Maha-India: Revisiting the brave complexities of Shashi Tharoor’s The Great Indian Novel
Photo: Karan Madhok
Why Shashi Tharoor’s satirical 1989 masterpiece The Great Indian Novel—which married India’s recent history with The Mahabharata—is as relevant as ever in today’s polarising times.
In the summer of 2017, a twitter thread from Shashi Tharoor with the words ‘Exasperating Farrago of Distortions’ earned the former international diplomat, former under-secretary general UN, politician and Member of Parliament a certain place in the ever growing meme culture. Tharoor evolved further into a sort of sesquipedalian, being credited for the use of heavy words that most people do not understand or apply in daily life. This trend climaxed with the recent publication of ‘Tharoorosaurus’; a book dedicated to the revival of such words.
Naturally, carrying this idea of Tharoor’s linguistic capabilities, I expected to have a dictionary ready beside me when a friend recommended Tharoor’s classic 1989 work, The Great Indian Novel. The novel, however came by as an unexpected surprise, with its easy-to-read language and subtle yet belly-aching humour. In TGIN, Tharoor successfully implants the leaders and situations of the Indian Independence struggle (and the later time frame until the Emergency Years), remixing the history lesson that most Indians have by-hearted since our early schooling days into the storyline of the Mahabharata. He assigns leaders like Mahatma Gandhi, Jawahar Lal Nehru, Subhas Chandra Bose and Indira Gandhi too into well-known characters of the epic like Bhisma (Gangaji), Dhritarashtra, and Duryodhani. Even the Indian National Congress Party in the novel takes the shape of the Kaurava Kaurava Party.
In various interviews, Tharoor has pointed out his utter disbelief that the book—published over three decades ago—wasn’t banned or censored due to its controversial content. In fact, the only legal action against the work took place in last month, when a case in Kerala High Court was filed against the book for being derogatory to the Nair Women.
But there are more reasons for The Great Indian Novel’s in today’s India than one might anticipate on the surface.
Our stories and mythologies are no longer allowed to be expanded and enjoyed in ways that are different from the government-approved mainstream. Into this suffocative and imagination crushing atmosphere, the brilliant satire that The Great Indian Novel is still a breath of fresh air.
An answer to this requires a probe into the overall identity that the great epics Mahabharata and Ramayana have assumed in recent decades in Indian society. Through the span of centuries, both epics have held a sacred space for followers of Hinduism, as well as scholars of philosophy and linguists. Interestingly, on numerous occasions patronage to translators came from individuals of different faiths for translations of these epics for their continued reverence as sources of deep knowledge.
However, with the growing communal spirit and ultra-hyper Hindu Nationalism in the country, a constant ‘saffornisation’ of these epics has transpired. This extends to the point where any complex discourse on the stories, if ever deviating from the tones of a sycophant, is met with brutal opposition and treated as blasphemy. The culture of discussion and intellectual exploration—something that the texts profoundly celebrate—is now completely abandoned.
An entire array of modern literature is popular with India’s mainstream readers, supposedly celebrating epics the Mahabharata. However, these mythological-fictions are plagued with the repetition and re-cycling of the same old stories, only with slight modifications. A prominent example would be Devadutt Pattnaik’s Jaya, an illustrated retelling of The Mahabharata. On the contrary, Tharoor’s The Great Indian Novel represents a complete shattering of this one-tone saffronisation, and instead, fully absorbs the never-ending contradictions within the epic.
With subtlety and humour, Tharoor’s work executes what could be called ‘a character exorcism’. At no point in the book is this transplanting of individuals announced, but the personalities and traits of these characters are slightly moulded to make resemblances with historical figures we know. This keeps the reader on their toes, constantly guessing who’s who, and makes the experience of the book more interactive.
A great example of this exorcism is the character of Dhritarashtra, moulded to imbibe the traits of India’s first prime minister, Nehru, with his shaded glasses (linked with the character’s lack of sight), a royal and elitist upbringing, and his famous wooden cane. Similarly, Gandhi is paralleled by Bhisma because of his fatherly persona and voluntary celibacy. The kingdom of Hastinapur—the native-land of these characters in the book—is a princely state with British characters zooming in and out of the chapters, in true Raj-like fashion, with hopes of a quick annexation.
The book is narrated by one V.V, or Ved Vyas, who appoints a South Indian fellow named Ganapathi to transcribe his memoir which unfolds the story of the book. V.V represents the numerous silent overhead figures that came to be symbolically important in the India’s independence struggle like C. Rajagopalachari. Early in the novel, Tharoor displays his word play in describing the features V.V shares with Ganapathi, hinting at Lord Ganesh’s popular association with epic: “..Something about him, elephantine tread, broad forehead and all. He came back in the afternoon, dragging his enormous trunk.”
The chapters henceforth are segregated into 18 different books (like the Mahabharata), each bringing new elements to the story as decade progresses in Indian History. Tharoor also uses the names of famous British writers famous for romanticising or glorifying the Indian colonial experience, and assigns them to the characters of controversial British officers. The harrowing Jallianwala Bagh Massacre becomes the Bibighar Garden Massacre with ‘Colonel Rudyard’ at the helm. Even the episode of the Salt Satyagraha or the Dandi March of 1931 transforms into The Great Mango March, adding to the sheer unexpected character of the writing.
Prominent historical figures make a debut over the course of chapters in unforeseen yet amusing roles. Muhammad Ali Jinnah becomes Kunti’s illegitimate child with a Mr Hyperion Helios (Surya God), and is described as “a strange young man whose words glowed like his skin” with a constant flock of admirers swayed away by his charm and intellect at his practice in Bombay. Karna, in the chapter appropriately titled ‘The Son also Rises’, is shown entering Indian politics through the Kaurava Party ‘out of nowhere’ and gradually falling out of grace and leading the Muslim Group or the Muslim League.
Kunti’s other children also take up appropriate roles during the books with their renowned teacher, Jayaprakash Drona. The Modern Indian Judiciary often proclaimed to be righteous but with its limited efficacy and power, materializes in the form of Yudhisthira. With its sheer strength, Bhima takes up the role of the Indian Defence Services. Arjuna, the most famous of the Kunti’s sons with his firm association and belief in one’s duty symbolises the Indian Media, which has had an influential role in making of the Modern India. Finally, Nakul and Sahadev represent the Indian Administrative and Foreign services. Interestingly, all five of the Kunti’s sons who each symbolise an integral part of the Indian State are wedded to ‘Draupadi Mokrasi’ which is a carefully created homonym to democracy, the chief pillar of the Indian Modern State.
With brilliant wordplay as ammunition, Tharoor’s book also covers other significant landmarks and instance from Indian History, like the Nehru and Edwina Mountbatten Affair, the Kashmir Episode, the formation of Karnistan (Pakistan), Gandhi’s assassination as executed by Shikandih (Godse) in the book, the Indo-China War or Indo-Chakar wars, the birth of Bhima’s son Gatotchkach or the Border Security Force (BSF), Indira Gandhi’s rise to power, the split in Congress, and the declaration of Emergency as portrayed as ‘the Siege’.
What is perhaps extraordinary about The Great Indian Novel is the ease with which it opens up fresh avenues in both already explored and exhausted narratives of Indian History and the Mahabharata. And yet, I found that the novel has the profound ability to amuse, tackling even heavy topics like the Emergency with wit, leaving the reader with swift short smirks between the lines.
In India today, sharp-witted good humour is a greatly underrated attribute, a trait that extends beyond the realms of literature. As I write this, I’m forced to recall the recent case of outrage and harassment against stand-up comedian Agrima Joshua for her comical take on Shivaji Maharaj. The fact is, our stories and mythologies are no longer allowed to be expanded and enjoyed in ways that are different from the government-approved mainstream. Into this suffocative and imagination crushing atmosphere, the brilliant satire that The Great Indian Novel is still a breath of fresh air.
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Atulya Pathak is a Masters student of Development at Azim Premji University. Formerly she was a full-time teacher in a low-income school. She studied History at a prestigious All-Girls College in the University of Delhi. Her areas of interest are Mediocre Science Fiction shows, Indian Politics, Mental Health & the environment. You can find her on Instagram at: @sherbet_lemon9.
