Baby Doll

by Gracy

  From her first collection, Padiyirangippoya Parvathi (1991) onwards, Gracy has seldom wavered from her focus on solitary women, who are singular in their guiltless pursuit of sexual fulfilments, as much as in their yearning for love and understanding. Rebellious and irreverent, their motives and actions are misread, feared and exploited; often, they are driven to insanity and bitterness, unless they opt to break free of their confinements, as many do. Gracy’s strong women characters who refuse to compromise (‘Parting with Parvathi’, ‘Devi Mahatmyam’, ‘Panchali’, ‘Illusory Visions’, etc.) are offset by angelic women who desperately try to hold on, as their familiar world unravels around them, testing their perseverance to breaking point (as in ‘The Tenth Commandment’), or women empowered by their steadfast love (‘Orotha and the Ghosts’, ‘Sorcery’ and ‘Body and Blood’). They are unforgettable for their audacious rejections of conformity and compromise, their quiet resistances, and even their conscious surrender to patriarchy and its conventions as a final rebuke (‘Fraction’). ‘Panchali’ is a study in how a newly married, young woman upturns the well-executed plans of a vindictive and possessive husband who holds her imprisoned in a daily performance of sleazy escapades. As perverse sexual fantasies are played out in the name of mythical figures from the Mahabharata, Panchali uses the same narrative to beat him at his own game.

  The impossibility of female desire, even as women search for avenues of sexual expression and fulfilment, is at the heart of Gracy’s fictional world. Beset with delusion, alienation, disquiet, vengeance, cynicism, they are unable to form or sustain relationships. She is masterly in her depiction of tragedies spinning from silly anxieties and overwrought expectations (‘The End of a Naive Romance’, ‘A Lizard Birth’, and ‘The Rabbits of Mamallapuram’). While the bleak domestic landscape of Gracy’s stories, with their skewered conjugal relationships, offers little comfort, at the other end of the spectrum we encounter spunky women who stand their ground (‘Do Not Trespass’, ‘What Mother Ought to Know’, ‘Ball’) and relationships reassured by marital bonds (‘Orotha and the Ghosts’, ‘Wounded by the Void’, ‘Sorcery’).

  While her unusual candour in depicting complex inner worlds of women has brought her much recognition and condemnation, it has also bracketed her unfairly as a ‘mere’ feminist author, sidelining the gamut of fictions she has written about men, sexualities, death and childhood. Her resistance to the normative mores and failures of society inscribes most of her stories. Shaped by her time and environs, admittedly, many of her characters and locales have been drawn from familiar surroundings, as testified by her compelling stories and parables of Christian flavour, infused by Biblical echoes of sins, transgressions and retribution. However, many of these Christian terrains are also imbued with tensions which arise when the vestiges of a pre-Christian or Hindu way of life assert their hold on the imaginations of the fictional beings and problematize their lives.

  The present collection aims to subvert the common assumption that Gracy writes only about women. These are intimate portraits of vulnerable men, women, children, ghosts, and the undead who haunt the living, as much as about toxic men and women gendered by patriarchy. Gracy’s uncompromising stance on patriarchy necessarily has to be framed within the social and cultural landscape of Kerala, deeply mired in masculinist ideology and misogyny. A range of sexual desires, intrigues, transgressions and compulsions intersect in most of her stories. Resistant to the social prescriptions of heteronormativity, these stories remain sympathetic towards sexual differences, though Gracy does not develop them further.

  In Gracy’s fictional universe, one hardly encounters women who are paragons of virtue or love, whereas it abounds with unhappy and bitter women who wield their sexual intrigues and resistive strategies to hold their ground in the daily power struggles within the domestic space. Men are seldom a match for them, though some are equally paired (‘Illusory Visions’). Even the predatory men, who stomp through the lives of helpless women, are part of the web of deceit and cruelty woven by the callous indifference and self-interest of parental figures who abet the crime (‘It Is Winter Now on Earth,’ ‘Doomsday’, ‘Petra’, ‘Do Not Trespass’). Stories like ‘Doomsday’ and ‘The Tenth Commandment’ take primeval forays into the surreal mindscapes of men who cannot cope with the demands of the materiality of the real world and regress into themselves. They try to counter the manifold erasures to which society subjects them (‘Aram Shah’). Sexual inadequacy and the fear of female sexuality plunge the jealous husband of ‘Cat’ into delusions and madness.

  Gracy’s stories are intimate portraits of traumatized children as well. Abandoned, orphaned and rejected by parents, these children grow into adults who bristle with resentment and helpless rage, and are often driven to the brink of sanity (‘Petra’, ‘Do Not Trespass’). Linked to Gracy’s concern with childhood and lost innocence are stories that seem to centre on motherhood and its various tropes. The ‘maternal’ is debunked by narratives that challenge rather than reiterate common stereotypes of loving, sacrificial mothers, who are few and far between in her stories.

  A nuanced and layered literary terrain, Gracy’s stories open up a dark and ambiguous world of oppressive relationships and perceptions gone askew. The uncommon energy, verve and compelling aggression in Gracy’s language, and the unapologetically strong women characters with their absorbing private worlds, trapped in the endless boredom of quotidian lives and complex churnings of the mind, are seldom seen in the works of her contemporaries. The translation of Gracy’s stories can yield rich dividends in bringing to a wider readership an influential literary voice, noted for its continuing contemporaneity.

  I hope that this translation will further scholarly enquiries that attempt to understand vexing questions about the status of women in modern-day Kerala, stymied by normative notions.

  Gracy in Conversation with Fathima E.V.

  Fathima: To begin at the beginning, when did you take up writing seriously?

  Gracy: I started writing during my college days. To be exact, in 1972. I was in my final year BA when my first story, ‘Asthamayam’ got published in Janayugam weekly. That was the time when my outlook on life was just evolving. What fascinated me in that phase was love, romance and man–woman relationships. Having had a fair share of heartbreaks, I harboured a deep-seated notion that, invariably, romances were bound to fail. Anyway, the reality is that I hardly wrote any love stories. However, my stories have tried to delve into the myriad dimensions of gender/man–woman relations. I have approached sexuality boldly, in situations where I was fully convinced that it was necessary.

  Fathima: Could you tell your readers a little more about your formative influences? Books, writers, influential figures who played a part in you taking up writing?

  Gracy: When someone asks me how I became a writer, it is impossible to give an exact answer. Mine was a conservative farming family. There were no books in the house. Except for the Bible. So, I took to reading rather late. Still, I turned out to be a writer. None of my kin in the same situation had any interest in literature. With dusk as his witness, my grandfather used to tell me many stories. But there weren’t any human beings in any of those stories. The characters were animals, snakes and birds. It was, of course, a surreal world. It must have awakened the ability that had lain dormant in me. Inborn ability is the most important thing. Then it has to be developed further.

  Fathima: Padiyirangippoya Parvathi was your first collection. Did you find it difficult to get your stories published?

  Gracy: I was my own publisher for my first collection, as I bore the printing cost, though the distribution was done by Current Books, Kottayam. When the copies began to sell well, Current Books took over the next editions, and DC Books brought out the later collections.

  Fathima: As a woman writing in a misogynistic culture, what were your most trying experiences?

  Gracy: After I opted for a marriage that required me to break down the barriers of religion, I had to fall
silent, though writing was dearer to me than life itself. With life turning miserable, not only writing, but reading too drifted away. It was after I landed a job that things settled down a bit. After I built a small house of my own, I managed to get back to my old world. I went back to reading, soon followed by writing. In 1991, I published my first collection, Padiyirangippoya Parvathi.

  Fathima: At any point in your life, did you encounter situations in which editors or publishers demanded that you make changes in your stories?

  Gracy: No, never. I haven’t faced anything like that.

  Fathima: When you started writing in the seventies and eighties, your contemporaries were in a heady engagement with modernism. How did you respond to that emergent sensibility?

  Gracy: By the time I started writing, the modernist movement in Malayalam was in full swing. But it didn’t attract me much. Of course, I did look at modernist literature with curiosity. Modernism has taught us a valuable lesson about how to use language carefully. However, imports from abroad did not seem to be so relevant in the Indian context.

  Fathima: You are always cited as one of the writers associated with the influential Pennezhuthu Movement in Kerala, along with Sarah Joseph, Chandramathi, Madhavikutty, Ashitha, etc., though you later chose not to be slotted as such. Was there some reason that made you dissociate yourself from the movement? Was there a reluctance on your part to be pinned as a feminist writer?

  Gracy: Most people regard me as a feminist writer. That is not entirely correct. I have not only emphasized the need for the emancipation of women, I have also written about the liberation of humanity at large. But in our society, even the illiterate take pleasure in ridiculing feminist writers. Our society thinks that feminism is an idea that should be opposed at any cost. This is because of the inference that feminism is against men. In fact, feminism is an important strand of humanism. There is hardly anything to be opposed in feminism. The crux of true feminism is that men and women are interdependent and complement each other. Feminism has helped to shape a sense of identity for women. However, along with that comes the danger of women’s writing being marginalized. It has also led to allegations that the concerns and perspectives of women who write about women’s experiences are not diverse enough. That is not an unsubstantiated claim either, as that is exactly why women-centric writing has opened up an alternate world of an ‘other’. Consequently, a wide variety of subjects have been made available for exploration. It is in the same vein that my stories, too, began to evolve. But then, diversity of topics is the greatest challenge that all writers face, not just women.

  Fathima: There was a long period when you disappeared altogether from writing and the public space. In your memoirs, you have said that life and its responsibilities interrupted your writing. Could you elaborate?

  Gracy: By 2005, once again my writing career landed in a crisis. That was immediately after I became a grandmother. Our situation is such that Indian women have to take care of not only their children but their grandchildren as well. Only a few talented women writers are able to overcome this condition. I, for one, couldn’t do it in any manner. Many say that it is better if creative women refrain from getting married. There is some truth in that. But there is also another side to the issue. It was the conflicts within marriage that gave me cues to many of my stories. It also helped me gain a deeper perspective of life. However, human beings are seldom satisfied with anything. Their eyes are always searching for greener pastures on the other side. But it is not possible to have many births, or many lives in a single birth.

  Fathima: I love the candour with which you admit what many women in our society wouldn’t dare to, as sacrificial motherhood is a powerful stereotype which forbids women from admitting it even if they feel they are not ‘motherly enough’ … You were a Malayalam lecturer at UC College, Aluva. How did you manage your twin careers of teaching and writing? Do you have a writing routine?

  Gracy: Perhaps my teaching career did help me in my writing, but only indirectly. I did not find the profession very inspiring as such. But it afforded me ample opportunities for reading. That certainly would have had its influence on my writing.

  I have heard that many writers write early in the morning, in the ‘Brahma muhurtha’. I can never do that. My habit is to sit and write during the day or at midnight. Indian writers cannot survive on writing. So they are, necessarily, forced to rely on other occupations. Perhaps that is the reason why they seldom exhibit the kind of dedication that foreign writers demonstrate. Perhaps it is this commitment which helps foreign writers produce great works. Especially in fiction.

  Fathima: You have always been seen as a loner, even among your contemporaries. In your memoirs, you refer to how you used to get calls from fans who were irate because you wouldn’t be part of even women’s collectives and assemblies. Why was that?

  Gracy: Crowds always make me upset. I do not like to be the cynosure of eyes or be the centre of attention on stage. But there is no harm in being a listener or a spectator. I love to observe people from a distance, without their knowledge, especially women. I know there is a contradiction in this nature. But I can’t help myself!

  I rarely appear in literary forums. I believe writing is a process that happens in isolation. Hence, I do not understand the significance of gatherings or collectives. In other contexts, there is strength in numbers, as consolidation of power increases through organizations and collectives. But it is only when one is alone in writing that one becomes strong. I do not know how to make stories. That is why I am against calling the story a construct. Stories should illumine themselves within the writer. Inside me, the beginning of the story often takes off from a visual image or scene. Later, the range of scenes expands, and I follow the characters. They beckon me. The natural course of the characters is paramount to me. My belief is that the characters have an independent, autonomous identity. Once the story is complete in my mind, I copy it on paper. On rare instances, some changes may suggest themselves while copying. I still do not understand why or how. I like to think that in writing, as in life, some characters can interfere unexpectedly.

  Fathima: In Kerala, the celebration of writers often borders on the excessive, and for women writers who write candidly, it comes with the added danger of an intrusive scrutiny into their private lives. Were you uncomfortable with adulation, as some of your memoirs suggest? What was your relationship with your contemporaries like?

  Gracy: Like many women in my generation, in the early days of my writing career I was drawn to Madhavikutty’s characters who seemed to reflect the many women that I carry within myself. Women tend to be ultra-secretive, concealing their emotions within the many interlinked precincts of their mind – the ara (the outer chamber), ullara (the inner chamber) and kallara (the secret chamber). It was Madhavikutty who showed us that they needed to be prised out from their dark corners, and that did help me early in my writing. I have met Madhavikutty five or six times. In fact, one of my books was released by her. I have interviewed her once. Though I was drawn to her, I found it better not to get closer. I like to keep a distance from people I revere in my mind, for fear of deities and icons getting broken. Some writers I avoid because of their pretensions. I find it easier to maintain emotional distance. The lesser the contact, the lesser the disappointment.

  Among my contemporaries, I was friendly with Sara Joseph, Chandramathi and Ashitha, though I was closer to Ashitha. I did not have too many close friendships in the literary world, because my natural inclination was to be a loner. Among male writers, the one with whom I was able to interact with ease was Punathil Kunjabdulla; he communicated without any inhibition whatsoever. His behaviour was very simple. All my ennui was melted away by his simplicity. Once, I met N.S. Madhavan who had written many of my favourite stories. But I just couldn’t bring myself to walk up to him and speak to him, though I wanted to. So, I just smiled in greeting and moved away. This is a pattern of my life. I’m the one who hardly understands myself – yet, I’m
the only one who knows me best!

  Fathima: Coming to the recurring concerns in your stories, undoubtedly the insidious reach of patriarchy and marriage figure prominently. Women enduring, challenging, rebelling, upstaging, and getting destroyed by oppressive marriages, as well as marital relationships based on love and understanding as in ‘Sorcery’, are often encountered. Could you elaborate?

  Gracy: I grew up seeing a completely dissatisfied married life. But as I got older, I realized that it is no different for most couples. Some toxic partings can leave lasting scars, whereas some spouses do manage to walk away easily or even part amicably. The latter requires extraordinary courage. A woman does not get support from her own home or community. They will also remind her that it is the woman who has to endure. Most women, however, do not have financial security. So, every woman should make sure that she can stand on her own two feet first. You can get married after that, and only if you feel the need. There is more freedom in cohabitation. But if you have children, there is no significant difference between the two.