Vattaththul has been a cleansing act. There are times when a helpless lethargy leads to an overcrowding of the loft; and then suddenly energy flows in to trash all the unwanted stuff. As Vathsala does with memories, frustrations and inadequacies: “I have finished writing the book. The mind has grown light.”
Social document
How does one compute the no man’s land between autobiography and fiction? I would not call Vattaththul either this or that. It is actually a sincere social document, seen through embittered glasses. The canvas is crowded and the action is always on a gallop. Vathsala sets before us characters from Brahmin families with an enviable attention to detail that gives shape to her societal view of women who dare not rebel, who do not care to rebel, and women who rebel and reap the consequences. Alamu, Janaki, Prema, Deepa and many more. They crystallise all the tears and aggravations undergone by Brahmin women down the generations. There is Padmasani too, symbolising what the society could do to a barren woman. Even Deepa who is educated and independent when we see her in the novel would perhaps have her own share of pains and problems later on. She is a woman!
The gravamen of Vathsala’s societal indictment, however, refers us to the vengefulness which is deep within the psyche of woman herself. Janaki has suffered by being married to an elderly husband, she has been married off as a second wife, she has had to sacrifice for the sake of her siblings, she has endured the contumely of relations. Why then should she proffer a welcoming smile to the newcomer in her family? But why does a woman become ‘jealous’ of her own daughter’s self-confidence to rebel?
Vattathhtul thus turns out to be the author’s investigation into the nature of maternal behaviour. Strangely enough, Vathsala’s men are no monsters. Rajagopalan, Srinivasan, Raghuraman: a legend of good men! But most women in this document turn out to be psychos. Maternal love is mixed up with jealousy all the time. A mother cannot stand when the daughter is better off financially or when a daughter dares to walk out of a loveless marriage. Really?
A novel that is made up of various shades of darkness, Vattaththul has an imbedded challenge in Janaki’s last message to her son: “After my death, gift my eyes to the government hospital. My body should be handed over to the medical college for dissection. No rituals for me, nor any annual ceremony. I have no belief in any of it.” Was this Janaki’s way of taking revenge on her son? Private imaginations can be a torment, and we can gain release only by reading about such a tormented soul. Or as Vathsala did by writing Vattaththul. As we do when we clear up the congested loft of all unwanted trash. Towards the new life, then!
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