Poonachi: Or the Story of a Black Goat by Perumal Murugan, translated by N. Kalyan Raman, Context, 2018, 184 pages, 14 x 2 x 21 cm, ISBN-10: 939507325X, Rs. 350.
by Kirti Advani
Poonachi is a story of a black goat who stands quaintly against the bright red cover and invites much intrigue even in just a cursory glance. The story follows the life of this goat, gifted by a stranger to an old couple, and how she navigates a harsh world – drought, survival, love, loss, and constant surveillance by her caretakers and the state. Through Poonachi’s life, Perumal Murugan subtly exposes the pain of the powerless and marginalised and the quiet violence of systems that shape and often break lives. Yet the novel is also filled with moments of affection, gentle humour, and resilience.
Poonachi is cloaked in the simplicity of a fable, an animal’s perspective on the state of the world and its seemingly innocent tone allows it to share biting critiques of bureaucracy, patriarchy, and authoritarianism. Murugan wittingly writes in the preface that he cannot write about humans, he absolutely cannot write about gods and so he writes about animals. He cannot write about cows and pigs without inviting scrutiny, so he writes about a goat.
Murugan writes a smart critique of the surveillance state by building a world where even the most basic and natural acts of life such as birth and speech are subject to regulation and scrutiny. In the very first few pages, the reader understands the extent of state control. The regime demands that all children and even animals be registered, tagged, and accounted for within a month of birth. This is framed as necessary for the social order. For there would be grave consequences if animals were to behave like animals. To graze on grass and to run around would seem like a natural state of existence for animals, however, the regime finds even this freedom intolerable. The absurdity of the logic is laid bare even as the narrative describes commoners lining up in harsh weather to fulfill this task of national importance. However, the citizens must not complain, fall sick, or cause disruption. Even discomfort must be borne in silence, as the regime has ears on all sides. The state is not a mere observer, neither is it a being that steps in to make the lives of its people easier. It is a living creature that produces precarity and enforces punishment for those who don’t observe its rules in silence.
This quiet compliance is explained with a sharp undercurrent of irony. The old man and woman who raise Poonachi are careful and constantly wary of the consequences of stepping out of line. The registration of the goat becomes symbolic of the larger structure of surveillance where nothing escapes the gaze of the state. People are trained to obey, endure and not draw attention. Through such episodes, Murugan illustrates how authoritarianism seeps into the very rhythms of daily life through routine, bureaucracy, and fear.
Poonachi’s identity as a female goat becomes central to her subordination. Her only taste of freedom, for the first and the last time, was when she accidentally ventures into the forest. But like a dutiful daughter she runs back to her parents, or at least to a doting mother. Though she is naturally spirited and fond of running, her freedom is curtailed once she develops an attachment to Poovan, a male goat. Following this moment, she is literally and symbolically tethered: a rope is placed around her neck, and she is no longer allowed to roam freely. Poonachi is soon subjected to forced mating with goats she dislikes. When she miraculously gives birth to seven kids, the villagers’ interest in her intensifies. The reverence of the womb is made explicit through the villagers’ obsession with acquiring the “miraculous” kids born to Poonachi. In this way, Murugan mirrors the subjugation of women in society where reproductive ability often determines worth.
Poonachi’s kids are taken from her without remorse and the income from their sale allows the old couple to live in comfort with luxuries they had never experienced before. Her milk sustains them and so her suffering is normalised. She is repeatedly referred to as a “miracle,” yet this designation masks the exploitation she endures. The parallels with the condition of women in many familial structures are clear: their sacrifices are often the foundation of others’ well-being, yet rarely are they acknowledged as autonomous beings deserving of care themselves.
As long as Poonachi is productive, she is treated with affection. But once she begins to falter, she is no longer considered as miraculous. In the end, the last drops of her milk are extracted before she succumbs to exhaustion and neglect. Ultimately, Murugan’s Poonachi turns to stone, perhaps to be turned into a deity for all those around her. After a life of suffering, what can one offer her except for worship? A reader can’t help but draw a parallel to her own world, where worship becomes a safe and convenient substitute for respect, to mourn without changing the system that created the need for the mourning, and to make the victim’s life a legacy.
Murugan’s account of Poonachi is also one of quiet resilience and defiant joys that persist despite oppression. Even within the confines of a world that seeks to tame her, Poonachi carves out moments of freedom. Early in the novel, she runs away and finds comfort in the forest. Later, she falls in love with Poovan and when she meets him again, she chooses to mate with him in secrecy. Every chance, however seldom they occur, she takes to live her life on her own terms.
Poonachi is a short book of a hundred and eighty pages only. It is a one-sitting read, as one starts to read Poonachi, one becomes so engrossed in the story that it becomes difficult to keep the book aside. Through the deceptively simple story of a little goat, Murugan immerses the reader in a world charged with human emotion and quiet devastation. Perumal Murugan, through Poonachi: The Story of a Black Goat, creates a world where a little goat is taken through a range of human emotions. Through his storytelling, Murugan forces us to think about internalised notions of enslavement, hegemony and oppression. Poonachi’s journey is a quiet and powerful commentary on the surveillance state and the structural violence meted out to the marginalised. Her transformation into stone at the end and the possibility of her deification is chilling. It suggests that society often chooses to worship the victim rather than confront the system that destroyed her. In doing so, Murugan invites readers to question not only the reach of the state, but also the stories we tell to make peace with injustice.
Kirti Advani is a student of Political Science and Literature.
TheDaak review 
Leave a reply to Arshiya Cancel reply