BY UTSHAA BASA ‘25
The 2008 graphic novel “Kari” by Indian author Amruta Patil, follows the titular character, a young woman attempting to navigate Mumbai alone after the departure of her lover and soulmate, Ruth. This follows after their failed double suicide. Kari as a protagonist is largely alienated from her surroundings, occupying space on the sidelines as a queer person in the heteronormative landscape of Mumbai, and as a self-proclaimed boatsman. Kari’s failed double suicide, that plunges her into a sewer, functions as a sort of a rebirth, resigning her to drift in the fluid space between life and death.
In her sexual identity, Kari leans towards ambiguity as well. She attributes her confusion to labels, stating that the “circus is in her head.” Largely, the novel does not concern itself with politics, labels, or “burning issues”. Rather, Kari grapples with isolation: learning to navigate and come to terms with her fluid identity in a heteronormative, hostile city-scape without the support of her partner. Kari’s fluidity becomes at odds with the straight, dark lines and edges used to capture Mumbai.
“Kari” leaves a lot unsaid: the origins of their double suicide, Ruth’s departure, and in large part, how Kari is feeling at any given moment. The novel is deeply internal, solely told from Kari’s perspective, drowning in descriptions of her surroundings. The panels twist and distort and flash with bright colors according to her shifting mental state. But little account is given of Kari’s feelings. Just like its titular character, the novel has few words to offer, instead choosing to be largely visual in nature. The result is gripping, expansive panels that take up pages, the heavy, often uneven lines feeling organic and human-made. Kari herself is drawn as stone-faced but soulful, her features androgynous and sharp.
“Kari” diminishes the trope of the city and its anonymity, one that is particularly used in Western queer media. Mumbai, for all its metropolitan advancements and booming queer scene, becomes a hostile space in “Kari”, the magical realism of the novel permitting it to become a grotesque, living thing, attempting to choke Kari out. Her own home, Crystal Palace, is also a heteronormative space filled with her heterosexual roommates, serving as a reminder of the female intimacy that Kari, as a queer person, is unable to access.
Ruth’s absence echoes throughout the novel; it resonates in its grim lines and flashbacks and the ways in which Kari navigates the city around her, lost and wandering. “Kari” is an intense, poignant read, made especially for those who find comfort in the unstructured, the fluid, those flickering on the cusp of confused identities.
