Manoranjan Byapari: ‘I never set out to become a Dalit writer, it’s a label stamped on my work’

Three-time JCB prize-listed author Manoranjan Byapari at Lalit Kala Akademi, New Dlehi. (Photo: Saurabh Sharma)

Right after the partition of India — then a few decades later — when several countries took birth, breaking free from colonial chains but advertently or inadvertently succumbing to sectarian violence to create new identities for themselves, a young Manoranjan Byapari was ensuring the means to meet ends.

Growing up he was a refugee on the move. Joined the Naxal movement and went to jail consequently. Started writing after a chance encounter with the great Indian writer Mahasweta Devi. Ever since that day, Byapari has written 27 books. In a sense, he has lived many lives. At the same time, society has denied him plentiful, and it’s to avenge the same and transform the state of the marginalised that he continues to write.

Twice shortlisted for the JCB Prize for Literature for the English translation of his works — There’s Gunpowder in the Air in 2019 and Imaan in 2022: both translated from Bengali by Arunava Sinha and published by Eka, an imprint of Westland, Byapari has again made it to this year’s longlist with V Ramaswamy’s translation of the book two of his Chandal Jibon trilogy, The Nemesis (Eka, an imprint of Westland).

English translations of Manoranjan Byapari’s works.

“I am confident that it’ll be shortlisted as well,” he tells Moneycontrol during an interview conducted in Hindi* at the Lalit Kala Akademi where an array of authors discussed and praised Nemesis last Wednesday. Byapari’s oeuvre is inspiring. But it’s the breadth of experiences and his ability to articulate them pensively that he’s most celebrated for. While he’s grateful for the recognition that has come his way, he feels “no writer labours to win an award. That’s not the end goal. What one tries to do is express oneself honestly, so that it can touch people’s hearts. With [Nemesis] being recognised, I feel it has done that job, so I feel good about it. It also signals that I must carry on, write more.”

It’s crucial to note that savarnas, who’ve cornered cultural capital, decide what must be lauded or dismissed. Their influence can’t be ignored. Then how does Byapari feel being valued by the very people who have discriminated against him? Utterly at ease, he says, “My fight has always been against Brahmanical patriarchy and casteist ideology enshrined in Manusmriti. But followers of these practices exist everywhere. While some upper-caste people want to dismantle these structures, several Dalits are upholding the same. I write to push back against people who profit by exploiting others, no matter which caste they belong to.”

“I voice concerns of the downtrodden, delegitimised, and disenfranchised,” he continues. “I never set out to become a ‘Dalit writer’ — it’s a label stamped on my work, I believe, after a eulogy was published in EPW many, many moons ago. I had been writing for decades before that, too, but was never a Dalit writer,” he submits, using the Hindi word Dalan (translates to slaughter) to refer to the atrocities Brahminical society inflicts on Dalit people, which he highlights in his work.

When probed what was the need to fictionalise his real-life experiences when he had already written award-winning memoirs earlier, Byapari says that he initially wrote autofiction. On the insistence of his publisher, however, he changed gears and turned to personal writing. “They wanted a short one, though. But I had already written 1,200 pages. I was told to trim it down to 300 pages. But you can only remove so much, so, anyway…I feel anyone who wants to read nonfiction can read my memoirs, and those who like fiction can fall back on this trilogy. While fiction has its own flavour, personal writing is raw, in my view. But both should entertain. Why would anyone read you otherwise?” he looks at me for a response. I smile in return. He carries on: “I knew I had a story to tell, and people wanted to listen to me, so I wrote and wrote. What I didn’t know was grammar and the knowledge of literary devices such as alliteration, simile, and personification because I am uneducated; never went to a school. But I feel sometimes your weakness can become your biggest strength. My simplistic use of language worked in my favour. Readers tell me that it talks to them directly, my language. I feel satisfied.”

Byapari is being modest; his writing does employ several literary devices. One of them is motif. In most of his works, the protagonist is jailed and feels at ease and safe there. “Except for the restriction that you’ve to remain within the premises, you get everything in a prison. Society may not help you find work and feed you, but prisons do. I satirise it: to convey the truth of my life,” he says, almost proud that he succeeded in conveying it. His politics, therefore, is clear in his works. Ever since he contested the election on a TMC seat, this word has gained a new meaning and dimension for Byapari. “[Representation] was much needed,” he says, quite submissively. “For the working class and people who’ve been overlooked by the ruling dispensation. I am fortunate to be given a platform by TMC. Also, I felt I could fight against BJP’s Brahmanical worldview, which they want to establish permanently, replacing the Constitution given to us by Babasaheb Ambedkar.” As he looks forward to completing his five-year tenure as a politician, he shares that he’ll mould this experience into what he says will be his most ambitious fictional project.

*Translated from the Hindi by this author