What does it
mean to live a life of absolute honesty? For Krishangini, a Tamil writer,
tireless translator, and keeper of marginalised voices, the answer is simple:
you write the truth, you speak the truth, and you act truthfully. Nothing else
will do. In a deeply candid conversation, Krishangini traces her extraordinary
journey from a nine-year-old girl craving a cream biscuit to a writer whose
translations have given voice to Dalit communities, autistic children's
mothers, and widows long silenced by society.
A Mother Ahead of Her Time
Every
remarkable writer has a first reader, and Krishangini's was her mother, a woman
of breathtaking progressiveness in an era that demanded conformity. Self-taught
in Hindi simply by listening from inside her home to men studying on the front
porch, her mother spent decades from 1935 to 1960 teaching Hindi to women
confined within four walls: widows forbidden from dressing up or stepping
outside.
“God is not a servant
you can bribe with a few coins to fix your life.”
In 1957, her
mother went further still: she staged an all-women play and cast a young widow
as the heroine, adorning her with flowers and a bindi. In the social climate of
the time, this was an act of radical defiance. Her mother’s rationalist spirit
shaped Krishangini’s entire worldview, and she lived an active, writing life
right up to the age of 98, passing away at 100.
The Cream Biscuit Epiphany
Krishangini’s
father once ran a successful hotel business. Betrayal by relatives left the
family destitute, with nine mouths to feed and silver vessels to sell just to
survive. It was 1948. Krishangini was nine years old, and she was hungry for a
cream biscuit the family could not afford.
Instead of
tears, she wrote a two-page story about how she might possibly get to eat one.
Her brother read it, went out and bought her the biscuit, and told her that her
writing beautifully reflected real life. That small, sweet moment set the
course of her entire career. Writing became her language for the world.
Challenging the Canon
Krishangini
was never a passive reader. When she encountered Jayakanthan’s celebrated story
Agnipravesam — in which a mother pours water over her daughter to “purify” her
after she has been assaulted. Krishangi found it not poignant but offensive.
The mother, she argued plainly, should simply have brought her daughter inside
with love.
When she
resumed writing seriously at around eighteen, her first major story was
Pushpithal (‘Coming of Age’) — a direct response to another writer’s treatment
of puberty. Her argument was clear: it is a natural biological event, neither
to be dramatised nor condemned.
A Voice for the Voiceless: Translating Dalit Realities
Born into a
Brahmin family, Krishangini chose to spend significant years translating Dalit
literature from Hindi into Tamil. She approached the task by deliberately
stripping away her own caste identity, conducting deep research to find the
exact, authentic Tamil words that could carry the weight of the Dalit
experience without distortion or condescension.
She also
translated Kasaap, a work written in the Kumaoni dialect spoken by Brahmins in
the mountain regions around Nainital, a dialect and culture so specific that
she consulted native Hindi speakers throughout the process to ensure every
nuance was preserved.
“I stripped away my own
caste identity to find the words that truly belonged to that experience.”
Women, Autism, and the Art of Compassion
Krishangini speaks
with particular passion about women trapped in abusive marriages by financial
dependence and the withdrawal of parental support. Her empathy, however,
extends still further. She translated the English book “Let Me Hear Your Voice”
into Tamil, drawn to it by the stories of mothers raising autistic and mentally
challenged children, often abandoned by fathers in denial, their daily struggle
transcending every boundary of caste, religion, and class.
This spirit
of compassion runs in the family. Her daughter, a dancer based in Singapore,
returns to India each year to perform exclusively for mentally challenged
children, orphans, and the elderly by reaching them through the universal
rhythm of art where words alone cannot.
Three Lessons for Aspiring Writers
When asked
what she would tell young writers today, Krishangini’s answer has no flourish:
—
Be honest. Whether you write a love story, about a
house, a street, or the world, it must be honest and truthful.
—
Understand that everyone’s life realities are
different, and your writing must reflect that deep understanding.
—
Avoid theatrics and falsehood. Writing must be grounded
in the truth of human experience.
Living in the Today
Ask Krishangini about her most memorable moment and she will
gently turn the question aside. “Life is impermanent”, she says. She prefers to
live in the moment.The things that stay with her are not awards or accolades
but ordinary, living presences: the stray dogs and cats she cares for each day.
She closes
our conversation with quiet joy about the generation now coming of age — young
people taking a serious interest in literature and honest conversation,
bringing a ray of light into a world often defined by noise and negativity.
“I speak the truth and
I act truthfully. There is nothing else but the truth.”— Krishangini
This
blog is adapted from a recorded interview by Pranay, Sancheta and Keerthana
from SRMIST via Agathi Trust.
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