Today, I came across a ridiculous post by a so-called poet of Malayalam, offering his take on Cherukad—one of the finest memoirists in our language. This poet attempts to trivialize Cherukad’s legacy with a shallow and dismissive commentary—an effort as superficial as his own poetry. Sadly, this is the sort of noise that thrives in our literary landscape, maintaining a certain status quo that rewards mediocrity dressed as relevance.
This kind of performative activism has shaped our literary tastes to the point where readers celebrate Linda Boström Knausgård, while overlooking Karl Ove Knausgård—whose prose is lengthier, more cerebral, and infinitely more demanding. The same trend applies across genres: it’s the political veneer that draws attention, not the literary craft. When the legendary Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer won the Nobel, a Malayalam poet famously asked, “Where is the politics in his poetry?”—as if art must carry visible slogans to be valid. For such thinkers, political poetry is what Anvar Ali and his ilk produce: slogan-driven and instantly gratifying.
We saw a similar phenomenon when people began praising Banu Mushtaq. Earlier this year, I picked up Blood Feast by Malika Moustadraf again—realizing I had previously abandoned it after one story. I read two more stories this time and came to a firm conclusion: I have no intention of revisiting such work again. At least Banu had a sense of humor. This was pure, sloganized activism packaged as literature.
Contrast this with Under the Eye of the Big Bird by Hiromi Kawakami. I had read the title story when the collection first came out, but now I’m reading through it more attentively. Though the collection may be categorized as genre fiction, Kawakami’s imagination is vivid, her craft subtle. Having read much of her work before, I can trace the evolution of her voice. She addresses gender and other themes, but these never feel like mere boxes to check—they are woven seamlessly into her narratives, unlike the shallow literature I referenced earlier.
A similar richness of form and depth of intention can be seen in Cristina Rivera Garza, whom I recently started reading. One story in particular, from New and Collected Stories, stood out—a quiet narrative about a woman waiting for her man, spent in the company of the narrator. It’s among the finest crafted stories I’ve encountered this year. And once again: no cheap activism, no slogans—just finely tuned writing.