‘Writers have to stop pre-emptive strikes against themselves’
Ireached the conclusion of my second novel, The Association of Small Bombs, in 2015, during a period of censorship by mob: the hounding of Tamil author Perumal Murugan, the murder of Lingayat scholar M.M. Kalburgi, and the continued silence of the government in the face of such harassment. As a result, I worried about the many direct political references in my novel. I discussed them with my editor. But I quickly understood that this anxiety was the first stage of self-censorship. In the end, I made no changes. My Indian editor stood by me.
This, I think, will be a widespread consequence of the current era of illiberalism: writers making preemptive strikes against themselves, to protect themselves, or others. But, as Saul Bellow wrote, “Everybody knows there is no fineness or accuracy of suppression; if you hold down one thing you hold down the adjoining.” Untruth can ruin a writer.
I know this firsthand. My first novel Family Planning, a comedy about a politician’s family, earned me the sharp rebukes of many people close to me when it came out in 2009. Some of their reactions were perhaps justified; most were not. I was shaken. I became upset and fearful, but, as far as I could tell, my writing didn’t change. But an odd thing happened. I was blocked for four years after Family Planning. Not in the traditional sense—I produced lots of pages. I just couldn’t move forward with the story. In retrospect, there was a simple reason for this: I hadn’t tapped the river of truth that is essential for a novel to flow. I would draw near it, recall my trauma, back away, and remain marooned on its banks, draping myself in gorgeous descriptions. The river of emotions grew dimmer and dimmer till it twinkled out.
Self-censorship threatened other aspects of my imagination as well. When I write, I try to picture real places; this makes invention easier. But now I focused on spots in Delhi I had little emotional attachment to, because they were safe. The story, as a result, refused to rise, like bread without yeast.
By 2013, four years into working on the book, I reached a dead end. I felt it was over; I couldn’t go on. I would have to give up writing and this novel; I would have to declare this experiment over and cave permanently. But then, in giving up, in clearing away the thickets of grief and sadness, I saw it: that river. I waded in and began writing. The novel poured out in months. And I wrote things I would never have risked before; I wrote as if no one else existed.
This is the key freedom every writer aspires to: the freedom of not kowtowing to anyone. Sensitivity is important; and a writer should take pains not to be vindictive. When you are writing well, you are the most generous version of yourself, forgiving yourself and others. I am an advocate for environments in which the writer can forgive himself.
For me, this environment was a surprising one: Austin, Texas. I went there for graduate school in 2012 and stayed for four years. I was utterly out of my element, even disliked the city at times, but I was forced into myself. Because I couldn’t step out into the streets of Delhi and fill myself with distracting mental photographs, I had to think about who I really was. Finally I could deny it no more.
Such an option is not available to writers like Perumal Murugan, who are embedded in the communities they write about. In January 2015, after he was hounded by the Hindu Munnani, the RSS, and government officials in Tiruchengode, Murugan declared, on Facebook, “Perumal Murugan the writer is dead. As he is no God, he is not going to resurrect himself.” The judgement of the Madras High Court in July absolving him of all charges might change that—I hope it does. Still, when he does finally sit down to write again, I fear it will be hard for him to hear himself.