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Karukku
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Published May 1, 2014
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
November 20, 2025
‘Karukku,’ (1992) by Bama Faustina Soosairaj is the story of the marginalised Dalit community in Kerala and Tamil Nadu, and through her eyes, the marginalisation of the whole Dalit, or Harijan people in India. It is also her own autobiography.
In many ways, this is a ground-breaking novel: it is not the first book by a Dalit, but is the first by a Dalit Christian woman in South India, and thus the first real feminist novel. It is one of the first to reflect upon the joys of her life and childhood, of life within an oppressed and discriminated social subgroup even among Other Backward Classes, the official term used by the Indian Government to denote “economically, socially, educationally and historically disadvantaged” communities. It is the first to call attention to an education leading to better work opportunities for women, and thus a better life.
As a Christian and a Catholic, Bama realises, with some shock, that Dalits do not escape discrimination merely by the fact of their religion. Cemetery and burial rights and spaces are fought over bitterly by various Christian subgroups of the OBC, while upper caste Christians have an altogether separate cemetery in another part of the village to which they are not permitted.
Bama completes her education with honours, finishes with a Master's degree and then trains for a B.Ed degree and finally gets a very well paid job as a teacher. At one point, she asks herself the question “What am I doing here, teaching rich children? I should be teaching other poor Dalit children to learn to stand up and for themselves." And then she gets another shock: there are no Dalit schools; no Dalits with leisure enough or money enough to want to or be able to attend schools. While all schools are required by law to admit a certain proportion of Dalits to their total annual admissions, most Dalits are busy working in the farms or as labourers to think of such grand things as education. Even children are bundled off to work in the nearby match factory to breathe in noxious fumes, with no thought for a better life.
Bama’s life takes another turn when she trains to be a nun despite her family's wishes. In the decade spent in the convent, Bama’s mind and her spirit are shattered. With enormous difficulty she manages to leave the convent and start a lay life again.
The book is a little more than a hundred pages long, but its beauty lies in the way it moves, mixing traditional and oral literature, the personal and the general, and most especially the informal, spoken and idiomatic Tamil of everyday speech rather than the complex rhythms of literary Tamil.
Dalit literature, like Dalits themselves, has long been bypassed by mainstream Indian writers, whether they write in their own tongue or in English. Indian fiction in Hindi, Bengali, Tamil or any other of its 22 official languages (that is, languages authorised by law Courts and the State and Central Governments and in Parliament) is very rich, whether the old classical literature or from the nineteenth century to the present day, but all Indian literature lacks the authentic Dalit voice, probably, as Bama Faustina points out, due to the fact they were mostly bonded labour, doomed to be in serviude, and because they lacked the desire and the means to be educated. While there is at present a whole separate type of writing recognisable as true Dalit literature, and it has empowered and rendered articulate the Dalit community, notably in national politics and in administrative services, the voice of Dalit women still remains silent.
Two things I especially liked about this novel/autobiography is that it does not decry any special community for their oppression towards the Dalits: they were only doing what their ancestors had always done for thousands of years. The other is that in Bama’s narrative, there is no self pity, either for herself or her community, only courage, confidence and determination.
Finally, a word of thanks to the translator, Lakshmi Holmstrom, who is one of the foremost translators from Tamil to English today. Her translation is at once faithful and without condescension, not deigning to italicise words so exclusively Tamil that the British had no way to make them a barbarity. Words for food dishes, plants, fish, flowers and trees, which are not just Tamil, but special to the Dalit community are given as they are, without a glossary. If you're puzzled by a word, check it out online: I was amazed at the accuracy of the meanings.
In many ways, this is a ground-breaking novel: it is not the first book by a Dalit, but is the first by a Dalit Christian woman in South India, and thus the first real feminist novel. It is one of the first to reflect upon the joys of her life and childhood, of life within an oppressed and discriminated social subgroup even among Other Backward Classes, the official term used by the Indian Government to denote “economically, socially, educationally and historically disadvantaged” communities. It is the first to call attention to an education leading to better work opportunities for women, and thus a better life.
As a Christian and a Catholic, Bama realises, with some shock, that Dalits do not escape discrimination merely by the fact of their religion. Cemetery and burial rights and spaces are fought over bitterly by various Christian subgroups of the OBC, while upper caste Christians have an altogether separate cemetery in another part of the village to which they are not permitted.
Bama completes her education with honours, finishes with a Master's degree and then trains for a B.Ed degree and finally gets a very well paid job as a teacher. At one point, she asks herself the question “What am I doing here, teaching rich children? I should be teaching other poor Dalit children to learn to stand up and for themselves." And then she gets another shock: there are no Dalit schools; no Dalits with leisure enough or money enough to want to or be able to attend schools. While all schools are required by law to admit a certain proportion of Dalits to their total annual admissions, most Dalits are busy working in the farms or as labourers to think of such grand things as education. Even children are bundled off to work in the nearby match factory to breathe in noxious fumes, with no thought for a better life.
Bama’s life takes another turn when she trains to be a nun despite her family's wishes. In the decade spent in the convent, Bama’s mind and her spirit are shattered. With enormous difficulty she manages to leave the convent and start a lay life again.
The book is a little more than a hundred pages long, but its beauty lies in the way it moves, mixing traditional and oral literature, the personal and the general, and most especially the informal, spoken and idiomatic Tamil of everyday speech rather than the complex rhythms of literary Tamil.
Dalit literature, like Dalits themselves, has long been bypassed by mainstream Indian writers, whether they write in their own tongue or in English. Indian fiction in Hindi, Bengali, Tamil or any other of its 22 official languages (that is, languages authorised by law Courts and the State and Central Governments and in Parliament) is very rich, whether the old classical literature or from the nineteenth century to the present day, but all Indian literature lacks the authentic Dalit voice, probably, as Bama Faustina points out, due to the fact they were mostly bonded labour, doomed to be in serviude, and because they lacked the desire and the means to be educated. While there is at present a whole separate type of writing recognisable as true Dalit literature, and it has empowered and rendered articulate the Dalit community, notably in national politics and in administrative services, the voice of Dalit women still remains silent.
Two things I especially liked about this novel/autobiography is that it does not decry any special community for their oppression towards the Dalits: they were only doing what their ancestors had always done for thousands of years. The other is that in Bama’s narrative, there is no self pity, either for herself or her community, only courage, confidence and determination.
Finally, a word of thanks to the translator, Lakshmi Holmstrom, who is one of the foremost translators from Tamil to English today. Her translation is at once faithful and without condescension, not deigning to italicise words so exclusively Tamil that the British had no way to make them a barbarity. Words for food dishes, plants, fish, flowers and trees, which are not just Tamil, but special to the Dalit community are given as they are, without a glossary. If you're puzzled by a word, check it out online: I was amazed at the accuracy of the meanings.
December 19, 2025
This book feels like someone finally saying everything they were never allowed to say. Karukku is raw, uneven, angry, and painfully honest. The writing doesn’t try to impress BUT it just tells the truth about everyday life, caste, school, religion, and how quietly cruelty becomes normal.
Nothing here feels fictional. It’s all small moments, casual humiliations, things society pretends aren’t a big deal and that’s what makes it hit harder. This book is a mirror, and it shows how messed up things really are. Not polished, not comforting, but very real.
Nothing here feels fictional. It’s all small moments, casual humiliations, things society pretends aren’t a big deal and that’s what makes it hit harder. This book is a mirror, and it shows how messed up things really are. Not polished, not comforting, but very real.
March 13, 2026
I don't read autobiography....never. because it bores me so much....but this one? the story is told in such a way that it felt like I'm the one telling the story...my own life story.....I felt every pain...every joy... everything myself.... I'm thankful to myself for reading it....
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews