“Author Perumal Murugan has died. He is no god, so he is not going to resurrect himself. Nor does he believe in reincarnation. From now on, Murugan will survive merely as a teacher”
The concise obituary, penned by a Tamil writer and shared on Facebook by the writer himself, resembled more of a sombre reflection than a typical eulogy.
To the surprise of this chronicler, Perumal Murugan did not always aspire to be a writer. It wasn’t a lifelong dream or ambition but rather a product of his life experiences.
Gradually, he became aware of his talent for conjuring magic within those pages, crafting something truly unique: A universe that felt intimately his own yet yearned to be shared.
Outraged at the portrayal of women in his work of fiction, people assembled to demand the withdrawal of the “dubious and offensive novel” as it contained false and vicious claims.
Public protests increased, and his books burnt several times. He was also receiving frequent calls of threats and intimidation. Perumal Murugan was dying a slow death.
Nobody could have ever thought that the ink running through his pen would drain out like blood from his veins and compel him to end his glorious saga as a celebrated writer.