Transverse

Guest post by Sharada Narasimhan on A.Muttulingam’s short story கொழுத்தாடு பிடிப்பேன் . My review can be found at https://englishtamil.net/2025/11/03/a-muttulingams-ill-catch-a-fat-goat-கொழுத்தாடு-பிடிப்ப/

I’ve been thinking more about our split reading of கொழுத்தாடு பிடிப்பேன், and wanted to share some thoughts on why I read the narrator as guilty, despite the ambiguity.

I think those who believe Shanmugalingam’s innocence are falling into a trap A. Muttulingam deliberately set. We’re trained as readers to trust narrators as our guides through a story. But here, the author is exploiting that convention. The narrator builds credibility through honest details about his refugee experience, loneliness, and confusion, which makes us want to believe him about the central accusation.

Look at what Shanmugalingam himself tells us. He gives long, sensual descriptions of Vijaya’s body – “நீண்டு தெரிந்த முலைகளில் தண்ணீர் வழிந்துகொண்டிருந்தது. எண்டாலும் நல்ல ஷேப்பாக உரித்த வெங்காயம்போல தகதகவென்று மின்னியது.” Later – “ஒடுக்கமான ஜீன்ஸ் கால் சட்டையை ஒரு காலுக்குள் விட்டா; பிறகு மற்றக் காலையும் விட்டா. அது வேகமாக வந்து அவவுடைய அகலமான உட்காரும் பகுதியில் தடைபட்டு நின்றது. இவ குண்டியை அற்புதமான ஒரு ஆட்டு ஆட்டி மேலே இழுத்துக்கொண்டா.”

Then there’s his own admission – “இது தெரியாமல் நான் செய்த தவறு. ஆனால் தெரிந்து ஒரு நாள் தவறு செய்ய நேர்ந்தது. அதற்கு பிறகு அப்படி செய்வதில்லை என்று கடுமையான தீர்மானமும் செய்தேன்.” And crucially, the child’s underwear on his bed -“கட்டிலிலே பிள்ளையின் நிக்கர் கிடந்தது.”

Finally, perhaps the most damning, his closing line – “இந்தக் கொழுத்த பிள்ளையின் வயது பத்து என்பது எனக்கு தெரியவே தெரியாது.”

If this were truly a story about being framed, why would the author include ANY of these self-incriminating details? An innocent narrator would focus on the injustice, not undermine himself at every turn with voyeuristic descriptions and admissions of “mistakes.”

To believe he was framed, we’d need to believe the family meticulously planned this (timing, door left open, Vijaya going downstairs at just the right moment), that they were willing to traumatize their 10-year-old daughter with a false accusation, that they’d risk their reputation in the Tamil community, all to keep his $6,000 in savings from the cheettu.

A.Mu. is too skilled a writer for accidental ambiguity. Every detail is chosen deliberately. The title itself, “கொழுத்தாடு பிடிப்பேன்”, is particularly revealing. While he frames it as a traditional children’s game they were playing, the way he describes the incident suggests they weren’t actually playing any game at all. It’s his way of reframing predatory behavior as innocent play, making the title deeply chilling in retrospect. Remember, the child is also described as “கொழுத்த பிள்ளை”. We can imagine which கொழுத்தாடு was being chased. The victim-blaming woven throughout (describing the child as “விவேகமானவள்” but with a brain that has “கள்ளத்தனம்,” her watching adult content, her manipulation), the self-pity that centers HIS suffering while erasing the child’s trauma, the structure of confession disguised as protest, all point to a carefully constructed defense.

The “not conclusive = innocent” reasoning treats this like a legal case requiring proof beyond reasonable doubt. But, we are not adjudicating a legal case here. Literarily, we should ask – why did the author construct the narrative this way? I believe A.Mu is giving us a psychological portrait of an abuser. Whether he’s cynically lying or has genuinely rationalized his way into believing his own innocence, the result is the same. He’s constructed a reality where cultural displacement, loneliness, the child’s “manipulation,” the family’s financial motives, and his own victimhood as a refugee all combine to absolve him. He can describe watching Vijaya’s body, admit to “knowingly making a mistake,” have the child’s underwear on his bed, and still see himself as the wronged party. The fact that half our group believed him proves how effectively this kind of narrative works.

The story’s genius is that it makes us complicit. If we believe Shanmugalingam, we’re believing right alongside him, entering into his distorted reality where a 10-year-old child is the cunning manipulator and he is the victim. The discomfort we feel is the point. A.Mu. is forcing us to confront how abuse gets rationalized, how these narratives of innocence are constructed, and how readily we believe adult men over children when the story is told compellingly enough.

His desperate plea for deportation at the end is particularly revealing. He’s memorized Canadian citizenship facts he now promises to forget, begs to be sent back in a container if necessary, insists he’d rather carry stones for road construction than stay in Canada. This desperation might seem like proof of his innocence to some readers. But it can also be read as the final manipulation, or as genuine panic that his new life has collapsed. What’s most damning is that immediately after this plea, he adds “இந்தக் கொழுத்த பிள்ளையின் வயது பத்து என்பது எனக்கு தெரியவே தெரியாது.” The juxtaposition is devastating. His emotional appeal for mercy is undercut in the very next breath by what sounds like a predator’s classic defense. Whether calculated or not, it reveals where his mind actually is.

Refugees can simultaneously be victims of persecution AND perpetrators of abuse. These truths can coexist. Shanmugalingam’s suffering in detention is real. His guilt is also real. The story asks us to hold both truths, and I think many of us are more comfortable dismissing the second because the first is so sympathetic. That discomfort is exactly what makes this story so powerful and necessary.