Making heads roll is not new to writers. However, the success rate is questionable.

It’s true. As my fellow writer pointed out, the members of Georges Bataille’s secret organisation, Acéphale, were prepared to sacrifice their heads to the cause. However, none of them had the courage to behead the next person. A similar incident occurred in Yukio Mishima’s life. Mishima informed his lieutenants that if the coup d’état that he had planned were to fail, he would commit harakiri.

When someone commits harakiri, he tears his stomach open with a dagger. A trusted man should stand by, to swiftly cut off the head in a single stroke. This is done as soon as he has made the initial incision. Mishima’s military coup failed miserably, and he proceeded to rip open his stomach. The lieutenant standing by had to cut off Mishima’s head now. Unfortunately, even after three attempts to cut it off, Mishima’s head remained unsevered. How cruel a spectacle Mishima’s harakiri must have been!

Mishima once observed that death must be spectacular and lamented that it had become a flat course in Japan, devoid of celebration or adventure.

This brings to my mind, a scene from Masaki Kobayashi’s film Harakiri (1962). A samurai’s life would only flourish in times of war. With no job opportunities during peacetime, many samurai and their families faced starvation.

A samurai sells his sword, which is more valuable to him than his life, to seek medical care for his child. Instead of wielding an iron sword, he now carries a bamboo knife at his waist. In an era without war, the samurai’s self-esteem and life values have declined. Some resort to begging. They go to the houses of the rich and plead: “Give me something to do. If not, I will perform harakiri at the door of your house.” The wealthy man would engage him in some task, fearing that the samurai might resort to harakiri at his doorstep.

One wealthy man is merciless and has no compassion. He would coldly tell any samurai who arrived at his door to do harakiri and die. The protagonist of the film approaches this affluent household with a bamboo knife secured at his waist. The rich guy says, ‘Alright, go ahead and perform harakiri.’

Harakiri with a bamboo knife? Kobayashi’s film is truly an unforgettable one.

Seeing that Mishima’s head endured three sword strokes from his designated man and remained attached to his body, another lieutenant standing nearby swiftly severed it with a single stroke of his sword.

Mishima’s suicide can be comprehended within the framework of Japanese traditions. Self-esteem and nationalism were valued above one’s own life. However, the willingness of a European, Georges Bataille, and the members of his secret society to sacrifice their own heads might seem puzzling.

The reason could be Bataille’s philosophical beliefs, which paralleled rituals in African sorcery and Indian Tantric yoga. Bataille wasn’t a typical European in that sense; in fact, he resembled a third-world man.

Bataille’s Acéphale was not religious and differed from conventional religious cults. Acéphale, translating to ‘headless,’ symbolises the act of relinquishing power by cutting off the head. The underlying philosophy is one of not acquiring anything from others but rather giving oneself.

Self-mutilation and ‘headless’ sacrifice for the other are not new to Tamil Nadu either.

Cinema rules everything here. Movie actors are revered as gods. I often advise my friends not to introduce me as a writer here. If introduced, the immediate question will be, “Which films are you writing for?” A few years ago, I looked like a boxer. (I was learning boxing then!) So, when introduced as a writer, people would ask, ‘Which police station?’ (Because there is normally a man called ‘writer’ in the police station whose job is to document the complaints of those filing a report.)

One day, my journalist friend called me to his office with some urgency, and I went. He showed me a small bottle. Inside, a man’s thumb lay immersed in some liquid.

There was also a letter next to the bottle:

‘Sir, this finger is mine. My God, Vijay’s film is releasing next week. I made a vow to Tirupati Venkatachalapathy to cut my thumb off, hoping my sacrifice would make the film a super hit. Please consider this as an act of devotion towards my God Vijay. I would have sent it directly to my god. But if I had, news of my sacrifice wouldn’t appear in the newspapers.’

The fans’ prayers were answered; God Vijay’s film became a massive success. Recently, God Vijay also launched a political party in Tamil Nadu. The aim? Eliminating corruption in the state. His qualification? God Vijay has a track record of eradicating corruption in his films.

I believe Georges Bataille would not have been the only French philosopher who could have found inspiration here; Tamil Nadu could be a fertile ground for all of France’s postmodernist philosophers. Jean Baudrillard’s theory of simulacra and simulation finds no better example than the belief God Vijay inspires in his devotees.

Once, the former chief minister and AIADMK leader, Jayalalitha, faced corruption charges, leading to a legal case. If the charges were proven, Jayalalitha would be gaoled. In Tamil Nadu, colossal 30-foot cut-outs depicting Jayalalitha as Mother Mary and Mariamman regularly graced the landscape. Can an incarnation of such a deity be sent to jail? In a poignant incident, an AIADMK worker went to Tirupati Venkatachalapathy temple, severed his tongue in front of devotees and put it in the hundi.

A photograph surfaced in the press showing Jayalalitha personally calling him and handing over a couple of lakhs. Had he chosen to cut off his malli instead of his tongue, it would have been considered blasphemous, and it would have been a punishment to his wife too.

“If Jayalalitha had committed the crime, her conscience would trouble her”, the court observed and released her as there was a lack of evidence. Lord Venkatachalapaty must be a powerful god, as people say. However, in the subsequent case against her, there were no fervent prayers and sacrifice of body parts, as was done before, and she was sentenced to jail.

Observing all this closely, I, too, offered a solemn prayer to Lord Venkatachalapaty.

See, we Thanjavur men have a certain ‘reputation’. In Tamil Nadu, in traditional marriages, no one gives their daughter to a Thanjavur man. The reason? Just yesterday, during a conversation with Avantika, I asked, ‘Are you not my wife?’ In the blink of an eye, she responded, ‘Hey man, you have wives in every street corner… don’t call me your wife.’ This is one explanation for the reputation.

Another reason is that the Thanjavur men are often considered cunning.

So, in an effort to ensure that I fulfil my vow, and also stay true to the lingering flavour of the Thanjavur soil in me, I prayed to Lord Venkatachalapaty, wording my vow carefully.

I promised him that I would safely sacrifice my hair instead of resorting to cutting off my tongue or any other organ. My prayer went like this-

‘Though I have penned more than a hundred books in Tamil, now, at the age of seventy, one of my novels has just been translated into English, marking my entry into the English literary world through a mainstream publishing house. If I were to receive the Booker Cooker, Nobel Babel, or any other literary recognition, I would come to Tirupati and offer my hair in gratitude. (I know you would understand the symbolism and won’t mind it either.)’

By Charu Nivedita