In my teenage years, I read the Malayalam novel Velicham Kerunnu (വെളിച്ചം കേറുന്നു, 1951) by P. Kesavadev, a narrative portraying the struggles and transformations of village life under colonial influence. Within it, a village oracle proclaims that യമണ്ടൻ, sent by the Mother Goddess, would aid in defeating the British. This referred to the German warship SMS Emden, which, during World War I, prowled the Indian Ocean, attacking British vessels off Madras (now Chennai).

At that time, news of the Emden was widespread. Rumors rippled through villages—people claimed to have seen it or heard that it was nearby. Its name transcended the sea, embedding itself in my mother tongue and Tamil as a term denoting audacious daring.

The first Malayalam-English dictionary was compiled by Hermann Gundert, a German missionary and grandfather of Hermann Hesse.

Our bodies, our language, our voices—all are intertwined with broader histories: colonial encounters, global entanglements, archival hauntings.

The title Yamandan traces the etymological drift of a word in Malayalam, yet resists the fixity of history. It gestures instead toward futures where we might respect one another and demand dignity for all bodies. Rejecting linear narratives, it navigates layered memories, sonic echoes, tactile resonances, olfactory fragments, and the visual.

During the Bergen Assembly 2025, you can experience യമണ്ടൻ (Yamandan): Eruptions from Where You Buried Us on the top floor of Bergen Kunsthall.