Shambala
Carlos Tamilavan
Translated by S. Vincent
When a Thought Police unit investigates a Tamil writer for ‘dangerous words,’ his own life and the ruthless political rise of a character in his unfinished novel begin to dissolve into one another — a razor-edged political satire.
Full Synopsis
When a Thought Police unit begins to investigate Tamil writer Amarnath for “dangerous words,” his mind spins off a second, unstoppable narrative: the rise of a rural wrestling prodigy nicknamed Hitler, whose ruthless ascent through caste politics and patronage carries him from village obscurity to the corridors of state power. As Amarnath's own life tightens under surveillance — a friend jailed on a fabricated colonial-era charge, his daughter targeted by anonymous threats — the line between the world he is living and the one he is writing begins to dissolve. Tamilavan's Shambala, now available in English translation by S. Vincent, is a razor-edged political satire in the tradition of Orwell and Kundera, using absurdist bureaucratic comedy and mythic imagery (the search for the legendary seat of ultimate power, Shambala itself) to interrogate how authoritarianism captures language, memory, and imagination alike. Fierce, unsettling, and darkly funny, it is a novel about what fiction can still do when a state comes for the truth.
About the Author
Carlos Tamilavan is an eminent Tamil scholar, novelist, and literary critic whose work laid the groundwork for structuralist criticism in Tamil literature. A former university professor, he has authored several novels — including Warsavil Oru Kadavul, translated into English — along with short story collections and critical works published by Sahitya Akademi. He is the founder-editor of the literary journals Padikal and Sitredu, and his fiction has been translated into multiple Indian languages.
Excerpt
Chapter 1 The sky was dark with overcast clouds. Two constables in their khaki uniforms came to the small apartment block and searched for a flat. One of them was No. 302. He straightened himself up and climbed up to the second floor. The man following him was No. 503, who had earned the reputation of a good-for-nothing policeman. Amarnath, having just seen his thirteen-year-old daughter off to school by the school van, slowly came up and entered his apartment block. Both the cops knocked on Amarnath’s door. Amarnath opened the door. He was past middle age and dressed in his kurta and veshti. “You—,” the cops said, uncertain, and he replied, “Yes, I am Amarnath.” As their visit was unexpected, he was a little bit perturbed. When they asked whether they could enter, he said hurriedly, “You can come in.” “What is the matter? My child has just left for school,” he said anxiously. No. 503 brought out a letter, and both men went inside the house. They stood looking at a photograph of an old couple hanging on the wall. Amarnath glanced at the letter and asked, “What language is this?” “We don’t know,” they said in unison. “What does it say?” “It says you must come with us.” “Why?” “We don’t know.” Amarnath grew angry. “I have a lot of work to do.” The English newspaper he had been reading lay open on the table. The date wasn’t visible, but the year was — 2018. It was the year when many drastic changes were taking place in Indian politics, as everyone knew. No. 302 rubbed his nose and asked, “Where is your brief?” “What?” Amarnath asked, raising his voice. No. 302 put his hand over Amarnath’s mouth and told him not to talk so loudly. “Don’t you know the situation? Police are searching for many people. Our officer has ordered us to bring you to him,” he said in a low voice. “Fine. But why are you looking through my underwear?” “That is where the whole matter lies. We must find out how far the front is stretched.” “What are you going to do by seeing my brief?” Amarnath asked. “That’s what I said, brief. That’s where everything lies,” the other policeman said, looking around the inner rooms of the house. “Ah, it is there,” he added. He was pointing at Amarnath’s computer. He laughed. The other cop began laughing, too. As they laughed together, they seemed to become clones of each other — their faces seeming to have the same shapes, their lips opening to the same width. At this moment, they were both grinning, showing their teeth. Amarnath was losing his patience. He grew angrier. ‘What farce is this! Idiotic! These two fools are trying to make a fool of me,’ he thought. He looked out of his window and saw few people loitering around the house — in plainclothes. Neither could Amarnath make out who they were, nor did he know whether they had anything to do with the policemen. “Who are they?” he asked No. 302. “Don’t you know? These are plainclothes men surrounding your house, so you don’t escape, or no one from your movement tries to free you,” he said. “People from my movement? Who do you mean? Give me their names. “Do you think we’d give away their names so easily?” Amarnath paused for a moment. He did not understand any of it. He was about to take his cell phone from the table, when No. 503 rushed over and forcibly took it from him. “Were you going to inform the people of your movement and ask them to free you?” Unable to make sense of what was going on, Amarnath sat down in his chair, both frustrated and angry. No. 302 picked up a book from the table. Immediately, No. 503 came running and took it from him. It was Amarnath’s daughter’s history textbook. No. 302 opened it and underlined two words, then winked at his companion, who laughed. “Do you see these two words?” said No. 302 to No. 503. “Aren’t those the words that were banned?” No. 503 said to No. 302. Two words. Amarnath heard the policemen and began to feel fear. No. 302 asked No. 503, “Didn’t those very same words cause serious trouble before?” Gathering his courage, Amarnath stood up. He was about to put on his shirt over his vest. At once, the policeman gripped Amarnath’s shoulder and said, “We must examine the shirt first.” Amarnath became furious and asked, “Why should you examine my shirt?” The policeman stared at him and said, “Is this your shirt?” “Yes.” “When did you buy it? From whom did you buy it?” “We must run some tests to find out the breadth of your chest, and to find out whether the shirt is legal or illegal and other things. Then only can you wear it,” he said. Amarnath asked sarcastically, “Are there tests even for putting on one’s shirt?” “There’s a test for putting on a shirt, and another for unbuttoning it. There’s a test for everything,” the policeman replied.
