This take on Mikhail Sholokhov's famous title aptly describes my feelings on M.T. Vasudevan Nair's departure at the great age of 91. He was the undisputed emperor of stories in Malayalam, a Dravidian language from the Indian state of Kerala. M.T as he was known, was synonymous with the language itself, such was the might of his pen. Marquez's 'Macondo' was imaginary while M.T's 'Kudallur' was a real village with its inhabitants living on as characters in his books and its river Nila forever his muse.
There was never a time when the name MT did not come up if you were into Malayalam books. To MT, celluloid was as familiar a medium as paper. He directed or did screen play for more than 50 films, almost all of which were hits with the state's highly discerning audience. English translations of his works made him familiar to non-Malayalam readers, but his words truly touch the soul when read in Malayalam. Unfortunately, this might be the reason why this unbelievably gifted author was never considered for the Nobel Prize in Literature. Akin to Dostoevsky, he had an uncanny ability to understand and vividly portray his characters. I have imagined them as emerging fully formed from the tip of his pen after dwelling deeply in his psyche.
MT was forever in search of true human nature and had a unique gift to absorb everything around him. Another like him may never come by again. Malayalam was quite lucky to have had this giant literary presence for as long as it had. Sleep well MT! Your books will continue their triumphant journey through time even after the Nila stops flowing.
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| Maui sunset, 2024 |
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