Ramesh Karthik Nayak – “Mine is a subaltern voice”

How did you react when you won the award?

It feels good to win the Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar before turning 35. I am 26 years old and pursuing an MA in Telugu. Maybe this is the perfect time for me to decide whether to be a part time writer or to take a break from writing and concentrate on my further education. The reason is that, in Telugu, mine is a subaltern voice. The readers or other writers feel sorry for my tribe. I do not want that. They just have to accept my writing as literature – not only mine, but the writing of all who have dared to write.

I was quite shocked when I received the news about winning the award because I had heard many people saying that only writers between the ages of 29 and 35 stand a chance. Caste, gender, religion, region – everything matters. I thought they might have announced my name accidentally because I have rejected a few awards in the last couple of years when people giving awards were not willing to reimburse my travel expenses and take care of my stay.

How did your family react?

My parents’ reaction was, “Oh, okay! Do they pay or do they only give a shield and a shawl?” (laughs)

Your writing is rooted in the cultural context of the Banjara/Lambadi community — food, clothes, folklore, ceremonies, and the intimate relationship with trees and animals. How were you able to nurture your sense of pride in this community identity when the mainstream Indian education system does little to honour tribal cultures and histories?

I was born in in Vivek Nagar Thanda in Nizamabad district of Telangana but my parents got me admitted to a school and hostel in Armoor about 15 kilometres away.

I did not meet my parents regularly. My mother was busy selling vegetables in the village and my father was working in Dubai. I imagined how they looked. I was only very familiar with my grandmother’s face, because she used to sell curd and milk, wandering in Armoor, where I was studying and staying. From what I remember, I was very happy with stones, plants, insects, air and soil in my childhood. Whenever I was plucking flowers, chasing butterflies, or picking up fallen leaves from the ground, I never thought of my parents or home town. I always felt alive in the presence of nature, so I did not miss anyone.

I was told that they would come to visit me while I was in school, but they never did because they were busy earning a livelihood. As a child, this was difficult for me to understand so I stopped believing in human beings. I started thinking that trees, rivers, soil, etc are our bodies, and we are their shadows. How can I ignore my flesh and blood in my writing? We are losing our bodies now. Without them, we are going to be confused and wandering souls.

How did the prize-winning book Dhaavlo (Song of Lamentation) come into being? What feelings and impressions did you want to evoke in readers who are completely ignorant about the Banjara community?

I just wanted people to know that there is a Banjara/Lambadi community that exists among them, and that their lifestyle is unique as well as difficult in many ways. As a writer, I am not sure what impression I was able to convey to readers. But I am sure that people are a little more aware about former nomads after reading a book by someone from the community.

I hope people will read my writing, and tell me what they think about it. I do not want them to treat me like a child and praise me only because I am from a tribal background.

What draws you towards magical realism? How has it influenced your writing?

When I started reading the work of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, Julio Cortázar, I found the idea of magical realism very similar to what I have heard in the rural folktales of tribal communities. The short story titled “Costa” (meaning cocoon), which is part of my collection Dhaavlo takes inspiration from a short story called A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings written by Marquez. I have tried to imagine what would happen if the old man from Latin America, who is part of his story, was suddenly transported to Hyderabad and placed in front of the house of a 17-year-old Banjara boy who has some unusual dreams and visions. This is the longest story in the collection, and I have woven in many little details from the life of the Banjara community; for example, a ceremony where a calf is sacrificed before Goddess Kali. I was eager to read stories by Marquez in their original form in Spanish, so I even joined a certificate course in Spanish. I studied it for a year but I could not continue with the course in the second year because it was quite challenging for me to afford the fees.

One of your short stories is set in a university that is celebrating the International Day of the World’s Indigenous People. Individuals from various tribal communities are brought to the campus in a lorry on this occasion, and you compare these people to cattle huddled together. What inspired this story?

In my childhood, my grandmother used to go to political meetings and dance in front of political leaders to earn some money. After returning home, she used to narrate the day’s events to my mother and complain that those politicians did not even pay the full amount that was promised to her. After I moved to Hyderabad, when I attended a few political events and saw people dancing there, my mind was filled with a lot of questions that bothered me. By this time, I had also read Hansda Sowvendra Sekhar’s short story, The Adivasi Will Not Dance, multiple times and understood that every tribe in India is facing this issue of being forced to dance unwillingly, so I decided to write about in the form of a story.

How did the city of Hyderabad shape your access and entry into literary circles and the publishing world?

I learnt a lot in Hyderabad. I wanted to be a teacher but my parents pushed me to join a polytechnic. They wanted me to earn money, and not waste it on buying books. I took up many different kinds of jobs to support myself. I have done catering. I used to distribute pamphlets. I have worked in a xerox shop. I have also taught undergraduate students.

The credit for introducing me to literary circles and encouraging me to publish goes to poet Sowbhagya, Surya Dhananjay who teaches Telugu literature, and my writer friends Aparna Thota and Chaithanya Pingali. Sowbhagya provided books to read. Surya Dhananjay, who has done a lot for tribal languages and literature, made me realise the importance of pursuing an MA and guided me with the enrolment process. She and her husband Dhananjay Naik corrected the grammar of my poems and stories. Aparna and Chaitanya supported me financially because they believed in my writing more than I did.

Chakmak, your first book of poems in English, opens with Orhan Pamuk’s quote: “Telling stories is a way of surviving and continuing to live.” Why did this seem apt for the book? The artwork used in the book is stunning. Tell us about the art and the artist.

Whenever people gather to talk about something or to put forth their opinions, thoughts and feelings are shared in the form of stories. The words they communicate are temporary but they also carry a certain kind of history, which helps them survive.

The artwork was done by Ramavath Srinivas Nayak, who is also from the Banjara community. He believes that culture is more important than currency, and is one of the finest artists of our times. When he read the manuscript of my book, he offered the paintings for free because the poems were about our lives, our traditions, our imaginations.

What do you enjoy more – writing prose or poetry? Why?

I enjoy writing poetry because it takes less time and space. I am working on putting together another collection of poems in English. I hope to write more prose in the future.

Do you feel like a different person when you write in Telugu and in English? Or do you think that both languages are mere tools that allow you to convey different ideas?

Yes, I feel different based on the language I write in. I am not as fluent in English as I am in Telugu. But I can write poetry in both languages. When it comes to prose, the metaphors and other figures of speech that I use in Telugu are missing from my English prose. I need to improve my English because it will get me a wider audience but I need to continue writing in Telugu because this language does justice to the stories of my people.

Is your book Dhaavlo going to be translated into English soon?

Divya Kalavala is translating Dhaavlo into English. I am happy to share that I have signed a representation agreement with Kanishka Gupta’s literary agency Writer’s Side.

What are you working on now?

I am editing tribal stories along with Surya Dhananjay, Dhananjay Naik and Mantri Srinivas. I am translating poetry from English to Telugu. I am also working on a programme called Aksharam for Doordarshan. As part of this, I interview young Telugu authors and poets every week. I am also gathering information on about 35 tribal communities from Telangana and Andhra Pradesh to present a comparative perspective.

Chintan Girish Modi is a freelance writer, journalist and book reviewer.