STEPPING INTO JAYALALITHAA’S SHOES, AND QUAKING
The author of a novel inspired by Jayalalithaa’s story reveals why it took so long for the book to appear
In the last six years, the Tamil Nadu government filed 216 defamation cases against writers, journalists, politicians, political parties, and even an MTV VJ, for staining the honour of Chief Minister Jayalalithaa. One could claim, with good reason, that the actress turned politician turned ‘Amma’ of the Tamil people was among the most litigious public figures on the planet.
In 2011, I wrote the first draft of a novel, The Queen, based on her life.
What on earth did I think I was doing? I woke up one June morning with The Queen’s entire narrative in my head. What’s a writer to do at such a moment? I had to write it down.
Although The Queen is a work of fiction, nonetheless, it follows Jayalalithaa’s story closely. As a Tamil myself, images of her have presided over my entire life – in the form of giant cutouts, fifty feet high on buildings, and all over the media. Her voice was as familiar to me as my own mother’s. Jayalalithaa’s inner life, however, remained mysterious.
Of course, I wanted to understand what she thought about. What her motivations might have been. What made her tick.
For me, Jayalalithaa’s story is like the tales from mythology we all grow up with. She herself is kind of mythical figure. Her rise in cinema as well as politics have both been utterly dramatic. Who could forget her Draupadi moment in the Tamil Nadu Assembly, which transformed her into a woman of steel? Once the capes and bulletproof vests came in, she could eat Superman and Duryodhana for breakfast.
When you added the huge moustachioed macho men falling and weeping at her feet, she was Durga and Kali brought to life. How could I not write about such a woman? I finished a first draft in three months.
No sooner had I finished, however, than I came across the news that an unautho- rised biography in English, Jayalalithaa: A Portrait, by Vaasanthi, had to be withdrawn from publication after Jayalalithaa sued.
I sat there at my desk staring at my draft. Jayalalithaa, I realised, did not allow anyone to write anything about her, full stop. It is one thing to write fearlessly; another thing to publish fearlessly. So I confess I shoved The Queen in a drawer and forgot about it for four years.
Then, last year, through a series of unlikely circumstances, the book threatened to see the light. Suddenly I was forced seriously to consider the potential fallout. I liked to consider myself a fearless writer, but I also knew that Salman Rushdie profoundly regretted writing Satanic Verses. I knew about Wendy Doniger’s marvellous The Hindus: an Alternative History getting pulped in India.
And, even as my publishers were making me their offer, I read about Benazir Bhutto’s husband, Asif Zardari, in the process of suing a publisher for libel.
Just to add to the mix, Jayalalithaa, I learned, had appointed a special defamation lawyer whose sole job it was to sue people on her behalf.
Would my novel lose me my home? Would I see my two children out on the street? I had to try to think through everything, to really make sure we planned for the consequences, while making sure no compromise was made on the story’s integrity.
So, after all this, I was absolutely shocked when Jayalalithaa died, two months before the book came out, even as we were gearing up for trouble. The threat of libel appeared to have receded. I was left to consider again the essence of the story itself.
Who knew what Jayalalithaa was really like?
I had merely tried to write a ‘true fiction’ inspired by her life, such as we know it out here beyond the periphery of her personal world.
Ultimately, my heroine Kalai Arasi is more me. At least, she is the version of me I thought would be able to wear Jayalalithaa’s shoes or sandals with aplomb, with a degree of integrity, self-analysis and ironical humour.
Those qualities in Kalai Arasi – inspired by my imagined Jayalalithaa – make her, I hope, a heroine you can sympathise with. At least, empathise with. And that, surely, is integrity enough for a writer of fiction.