Feet of clay

Many writers mine the raw material of Indian mythology and shape it as they will. The trend is growing, but the results are decidedly mixed, says Suveen K Sinha

Narendra Kohli brought us down to earth. A formidable writer in Hindi, he took the myth out of mythology in his five-part novelisation of the Ramayana. As a child, it was fascinating, though it felt a tad sacrilegious (and therefore fascinating, maybe) to read his version of events.

In the stray reading of the Hindu scriptures and Grandma’s tales, Ahalya was a tragic woman — tragic but miraculous. She had turned to stone after being suspected of having sex with a man other than her husband. She came back to life when dust from Lord Rama’s feet fell on her. Kohli retained the tragedy, but took out the miracle. Ahalya, in his book, lived an ostracised life, so isolated that the cloth she wore was woven by her from cotton she grew. Rama rehabilitated her in society. The bow he broke to win Sita was actually a big, complicated machine; Rama figured its vital points.

 

Kohli’s writing did not evoke any outrage. The Hindus a few years ago seemed a lot more tolerant of such interpretations and Kohli’s was not an isolated case. Hindi literature has had an abundance of such writing. Acharya Chatursen’s Vayam Rakshamah, which used to peep out of the stained shelves of every Wheeler’s outlet at bustling railway platforms, was a daring euphemism for the story of Ravana. According to Pandit Dwarka Prasad Mishra, the Devas were inhabitants of Tibet and China, who controlled Bharatvarsha through strategic interference at historic moments.

Over the years, contemporary Indian writing in English got drawn to the epics. Two of the early birds were Pratibha Ray, whose Yajnaseni (a hit in its original Oriya) retells the Maharabharata from Draupadi’s perspective, and Kiran Nagarkar, whose Cuckold is a rare piece of writing because it takes a somewhat sympathetic look at the plight of Meerabai’s husband and how he deals with his spouse’s obsession with the divine flautist, Lord Krishna.

With time, this genre has burgeoned, allowing room for greater realism, scepticism, and, in places, cynicism. Sara Banerji, in her Shining Hero, takes Karna, the tragic hero of the Maharabharata, who, despite being the eldest Pandava, lives his entire life being treated as one of inferior stock, and puts him in a village just outside modern Kolkata.

According to the Mahabharata, Karna was born out of Kunti’s union with the Sun god. It was possible because of a mantra given by a sage who was happy with the way Kunti had looked after him. But Prem Panicker (also an excellent writer on cricket) would have none of it. His Bhimsen, adapted from Randaamoozham by M T Vasudevan Nair, says Kunti was forced by her father, blinded with his desire for a son, to look after the sage. Inevitably, she was impregnated by the sage and had to get rid of the son as she was not married. Similarly, according to Panicker, Yudhisthira was fathered by Vidura, who slept with Kunti with the consent of her impotent husband, Pandu. Bhimsen, who is the narrator in the book, was conceived when an unknown tribal took Kunti without bothering with her consent, though she did not seem to mind it.

Many of these writers, knowingly or unknowingly, build on Erich von Daniken’s theory of gods being visitors from highly advanced civilisations in outer space. But they also go deep into the minds of the characters and make them human. Ashok Banker, for instance, mentions Rama’s sexual longing. Instead of Tulsidas’s approach of praising the beauty of Rama’s face, eyes, etc, Banker talks about his lithe, athletic body, and his training in martial arts. Wendy Doniger (The Hindus: An Alternative History) takes a sociological approach. She uses the scriptures to analyse issues of morality, the place of women in Hindu society, and so on.

Against this vibrant backdrop, The Immortals of Meluha by Amish, which was the trigger for this article, disappoints. It was an intelligent attempt. Most of the writers, including those mentioned above, have focused on characters from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. Amish takes up Shiva, an intriguing and charismatic god (most women seem to like him beyond just the worship of his phallus), who remains a mystery and has attracted less attention than many others among modern writers. Hamish has hit upon an interesting concept: Shiva is a Tibetan immigrant who has greatness thrust upon him because of a magical hue coming out of his throat. He has to save the Indus Valley Civilisation. Unfortunately, Hamish plays it safe, making the book a rather simple tale of cursed love amid terrorist attacks.