Viswanathan, Krishna P S, Lisa Anthony, Swathy Lekshmi Vikram A Sanesh (photos), Harikrishna B (video)