You

 

You by M Mukundan, translated from Malayalam by Nandakumar K can be approximated as an ordinary man’s life journey; something akin to Upamanyu Chatterjee’s Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life, John William's Stoner or Robert Seethaler's A Whole Life you may think. But CV Unnikrishnan, son of a stamp paper vendor Goyindan and homemaker Lakshmikutty, the fourth born of their five children, the only graduate in the family for whom reading is everything, one wedded to his writing only to divorce it later bitterly, the author of just one novel that earned him both brickbats and bouquets, makes you think otherwise. 

The novel opens with 70 yr old Unnikrishnan announcing in a press conference arranged by him,  attended by only two reporters, that he would die on Dec 16, 2019. Upset at being dismissed as a lunatic, when Paru, a newbie journalist, knocks at his door to extract information on how he can predict his death so accurately, Unnikrishnan, who in his youth had an uncanny obsession for uncovering mysteries, is amused and irritated in equal measure at her curiosity to learn his past - a past he tries hard to shed that clings firmly to his skin. 

‘Listen,’ you say, ‘life is like a detective novel. If the end is revealed at the beginning, who will read it? Where’s the fun in reading it?’ 

And, we trace Unnikrishnan's life as it unfolds gradually, attempting to find answers to the many how s and why s that pop up along the way. 

True to the title, the second person narrative employed here is unique - it lends a certain emotional detachment yet facilitates ‘you’, the reader, to place yourself in Unnikrishnan’s shoes; this is strongest plus of the book. Though Unnikrishnan’s life journey occupies the centre stage, every character is well-written. After all, both the author and Unnikrishnan  believe -“There is no need for any story to have a protagonist, male or female, you thought. Every character is an adjunct”. From the ayurvedic doctor Choyi Vaidhyar who treats Unnikrishnan's scabies and diarrhea bouts to RamanKutty school master who likes to flog Unnikrishnan's bottoms for all reasons and seasons, each character gets ample room, thereby enlivening the storytelling.

‘Shouldn’t one have the right to choose when and how to die?’ , the principal question raised in the novel is not Unnikrishnan's line of thought but one strongly raised and advocated by his close friend Dr. Balan. The novel delves into the need for legalizing euthanasia drawing instances of people who writhe in pain/remain in a vegetative or bedridden state for years before death snuffs out the little life left in them. 

Like in the author's Delhi: A Soliloquy, personal history is intertwined with the country's politics here as well with the Moplah rebellion and Thalassery riots finding a mention. Through Unnikrishnan's burning ambition to become a writer, a writer’s fantasies, apprehensions and ordeals, writer’s block, writing as a process that demands one's solitude and is both rewarding and agonizing are portrayed so well. 

'You wanted to get home and start writing. It was like the urge to pee. When the bladder is full, the lower belly starts to ache. When the urge is to write, the chest aches. You could feel yourself filling up with scenarios, the words gushing forth.'

'You wanted to be a writer, but was writing an occupation?' 

The below lines that sum up the experience of writing a novel are funny and brilliant - 'Writing a novel was like catching a tiger by its tail. You held on to the tail and got dragged to wherever it went. If you let go, the tiger would turn on you and tear you to pieces. So, tail in hand, you stumbled behind as it prowled and dashed around. When it got into the water to drink, you followed. When it clambered up a tree, you were right behind, clutching its tail. When it leaped on its prey, you tumbled after it. When it mated, you did too. When it slept, so did you'.

Wry humour imbued with local flavour, well preserved in translation, makes Unnikrishnan’s life readable and interesting. It's a life filled with questions, one where all those who loved him earnestly were pushed into a pall of gloom. 

'How could it be that you, who ached to write a novel about those in pain, did not see the pain of your own parents? Were you so grossly selfish? Or was life only about writing and you simply failed to pay heed to the lives of others? You continued to struggle with these thoughts.' 

YOU - an ordinary man's earnest attempts to lead a simple and inconsequential life could have been a masterpiece, a perfect ten book if not for an implausible climax, its only letdown.