The poetic injustice of Vairamuthu's Jnanpith Award

Close on the heels of a controversy about whether Indians read comes the news that this year’s Jnanpith Award is being given to R. Vairamuthu, celebrated in Tamil Nadu for his film lyrics and far more widely known for the sexual harassment allegations made against him by 17 women than his literary merits.

Detractors have raised two kinds of objections to Vairamuthu’s selection. The first is the question of the literary quality of his work. Writer B. Jeyamohan observed in Frontline magazine: “It is not because he is a bad poet but because he is not a poet at all. Vairamuthu is a person who writes contemporary news with rhetorical sentences that resemble cheap oratory.”

It is not as if there are no other Tamil writers deserving this recognition—Ashokamitran and Indira Parthasarathy are a few names appearing on lists as those more deserving. Interestingly, these lists don’t seem to mention women. Are stalwarts usually male? But that is an entirely different piece for another day.

Vairamuthu is only the third Tamil writer to be thus recognised (after Akilan in 1975 and Jayakanthan in 2002) and from reactions to his selection, none of those selected so far would have made the cut among Tamil’s own literary community.

Broader than the question of a specific person’s literary worth is the question of who is competent in a multicultural society, where presumably most selection committee members do not read languages other than their own, to judge literary quality. Curiously, where other writers have received this recognition for a specific work (G. Sankara Kurup in 1965 for Odakkuzhal, V.S. Khandekar in 1974 for Yayati, Mahadevi Varma in 1982 for Yāmā, for instance), the Bharatiya Jnanpith website news ticker simply tells us that Vairamuthu has got this award for “Tamil”.

The Jnanpith is a private award but for most members of the public, it carries the prestige of a national recognition. Does overlooking the several allegations of sexual harassment against Vairamuthu demonstrate again that the social and political elite of this country do not care about gender justice? Different governments’ track records—from having members of Parliament accused of rape to celebrating perpetrators of sexual violence and silencing reporting on rape—are clear but so is our attitude as a society.

The Indian public has not been consistent in seeking accountability for sexual and gender-based violence, not even voting out governments that have let offenders off lightly. It would seem that most people don’t really care about sexual harassment. Or at least, given that violence is a daily concern for community-based organisations, one can confidently state that since literary awards are an elite preoccupation in 2026 India, those in a position to make a difference, couldn’t care less.

Beyond the Jnanpith and this awardee, some old, unresolved questions return to haunt us. The question about separating the art from the artist is one we are never going to be able to resolve. Does the personal morality and behaviour of an artist diminish their body of work or does the art stand by itself? For instance, do you abandon a song or a book or a movie you have returned to for decades because the creator or performer turns out to be a rapist? It often takes decades for the habit of abuse to be revealed and sometimes, by then, the accused is dead. Do we apply today’s standards to cancel a lifetime of work? These are not quandaries that are easily resolved. It is also true that none of us are perfect and, therefore, we may not be qualified to cast stones or cancel others. Is there then a “red line” that transcends space and time that we can apply to other people?

Standing silently in the corner, too tired of being raised in vain, is the question of why our society does not take sexual harassment allegations seriously. While the experience of abuse is very common, survivors rarely speak about it to anyone. Field experience and research bear this out and it becomes “proof” that abuse did not happen.

When an allegation is made, it is met with responses like, “What was she wearing?”, “Why was she there?”, “Why did she wait so long to speak?” or “But he is such a clever/good/whatever man!” When, undeterred by such inhospitable, unsympathetic and dismissive responses, women keep recounting their experiences, their persistence is an embarrassment (though inaction is not). Victims are supposed to whimper and then forever remain silent. When they speak up repeatedly, pointing fingers at those being accused, society cringes like the parents of toddlers throwing tantrums in public places. Their motivation and character are questioned; why have they not responded to every other issue in the universe?

Where it is possible, and perhaps where they are also guilty of the same charges, the influential gang up in support of the accused and victimise the accusers. In the case of Vairamuthu, those who complained have alleged that their careers have stalled or been destroyed. Complaining carries greater stigma than being abusive.

This is why most women learn early to swallow everyday sexism and abuse silently. Speaking out will boomerang on them and the abuser will in fact become the victim—“Poor man, what these women say about him!”—and then, the hero. Speaking out or filing a complaint becomes a second-order experience of violence and yet, it is commonly believed that most accusers are making false complaints.

In the case of celebrities, accomplishment is regarded as guaranteeing good behaviour. Implicit in this outrageous view is this horrendous idea—so what, their greatness entitles them to a little (or a lot of) abuse on the side. This is who we are, as exemplified by our repeated felicitation of those repeatedly accused of abuse and exploitation. This is who we are. The question that is about to be turned into a comedic punchline is: Won’t men’s careers be affected by sexual harassment allegations?

Sometimes, feeling bad for the brave women accusing the abusers, their sisters tug at their dupatta or pallu and say, “Sit down. This will not bode well for you.” The lesson is clear: there is no justice for victims of sexual or gender-based violence. Not poetic, after a little ironic twist, nor any other kind. The truth is prosaic and pedestrian—this patriarchal world belongs to men who may do what they will and, by and large, people of all genders, in the service of patriarchy, will stand up for and stand by the abusers, protecting their impunity. Our hope for just outcomes is as childish as the nonsense rhymes we make up for children.

Swarna Rajagopalan is a political scientist and peace educator.