How Banu Mushtaq has broken through Kannada short story canon with International Booker

It is a moment of celebration for the Kannada diaspora as it is the first time for Kannada — and the first time in the history of the prize — that a collection of short stories has been awarded. With this win, Banu, who will be felicitated in Bengaluru on May 28 upon her return from London, has become one of the well-recognised short story writers in the history of the genre in Kannada literature.

By winning the award, Banu Mushtaq appears to have challenged some long-standing assumptions in the literary world — particularly the belief that Indian writing in English constitutes a more significant body of work than literature produced in Indian languages. This view was famously articulated by Salman Rushdie, who won the Booker Prize in 1981 for Midnight’s Children.

In his 1997 anthology The Vintage Book of Indian Writing: 1947–1997, co-edited with Elizabeth West, Rushdie wrote: “The prose writing — both fiction and non-fiction — created in this period by Indian writers working in English is proving to be a stronger and more important body of work than most of what has been produced in the 16 ‘official languages’ of India, the so-called vernacular languages.”

However, this notion has been forcefully countered in recent years. Geetanjali Shree’s landmark win at the 2022 International Booker Prize for Tomb of Sand — originally written in Hindi as Ret Samadhi and translated by Daisy Rockwell — was a watershed moment. It marked the first time a work originally written in an Indian language received this prestigious international prize. Now, Banu Mushtaq’s recognition further strengthens the case for Indian-language literature.

If Geetanjali Shree’s triumph created global space for Hindi literature, then the 2013 Booker International Prize nomination of Kannada writer and Jnanpith awardee U.R. Ananthamurthy laid crucial groundwork for Mushtaq. Together, these milestones have helped reshape the narrative about Indian literature, giving long-overdue attention to the depth and diversity of writing in regional languages.

Was Banu sidelined by the Kannada literary world?

For Kannada literature, it was Ananthamurthy — a towering public intellectual, prominent writer, and cultural thinker — who became the first Kannada author ever nominated for the Man Booker International Prize. Between 2005 and 2015, the prize recognised an author’s lifetime contribution to fiction rather than a single work. In contrast, since 2016, the International Booker Prize has honoured individual works of fiction in English translation. Ananthamurthy’s nomination celebrated his entire literary corpus, including acclaimed novels like Bhava, Bharathipura, and Avasthe, along with a rich body of short stories, many of which have been translated into several Indian and European languages. Though he did not win, his nomination was a historic moment for Kannada literature — it placed it firmly on the international literary map.

Also read: What Banu Mushtaq’s International Booker win means for Indian literature in translation

More than a decade later, Banu Mushtaq has picked up that mantle. Her win can be seen as a fulfilment of Ananthamurthy’s long-cherished but unrealised dream: bringing the International Booker to Kannada. But her win has also sparked introspection. Within Kannada literary circles, a question being asked is: Has Banu Mushtaq been sidelined all these years? Though Rushdie’s earlier dismissal of Indian-language writing now rings hollow in light of both Geetanjali Shree and Banu Mushtaq taking home the prize, there is a growing consensus that Banu’s work has not been given its due within her own literary community.

Writer and journalist B.M. Haneef observes, “One of the reasons attributed to Banu’s marginalisation by the mainstream Kannada literary establishment is her close association with the Bandaya movement, which she led with from the front.” He adds that her ideological rift with the influential writer and editor P. Lankesh may have also contributed to her being overlooked.

This reassessment is now taking shape. Many filmmakers, including National Award-winning filmmakers and writers such as Girish Kasaravalli and Kesari Haravoo, have noted that Banu’s short stories and larger oeuvre will finally receive the attention they deserve. Kasaravalli, one of the most respected auteurs in Indian cinema, had earlier adapted Banu’s short story ‘Karinagaragalu (Black Cobra)’ into the critically acclaimed 2004 film Hasina.

Navya movement infused life into short story form

The global spotlight on Banu Mushtaq is expected to bring renewed attention to Kannada short fiction, reaffirming its legacy and revitalising a form that had once appeared to be fading. By the early 1960s, the Kannada short story had become somewhat jaded, losing the vitality that once defined it. However, it saw a powerful resurgence with the advent of the Navya (modernist) literary movement. Writers of this period, most notably U.R. Ananthamurthy, infused new energy, psychological complexity, and structural innovation into the form, restoring its relevance.

Regardless of one’s stance on the ideals and aspirations of the Navya movement, it is undeniable that its proponents took firm control of the short story tradition and expanded its scope. The period witnessed an influx of fresh literary voices, particularly from younger writers. Over 130 collections of short stories were published in the 1960s alone, and significantly, nearly a quarter of these were authored by women; they included Anupama Niranjana, Vani, C.N. Jayalakshmi Devi, Geeta Devi Kulkarni, and the widely admired Triveni (pen name of Anasuya Shankar).

The decade also saw contributions from writers rooted in earlier literary sensibilities, including A.N. Krishna Rao, T.R. Subba Rao, Goruru Ramaswamy Iyengar, Basavaraj Kattimani, Niranjana (Kulakunda Shiva Rao), Chaduranga (pen name of Chaduranga), Masti Venkatesha Iyengar, Krishnamurthy Puranik, Ashwatha, D.B. Kulkarni, K. Sadashiva, and Venkataraja Puninchathaya. These authors helped keep the short story tradition alive by publishing curated volumes of their best work.

However, it was the Navya generation — figures such as G.B. Joshi (Jadabharata), Ananda, Lankesh, Ananthamurthy, Poornachandra Tejaswi, G.S. Sadashiva, Ramachandra Sharma, T.G. Raghava, Shantinatha Desai, Yashwanth Chittala, Raghavendra Khasanisa, Veena Shantheshwara, S. Diwakar, Alanahalli Krishna, and Devanur Mahadeva — who majorly evolved the form. Their stories tackled alienation, social dislocation, identity crises, and philosophical dilemmas with intensity and modernist aesthetics.

Lankesh’s Kereya Neeranu Kerege Chelli is often cited as a landmark story for its stylistic precision and narrative sharpness. Ananthamurthy’s stories — such as Karthika, Clip Joint, and Prashne — explore themes of existential malaise, spiritual failure, and the search for meaning. Mouni, among his most celebrated works, is a profound meditation on hatred and its corrosive impact on human behaviour, ultimately affirming a belief in human dignity. His protagonists frequently wrestle with the philosophical burden of knowledge and the gap between intellectual understanding and lived experience.

Though primarily recognised as a playwright, Girish Karnad also contributed meaningfully to the short story genre. His two major stories — Alida Mele and Musalamana Banda — engage critically with contemporary religious politics, reflecting the tense and fragmented socio-political atmosphere of modern India. With Banu Mushtaq now being hailed internationally, the interest in Kannada short fiction as a serious literary form is bound to grow. Her win not only affirms the appeal of her stories but also places her in a long and distinguished lineage of Kannada writers who shaped, stretched, and sustained the short story as a vital expression of literary modernity.

The critical insider

Over the past four decades, hundreds of Kannada short story writers have come to the fore, including Jayant Kaikini, Vivek Shanbhag, Mogalli Ganesh, Abdul Rasheed, M.A. Sriram, Keshava Malagi, and Chandrakantha Oddu. Though Banu Mushtaq has been writing since the early 1990s, her presence has not always been recognised on the same level as contemporaries like Vaidehi or Sara Aboobacker. This perhaps explains why Kasaravalli and Haravoo have remarked that Banu is finally receiving the recognition that was denied to her all these years.

Also read: Banu Mushtaq interview: ‘Muslim women are capable of fighting their own battles’

Now, Abhiruchi Publications of Mysuru is preparing to publish Hasina Mattu Itara Kathegalu (Hasina and Other Stories), a collection of the 12 stories in Heart Lamp. Reading some of these stories in their original Kannada reveals Banu’s central concerns and distinctive voice. Her stories are deceptively simple in form but probe deeply into complex realities — especially those faced by women at the margins of society. Her prose is lyrical but uncompromising, raising difficult questions about freedom, agency, and happiness — questions that ultimately confront social norms and systemic structures.

Her work is clearly shaped by both lived experience and a rock-solid commitment to social justice, rooted in her dual roles as an advocate and activist. Banu does not compromise when interrogating the social structures that constrain women — especially Muslim and Dalit women. She writes of their resilience with compassion and insight, and challenges patriarchal and chauvinistic interpretations of religion without hesitation. Her characters are never reduced to binaries of black and white; they inhabit a complex emotional terrain, and her stories explore the mosaic of human emotions and relationships.

However, playing the role of a critical insider is no easy task. “It requires a different kind of conviction and an ability to explore the human condition,” Banu once told this writer. In her work, she brings to life a range of experiences, dialects, and accents that reflect the cultural diversity of Karnataka. Her stories are rich with native flavour, portraying women — whether mothers, daughters-in-law, sisters, or quiet observers — negotiating the burdens of domesticity, often with heads bowed in exhaustion.

Each story is filtered through a distinct lens — be it that of a friend, a daughter, a husband, or a silent witness. Much of Banu’s fiction responds directly to contemporary realities, offering both social critique and intimate portrayals of everyday life. Heart Lamp, in this context, becomes almost tactile in its representation of the terrain — robust in sensory detail, suffused with the sights, smells, and stories of Karnataka, and constantly returning to the endurance of women who hold together their families and communities.

Many of her stories draw inspiration from real-life incidents. Banu acknowledges these as seeds that take root in the reader’s imagination and grow into something deeply personal. Her writing is imbued with a poignancy, echoing the familiar ache that touches all lives at some point. With Heart Lamp, her fiction refuses to remain in the margins any longer. It steps into the centre, perhaps not so much as a polite addition to the Kannada short story canon, but as a necessary correction.