The life and work of K.K. Kochu – Review of ‘Dalithan: An Autobiography’

Writer and social activist K.K. Kochu liberated marginalised lives from silhouettes of celebrated mega-narratives and crafted an exhaustive telling of the wretched through his autobiography, Dalithan, originally published in Malayalam. Inspired by Brecht’s poem, the subaltern voice is sung; the cook and the servant find a space in the subterrains of history and society, free of mystified and exoticised undertones. Dalithan, a detailed picture of the personal, the political and the social, is, in fact, the perfect answer to Poykayil Appachan writing, “Not a single letter is seen on my race.”

Authentic, empathetic

Kochu’s work unlocks the life, history and organisational activities of the community right from the onset, against the flood-prone Madhuraveli, a land birthed and built by Pulayas. He sketches their lore and living through the Thaithara family, providing concrete renditions of what subsisted on oral narratives. Above all, Kochu is empathetic and authentic in his portrayals; whether it is the misery of Pulaya women who were grass sellers, or Untaan, the Pulaya youth — a Robin Hood of sorts — denied entry into the Aithihyamaala. Following their shift to Vazhavatta, owing to his brother’s psychological illness, Kochu’s life spirals into extreme poverty.

It is amusing to note that Kochu does not streamline the narrative to honour the autobiography tag. He does write about a life of extreme deprivation, but never to arouse pity. His marriage and children are only mentioned in passing, while his childhood is detailed to serve as an archetype for Dalit destitution.

Even the mention of black magic is a rebellion against institutionalised gods of the Savarna conscience. Life at Maharajas occupies a prominent chunk of the text, yet it is never about the man himself, but rather a chronology of political unrest and hostility towards Dalit students. As Kochu himself writes, he is an “ideological individual”.

Wary of political parties

Despite the initial affinity for Communist ideology, Kochu grows critical of institutionalised political fronts and states that he leaned on reading to discover a different political path. He addresses the “maniacal enthusiasm” with which Dalits boarded left-political outfits, in desperate attempts to wrest their lives from a pitiable living. Kochu critiques the party for its lack of substantial intervention to counter the multifarious oppressions encountered by the community. He emphasised on true liberation as an understanding of one’s social conditions and working towards changing it. Kochu writes, “With caste becoming more of a political than a social issue, it became difficult to find a platform for Dalit rights struggles in the Communist parties.” In a later account, he also mentions how a Dalit student’s political life is often relegated to pasting posters or attending rallies.

Kochu’s trysts with Naxalism operates in complex ways within his social and exceptionally political personal life and friendships. It unfolds against the Naxalite movements, the Emergency and release of political prisoners. ‘Jnana (knowledge)’ and ‘karma (action)’ are one and the same for this luminary; his politics, steered by opposition to poverty and violence, was not one of convenience despite facing extreme financial struggles.

The autobiography substantiates discussions on land ownership, wealth and culture and the need to create an assemblage of the distressed under a political umbrella. Dalithan echoes Ambedkar’s words that the “…caste system is not merely division of labour. It is also a division of labourers.” He writes, “The Namboodiris of Neythassery Mana were not torturers, as feudal lords are typically portrayed to be. Their world was confined to their family and the temple they owned. Yet they were revered figures,” proving through the course of the narration that casteism is not limited to abusive feudal lords and that it can operate in silence.

A fight for the marginalised

Kochu’s testimony is never exclusive; it equally belongs to Baburaj, Dr. Manmathan and SEEDIAN (Socially, Economically, Educationally Depressed Indian Ancient Natives); to every Dalit student of Maharajas and every enthusiastic participant in protests; to Nayana and Jayasurya, who bore the weight of their father’s altruistic living, and to Chaachan whose decision to educate his children benefited a whole community. Kochu walks the talk in this work, which takes on institutionalised macro-narratives, by making Dalithan’s microcosms home to sundry worlds of ostracisation and struggles.

Dalithan is not a light read. Even when Kochu remarks, “Never once did we have more than one curry,” the statement carries generations of social and economic frailty that a community is forced to endure. Written in the first-person, there is a sense of detachment and lack of impassioned speeches in Kochu’s accounts. The reader cannot fully gain admittance into this world, unless you have lived on the margins, leaving them with a sobering realisation and the bitter aftertaste of exclusion.

Radhika P. Menon’s translation, as she mentions in the translator’s note, strives to be “eyeclean” and provides the perfect canvas for a deservedly broad readership. Kochu’s work can be ascribed many labels, as a picture of the Dalit experience at large or for the many social and political ideologies and movements that it is home to. However, what truly matters is to read this exceptional memoir of an illustrious life. At the Kerala Literature Festival 2025, it won the Non-Fiction Book of the Year Award.

(Gowri Murali interned at The Hindu, Kochi, in 2024)