Though the Tamil freedom fighter and writer, CS Chellapa, was initially influenced by the energy and zeal of Bhagat Singh’s anarchical resistance to the British Empire, he grew increasingly enamoured by the non-violent, subtle resistance of Mahatma Gandhi. It’s a seismic shift from Singh to Gandhi, one that many in India adopted pre-independence. Yet it is precisely the tension between these two vastly different forms of resistance that forms much of the meat of Vaadivaasal: The Arena, a novella published in Tamil in 1949, now revitalised in graphic novel form under the careful script of Booker-nominated Perumal Murugan and the harsh, brutal illustrations of Appupen.
The plot of Vaadivaasal is deceptively simple: Pichi is a young man who enters the jallikattu, a bull fighting contest, to avenge the death of his father under the horns of the Kaari bull. The goal of the fighter is to subdue the bull long enough to snatch a reward tied around the bull’s neck; there are no weapons and little intervention.
The zamindaar (the landowner, a position of political and social power in the Indian village) watches over the arena, awaiting a worthy opponent to emerge from the initial man and bull skirmishes. Pichi, singular in his goal, easily passes the first few matches with the help of his friend. In the arena, they move through a gracefully choreographed dance, bouncing around bulls with light-footedness, and communicating with each other through secret signals. Satisfied with Pichi, the zamindaar introduces his pride, the Kaari bull, a large “black devil” with straight horns and shiny, small eyes. Pichi finally meets his match, and they “wrestle behind a cloud of dust”.
With the expansion of Tamil translations in India and across the world, new readers can enjoy the wit, craftsmanship, and beauty of Chellapa, a figure whose work inspired much of contemporary Tamil literature.
From the very beginning, Vaadivaasal is evocative and gripping (at several points, I felt myself flinch). Its brevity—the graphic novel reaches just over a hundred pages—makes the scene of the village, and of the fight, all the more impactful; without any filler, the story is all-consuming. One begins reading with the expectation of violence, a notion supported by the cover—bright red and black—featuring the final struggle between Pichi and Kaari. Yet as the novel progresses, the definition of a “beast” collapses as the two enter the arena; Pichi seems savage, and Kaari nimble and graceful. In the next panel, Pichi is graceful, and Kaari is savage. The shifts between the politics of Singh and Gandhi are ever-present in the arena, questioning the value, pleasure, and spectacle of violence.
Meanwhile, the crowd that has gathered in the village of Chellayipuram grows increasingly unruly, filling pages with black silhouettes and the visual noise of pencil scratches. Appupen masterfully captures the gory details of human faces—of muck between teeth and steady streams of sweat—while the Kaari bull is drawn with the power—and perhaps, respect—of clean, solid black shapes. It isn’t just the visuals that hold Kaari to a higher esteem than the men present; it’s also the language. “Majestic”, “poise”, and “power” are all adjectives used with the entrance of the Kaari bull. The crowd, filled with the bravado and machismo of men in white tank tops with rags tied to their heads, is decidedly ungraceful, base, and volatile.
Vaadivaasal is evocative and gripping, worthy of this re-issue.
Vaadivaasal is enduring, worthy of this re-issue. With the expansion of Tamil translations in India and across the world, new readers can enjoy the wit, craftsmanship, and beauty of Chellapa, a figure whose work inspired much of contemporary Tamil literature.
As the novel unfolds, the winner takes it all—their life—and the loser faces the front of a gun. By the end, Chellapa seems to have worked through his struggle. He has emerged as a staunch Gandhian.
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