I n Ruthvika Rao’s dazzling first novel, an 11-year-old develops a frightful fixation. She is Vijaya, daughter of the feared Deshmukh family, feudal landlords who live in a “resplendent, fortress-like manor house” on a hill overlooking the fictional village of Irumi in southern India. The year is 1955.
The bloody Naxalite revolt of the oppressed, landless poor that will engulf her family – described in the opening pages – is still many years away. The immediate threat is a man-eating tiger stalking the village, and all Vijaya can dream about is setting forth into the nearby forest with her uncle Surendra’s hunting rifle. From this modest and curious premise, Rao – a copiously gifted writer – weaves an intricate and wrenching tale around class and caste.
Vijaya notices Krishna, the younger of two sons of a widowed washerwoman who works in the Deshmukh household, after he stands up for her against a bullying classmate. She is enthralled by the ardour of his gaze. “It was a visceral sensation, being looked at this way.
She felt separated – momentarily, secretly – from the overwhelming sense of loneliness she continually endured.” At the core of Vijaya’s isolation is her strained bond with her mother, Saroja, and her more beautiful four-year-old sister, Sree, whom her mother adores unreservedly. She is also expressly forbidden to speak to anybody at school.
After first spitting at Krishna, Vijaya makes an effort to befriend him. Does he want to go into t.