Born in Mysore, AK Ramanujan moved to the United States in his thirties. Stumbling upon Tamil classical poetry in the University of Chicago basement, he embarked on a life-long journey of translation. Navigating between his mother tongue & English, between two cultures—neither of which he was fully immersed in—injected Ramanujan’s thought with unconventional insight. His poetry carried the same essence. It was the product of familiarity with existing traditions, sewn into a desire to eliminate cliches and reinvent language.
Splendid descriptors are attached to Ramanujan’s name, and rightly so: a wizard of words; a “courageous, creative spirit”; an “iconic figure in the Indian literary community.”
But, the scholar & poet made a surprising revelation in his journal entry. 7 March, 1989. Nine days before his sixtieth birthday. Ramanujan admitted that something he’d long desired, but didn’t quite achieve, was “writing a good novel.”
Why did someone so prolific, and gifted, never got around to accomplishing that?
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