August 17, S. Hareesh’s novel translated from the Malayalam by Jayasree Kalathil, is rooted in the fantasy of the kingdom of Thiruvithamkoor (Travancore) refusing to join the Union of India following independence from British rule. In reality, the princely states of Hyderabad and Bhopal, too, had raised similar objections, but in Hareesh’s imagination, Travancore stays unshaken in its stand on sovereignty, leading to bitter uprisings.
The premise isn’t a million miles away from the contemporary liberal adulation of Kerala being the final frontier against the spread of Hindutva-based nationalism. Popularly perceived as an anti-communal and a proudly syncretic state, it is hailed for opposing the right-wing dogma that has steadily infiltrated the rest of India. Except, there is a twist to the tale that Hareesh conjures up. His Thiruvithamkoor isn’t an idyll, where all creatures big and small coexist in harmony. Instead, it is poisoned by virulently casteist and classist politics. The upper castes, especially the Brahmins, call all the shots, adult suffrage is accorded only to tax-paying citizens, and cow slaughter is banned in the country. Even consuming a dead cow, or using its skin for leather, is considered a crime. Unsurprisingly, the independent country of Thiruvithamkoor is blessed by the leaders of the Hindu Mahasabha like V.D. Savarkar.
Ostensibly ruled by Maharaja Sree Chithira Thirunal Balarama Varma, though really under the de facto control of Diwan C.P. Ramaswami Iyer, Thiruvithamkoor is rife with conspiracies hatched by the Indian National Congress and the Communists. Although not exactly easy bedfellows, both factions want Thiruvithamkoor to join the newly democratic India and liberate its citizens from autocratic rule. Activist and writer Vaikom Muhammad Basheer is first among these dissenters—he remains a mythical figure in contemporary Kerala and is resurrected by Hareesh as an outsized figure of public influence. In the anvil of Basheer’s capricious mind, the past, present and future collapse into a dizzying spiral, fusing fact with fiction, and transforming reality into fevered dreams.
Hareesh takes his cue from his literary idol’s textured legacy, building a world that is at once dense, erudite and playful. His protagonist is a shady spy who goes by the name of Bhasi. He is everywhere, all at once, filtering discordant notes from the cacophony he hears in the course of his travels, while faithfully warning his superiors about imminent troubles. With his gift of blending into the background like a chameleon, this slippery “see-eye-dee” is as unreliable a presence as Basheer, who ends up consuming his waking hours as well as sleep.
Bhasi, who, at times, feels like a shadow of Basheer, is not only an unreliable narrator but also an inveterate spinner of yarns, whose imagination, much like his spiritual hero’s, cannot keep pace with reality. The result of his outpourings is a genre-bending story, where historical figures walk in and out of the pages but, in the end, are controlled by the exigencies of the plot. From freedom fighter Akkamma Cherian to Nathuram Godse, a parade of valorous and notorious celebrities cross Bhasi’s path. For the most part, the reader is kept on tenterhooks, wondering what’s to come next.
Less exciting is the structure of August 17—its restlessly shifting styles of storytelling, from short daily logs to vivid dream visions, moving between geographies and even historical time without adequate signposting. Hareesh had adopted a similarly episodic and meandering approach in his debut novel Moustache (translated into English by Kalathil in 2020) and, as in the case of the latter, in August 17 such flourishes feel overwhelming, if not grating, after a point.
Importantly, these experiments, while leaving the reader anchorless and rudderless as the plot proceeds, also gesture back to a fundamental question—who is this novel for? For the informed Malayalam reader, especially those who are well-acquainted with the nuances of the history of Kerala, August 17 will probably feel like a heady intellectual adventure, strewn with clues that come together to form the big picture. However, to the general reader of fiction, the same novel is likely to pose what may feel at times like an insurmountable challenge.
Despite the fluency of Hareesh’s writing and Kalathil’s accomplished translation, such a reader may find it difficult to acclimatise themselves to the world they have been suddenly thrust into, without enough preparation, or even an emotional thread strong enough to guide them to the end.
Like the amateur climber setting out to conquer the Everest Base Camp without any special training, striding headlong into August 17, without an introduction or historical context to help you find the way, is likely to leave you breathless and eventually give up. It is neither the fault of the book, nor of the writer, nor the translator. Perhaps it all boils down to the unpopular truth that unlike the nimble-footed Bhasi, not all stories, however finely wrought, can travel seamlessly beyond their specific cultures.