R.K. Narayan’s “The Talkative Man” conveys the sentiments of friendship through the voice of its central character, the titular “Talkative Man,” but beneath its surface simplicity are sharp observations of the human condition. “The Talkative Man” transports its readers to Malgudi‘s small-town atmosphere with its many locations—a tea stall, a dusty railway waiting area—and a slow, bumbling unraveling of the character of Dr. Rann (whose mannerisms, charm, and half-told back story entangle the town in a mixture of comic and tragic human foibles).
Because of Narayan’s unique ability to pick up small things—the calendar image that someone keeps, the worries of a thirty-year-old stationmaster, the gossip of market stall workers—what remains are the little things that make up a commingling of a community that Narayan has a warm yet biting style about. The narrator of this tale, who dreams of being a journalist, finds himself both a participant in the events of the book and a mirror to what is happening. He has an insatiable need to tell stories as well as the need to observe; he ultimately drives the plot while remaining completely blinded to the consequences of his curiosity.
Dr. Rann is an ambiguous genius. He arrives in a blue suit, goes to an old train station waiting room, and starts telling the story of his many lovers, multi-identified selves, and world travels—all through letters and accusations from men and women all over the world. Narayan turns the town’s attempts to domesticate or to expose Rann into a kind of social experiment—the more they try to pin him down, the more he becomes mythological. A discovery of Rann’s letters—some from Mary, Roja, and others—is another example of how Narayan flips the comic surface of the novel into a morally complex piece of literature.
The narrator of this story has a particularly modern tone. The way he uses the media (freelance journalism), bureaucratic rules (how trains are handled regarding inspections), and international travel (Rann’s UN project/Poste Restante addresses) shows an association with contemporary world culture. Even though this book was printed and produced during the 1980s, the same themes of identity being produced through performances, a spectacle of a small town, and the curiosity economy found in gossip remain relevant today in new forms related to media and scholarship. Discussion of Narayan’s work now emphasizes how adaptable Malgudi is as a setting for new media forms of storytelling and writes about how his stories have been re-displayed in televisions and film retrospectives; there have been significant numbers of new academic critiques of his satire that have reopened it for modern audiences.
If you’re looking for plot, you’ll get plenty; if you want prose, you’ll be gladdened. Narayan seldom overwrites—an example of this is when a joke is told in such a way that there’s an appropriate cadence to land that joke, or an irony (or spell) invokes a pause from the narrator so that it has enough distance between it and what you think of the humor before you understand it. Beneath this cheerful exterior lies a profound humanity that questions how society manages to exhibit excessive charisma (or scandal) towards individuals who are vulnerable due to their association with charming rogues. Additionally, Narayan’s subplot surrounding Girija (the granddaughter of the librarian) so clearly demonstrates his compassion for people that he does not write to condone bad behavior but rather to understand the human toll of unmet expectations.
For new readers, this piece can be a good place to begin learning about the Malgudi ecosystem, which has a small theater in it, characters observed with great detail, and a writer (who was very creative) who continued to find new ways to tell the same story after he got older. For those who have read this before, enjoy looking at Narayan’s craftsmanship, including his ability to create precise time, social movements, and the coexistence of humor and discomfort. The Talkative Man is a solid member of Narayan’s later works—all short, wry, and somewhat contemporary—and it shows us that there are still many stories left to be told in Malgudi.
