Indian performance poet and author, Megha Rao, writes for women. Her writing, if it has to be understood at a cellular level, must be viewed as a celebration of what women are and can be, with an eye on the blood, dirt, guts and ugly-brilliant-fierce-darkness that galvanises all who must exist as we do. She sings celebration, jubilation and culture with a taint of crying sadness, a serenity of mind underlining all lyric observations and an attentive gaze that pushes the reader headlong into her poetic voice. As far as poet-turned-authors go, counting Vuong as archetypal of the list, Rao’s novel comes as a testament to the much-needed vigour and VIBGYOR introduced by all writers who are well-versed in the dark and alluring art of verse and ink manipulation. Beyond well-meaning and well-spaced literary references, Rao’s storytelling is pregnant with references to her own Tamil and Malayali heritage, her solidarity with the Left, as well as expressions of her identity as a woman sexed with many beings and experiences.
When offered the wonderful opportunity to interact with the poet herself, the supplier of our latest binge-read, “Our Bones in Your Throat”, Kunzum jumped at the chance. What follows is our soft little interaction.
The novel opens with a prologue that refers to the “sacred museum of bones in the closet” and the “myth of a woman,” elements that end up being cardinal themes in the narrative. Could you speak to that?
Rumour, legends and secrets make up the novel’s vital organs. While the narrative is rooted in the myth of a woman who drowned on campus and became the college’s biggest skeleton in the closet, it doesn’t hyperfocus on her alone. It’s also a study on how myths are created through oral storytelling and how through word of mouth, there’s great potential for both heroization and vilification. In 1615, astronomer Johannes Kepler’s widowed and illiterate mother was accused of witchcraft by multiple people, and their reasons weren’t based on facts. Thankfully, she was not put to death because Kepler defended her in court, but we know of enough women who have been unfairly burnt at the stake. Some of the characters in this book meet a similar fate – and some of them fight it ferociously.
The novel invokes women like Gauri Lankesh, Joan of Arc and Katherine Kepler, as well as goddesses like Isakki Amman. In mentioning the fact that the goddess Isakki had cacti adorning her abode, you critically underline the cruel juxtaposition involved when women are stripped of their humanity to be sacralised. What is the value of remembering such women, cataloguing these stories and citing them in terms of everyday women like Minaxi and Scheher?
The idealization of Scheher/Scheherazade, in hindsight, feels a lot like a satire of celebrity worship’s dark side. Pedestalizing people is just another way of dehumanizing them because you don’t allow them their flaws, mistakes and realities. Because you attach godliness to them, you project your fantasy onto them, and when you realize they’re so terribly human, you break your own heart and turn against them. In the book, Scheher becomes a literary star overnight and experiences the love and damage of stan culture. Minaxi’s notoriety turns her into an evil water creature that haunts the local lake. Isakki Amman was just another woman who was tortured by her husband until she was turned into a village deity. Joan of Arc was just a child who did not deserve the burden of her name. Temples and shrines have been built for women who have been victims of sati. Were these women not important to us until they died? And why do we only talk about rape when it also involves murder? Women are stripped of their humanity everyday – eroticized, commodified, terrorized, condemned and erased when they’re alive, and sometimes honoured and revered posthumously (all of this, without consent). We must meet all these women where they are – at the level of their mundane earthliness, and acknowledge they’re neither divine nor demonic; we owe them the right to their dignity, to be treated as humans. And for that, compassion is a prerequisite. And this is what the lived experiences of Scheher and Minaxi will make you reassess.
Esai, your protagonist, is proud and admittedly protective of her Tamilian heritage. How has your own upbringing and cultural identity informed the literature you create?
Tamil was my second language for ten years before I switched to Malayalam (we shifted countries). My grandmother studied in Tamil medium, so for her, Tamil still holds the place of a mother tongue. To be very honest though, my cultural identity is a bit of a mess. I grew up in Kerala (in Kottarakkara’s Thrikkannamangal village and Trivandrum), but I’m from Mangalore. I speak Tulu at home. It’s all still very chaotic and confusing to me, so I’m not the best person to answer any question on cultural identity. I often don’t feel like I belong to any particular group (I’m a bit of a loner and loser that way), and there are a lot of beliefs, values and principles I’ve picked up and rejected from different people and places. I find identity beautiful and grounding – I also find it limiting. But like Esai, I’m quite protective of my South Indian culture and I can’t escape what it’s taught me when I write what I write. I’m proud we keep Marxism alive in our own messed up way. I’m grateful for the brilliant writers we have here like Basheer, Bama, Perumal Murugan, K.R. Meera and more. So I understand why Esai would be proud too. I can see why she brings up Periyar when Ira asks about her last name.
How much of you exists in Esai and Scheher? Are they a mix of who you are and who you aspire to be?
Yes and no. People are really complex, and so are book characters. You can teach your children religion and principles and anything you like, but when they grow older, they begin to have their own opinions, personal values, political beliefs and more. They become their own people, they belong to themselves. Esai and Scheher are their own people and belong to themselves too. I raised them, but it would be unfair to raise them to be me.
Through Scheher, we see the making of a performance poet in our country. Does it bear any resemblance to your relationship with performance poetry?
Some parts of her narrative bleed into mine, yes! When I started performing poetry, I was twenty-two, figuring out my BPD and failing at it, and also coping with strangers telling me they loved me and getting vulnerable with me (art is wonderful like that, it has a way of opening up the heart). It’s always so special when people feel safe sharing things with me, and I try my best to hold space, but it can often get heavy. I’m still learning how to be compassionate towards others without abandoning myself, but yes, like Scheher, I had no healthy boundaries back then. I had a turbulent relationship with the consequences of being a stage artist. And it didn’t help that I was revisiting a very difficult past every time I performed confessional poetry. Yes, it helped me honour my truth, control the narrative and call my power back to myself, but it also exhausted me. Still does. I don’t perform very often.
What do you think of performance poetry as a nascent culture in our country with perhaps the oldest roots in the poetic tradition?
What’s nascent about it is probably how it’s packaged now – a lot of postmodern performance poetry is backed by social media. We’re not just on stage, we’re on YouTube, Spotify, Instagram, and everywhere! It’s triggered a bit of elitism in the literary industry, though, with the whole question of, ‘Are these poets really poets?’ Especially because Indian poetry wore a different skin centuries ago – how can we ever compare to the greats like Tagore, Vallathol, Kabir, and Sangam poets like Avvaiyar? There will never be another Ilango Adikal, another Silappathikaram, will there? Instead, you’ll have our unhinged poetry on personal tragedies, a friend’s suicide, fast news, internet memes, TikTok trends and more. The minute I swear on stage, the minute I say, ‘FUCK’, I know I’ve lost all literary merit. None of it is pretty, but it’s honest. It’s raw, real and earnest. And I think that can be almost beautiful.
“Our Bones in Your Throat” draws on radical literary cultures of Gothicism as well as Romance. These have been low-brow aesthetics that have been critically employed by women like Mary Shelley, who you refer to in the book, amongst others. What are the merits of employing the tropes of revenge tragedies, supernatural Gothicism and romance in writing women?
My third-semester assignment was on Frankenstein. I’m a big fan of the Gothic, and if one can explore romance in the Gothic, even better. I also love a good revenge tragedy, although I would never classify Our Bones in Your Throat as one. It’s a lot more like a Greek tragedy which hinges on themes of justice, rather than retribution. A lot like Sophocles’ Antigone, I suppose. When I was writing Our Bones, I also found myself gravitating towards the siren, retold in so many cultures, and in many different ways. In fact, Our Bones begins by alluding to the seductive power of sirens. The siren is supernatural, vengeful and alluring, all these tropes in one. Her hypnotizing music romances her victims, but she is no human. Oh, I honestly love them, I could talk about them forever. I love that yakshis are siren-like too. I love the Native Americans’ Deer Woman. I love the sirena in Filipino folklore. But I don’t know if there are any merits of employing such tropes in books. All I know is that when women write women characters, they’re quite counterculture. When men write them, they write them through a very specific male gaze. There isn’t usually anything Gothic, angry or romantic about them. Their love is always so sacrificial and resilient. They’re never seeking revenge themselves. They’re usually devices to further the male character’s revenge plot. Bad guy hurts good guy’s sister. Good guy kills him. The end. But I’m more interested in letting women characters speak for themselves. I love angry women. I love Kannagi’s female rage which burns Madurai city. I love Draupadi washing her hair with the enemy’s blood. I love the darkness in the feminine, I love bad women. I’m one too.
What do you want your book to do for the women who read it?
Make them feel seen.
Pick up Megha Rao’s “Our Bones In Your Throat” from any Kunzum store or WhatsApp +91.8800200280 to order. Buy the book(s) and the coffee’s on us.