“My mother has not stopped talking about it.” – This is how Meena Kandasamy begins her soaring poem of a novel titled “When I Hit You Or, a Portrait of the Writer as a Young Wife”. At around 250 pages, the partially-autobiographical narrative is written in the first person and along with being a chronicle of an abusive marriage, is an examination of violence and rape, love and wedlock, misogyny and control, entitlement and ownership, and the power of art. The protagonist and narrator of the novel – a young woman – is unnamed, and so is the abuser, her husband. In my view, through this choice of not naming the two characters which are at the core of the novel, what Kandasamy is suggesting is that there are many more stories like this. Although each tale of abuse is idiomatic, there are some elements that are fundamental to violence. The narrator should not be mistaken for Kandasamy herself as this is not her life story and the exactitude of the narrative is undetermined because it, ultimately, is fiction, and this fact, instead of taking anything away from the narrative, only adds a new layer to it.

For me, the most terrifying aspect of abuse (emotional and physical) in the book was its sighted nature. It shook me how strategic, well-planned and calculated it was. The book puts forth the idea that being empowered does not render you immune to violence – the narrator is a well-educated, intelligent and financially independent writer and college professor. The portrayal of her husband cuts through the Abuser trope and presents a man who is a college professor, firmly believes in the system and ideology of Communism and in living for the oppressed – “a man who loved people”. He is certainly not devoid of kindness and Kandasamy puts that forth by calling our attention to his benevolence towards the poor and the underprivileged, with mind-boggling courage, while at the same time challenging and dismantling the figure of a typical abuser in our mind. She brings to light the hypocrisy of such people and highlights the fact that how dangerous a selective, convenient and misconstrued interpretation of any socio-political ideology could be. Every person is capable of inflicting abuse as a person’s profession and ideology cannot gauge his propensity for violence.

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While we mostly see her husband only as her abuser, I do not think his characterization is a valid facet to be taken up for criticism. The account of the victim/survivor should be considered complete in itself because it really is. This is the story of a few events of the narrator’s life and while her abuser has impacted her life in huge ways, it is not his story and he is not the end-all of who she was as a woman, and also as an individual. I fail to come up with any sort of definite criticism of the book, but I by no means wish to place the book as the epitome of perfection. I should also put forth that the content and the consequent form of the book (which together comprise the craft for me as a reader) are indeed challenging and vital at once. Both go hand in glove with one another and deserve equal attention. The way Kandasamy tells the story is remarkable. I got tugged along with her style from the very first page and I found the book immensely gripping, courtesy of the sharp writing the book entails. While the book talks about some grave and harrowing events and facets of the human condition, she infuses the narrative with strokes of dark, spiky humor. The book not only holds the reader along with their anticipation but also spins them around in almost inexplicable ways.  

One of the many striking aspects of the novel is how self-aware it is. I see the narrative of the novel as an attempt on the narrator’s part to reclaim everything (including the power of the narrative, of deciding the course of her story) she had lost in the few months of her abusive marriage. In my opinion, the act of penning down the story becomes an act of bringing together the shards of her identity (which she was robbed of, bit by bit) and constructing her sense of self (and of the world around her) again. The fragmented narrative goes hand in hand with the protagonist’s distorted identity – the novel is divided into fourteen parts and within each part, there are several cuts and jumps that come together perfectly to make a whole and thus the coherent yet complex progression of the narrative is suited to its complicated structure. The novel certainly does not call for revenge; it is a wail of assertion and power that terrifies you, befuddles you, empowers you, ultimately moving you to tears. As I read the closing sentence, I was overwhelmed, astonished, filled with admiration for her dauntlessness and ambition.

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