Crypts,Curses and Karate Kavitha

While sex is the ubiquitous undercurrent that rips through the stories like an underwater depth-charge,most of them have occult-themed plots — a Tamil-serial staple. Indumathi’s Omen-inspired tale “Hold on a Minute,I’m in the Middle of a Murder” relates a demonic possession in a mental hospital. Singaporean pulp writer M.K. Narayanan’s “The Bungalow by the River” has a vengeful spirit,accompanied by a cinematically cataclysmic flood. Indra Soundar Rajan’s “The Palace of Kottaipuram” is about a young prince’s attempt to rid himself of the curse that his debauched ancestors saddled him with. Medhavi’s “The Hidden Hoard in the Cryptic Chamber” sends a heroic cop-turned-detective on the trail of a secret treasure — and straight into the clutches of a Mengele-style evil scientist and slavering child-monsters at his command.

Resakee’s “Sacrilege to Love” is a Kollywood-ready tale of love triumphing over class barriers,and the wicked,murderous people who try to come in its way. Rajesh Kumar’s “Hello,Good Dead Morning!” is an effervescent whodunit involving a girl with an insatiable appetite for “those” films. And “Highway 117” by writer Pushpa Thangadorai and artist Jeyaraj is a comic caper starring the unstoppable Karate Kavitha,who hunts down a thief of temple idols with her sidekick and obedient love interest,archaeologist Umesh.

Many of the stories have heroines like Karate Kavitha effortlessly cracking mysteries,as their gaping boyfriends look on in awe. But there’s no doubt about the intended audience of these tales: products of uninflected patriarchy. Much emphasis is laid on inviolate chastity,and even frisky girls implore their boyfriends to “save something” for their wedding night. One of Kavitha’s would-be molesters asks the other: “Is our honey pure?” and is reassured — “Absolutely,straight from the honeycomb!” Heroines are objectified with the obsessive scrutiny of an ardent stalker; their breasts seem to exist solely to jiggle companionably along with the narrative’s yo-yoing gaze. “As her moped bumped over the potholes,her ripe breasts jiggled like a collection box.” “Her bout of laughter ended with a jiggle of her firm breasts.” The sole girl who attempts to act on her desire gets rape-as-comeuppance at the hands of men who resemble “scruffy wild buffaloes”.

Another recurring theme is a fascination with the upper class — which seems somewhat ironic,because that’s exactly who this new Rs 495 English translation is meant for. The largely pre-Liberalisation-era signifiers of wealth are longingly enumerated: imported soap and shampoo,casual visits to “star hotels”,musical wristwatches and cameras — or,in one royal family’s case,a separate vault for “daily-wear jewellery” alone.

What’s truly fascinating about this volume,though,is Pritham K. Chakravarthy’s translation. Auto-orientalising writers like Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni could learn a thing or two about how Indianness,or regional character,can be portrayed by means other than coyly dropping the occasional article. In these tales,English is reinvigorated by Tamil figures of speech,like a couple in love being “as close as copulating serpents”,or personifications,such as blue Pallavan buses spitting their passengers out on to the sidewalk,motorbikes that are “kicked alive”,and telephones that scream loudly. Onomatopoeia,too,effectively gives a sense of place,as any comics fan will attest to: “Pulich!” is the sound of spit landing on the wall. “Paleer,paleer!” is the sound of lashing rain. “Labak!” is the sound of a purse being snatched. And “Veduk!” is the sound of this book vanishing from my desk.